Walk away, walk away. Dream instead of brighter shades and don't forget to hit replay. —Jackson Killian
Chapter Twenty-One
I faced the movie, but I wasn't really watching it. I was watching Jack. At first I'd tried to be subtle, just looking at him from the corner of my eyes. He had one booted foot up on the dash, making a head support for Quinn who was conked out on his lap under a blue and gray Mexican blanket.
I'd had an idea he wasn't watching the movie either, but I couldn't quite make out his face from my peripheral vision, so I finally faced him. He wasn't watching the Muppets on the large drive-in screen. He was looking at me, eyebrows aloft, his right arm resting on the sill of the passenger door, his hand cradling his jaw.
"This is nice," I said softly. "A good idea."
It had been his suggestion. I'd been staring blankly into the fridge, having one of those moments where the impending chore of making dinner felt overwhelming. It was a take-out kind of evening, really, but even that seemed like a lot of work. Mostly I just wanted to flop down somewhere and do nothing.
I'd pulled a sack of shredded cheese out of the deli-drawer; thinking I might just slap together some quesadillas, maybe garnish them with some pre-chopped broccoli (also out of a sack), when my phone buzzed on the counter.
Hey, you around?
I plucked out a quick affirmative response and almost immediately my phone buzzed again.
Apparently, on Tuesdays it's only five dollars to go to the movies.
I was working on my response when another text arrived.
There's an old school Muppet movie double feature at the drive-in tonight.
I sent a smiley face. And– We'll take my car. That way we can all sit in the front.
I'd not taken Quinn to the movies yet. I had this notion that he had to be older-maybe like five-or at least old enough to reason better. My trepidation came from my mother, I knew. She was extremely bothered by asshole parents. Asshole parents let their children drive the shopping cart in grocery stores, roam untended in restaurants, and the most offensive: asshole parents took their toddlers to the movie theater. In Raley's or Safeway or Applebee's, she would only occasionally call out asshole parents to their faces, being satisfied mostly with griping about it to me and my father. But in the movie theater, if a kid began to cry or yell or even loudly ask questions during the main feature, she would holler something along the lines of, "This isn't the place for your kid," or "Get your kid out of here."
I don't recall a single instance where an asshole parent wanted to challenge her. My mother didn't fear confrontation; if she did, she never showed it. And she didn't shy from eye contact, so if she thought you were out of line and she leaned in to tell you so, you felt the full brunt of her accusatory glare. She intimidated grown men, so it's not a wonder that she often scared the bejeezus out of me.
I wasn't going to have my mother calling me an asshole parent. Not even in my subconscious. So Quinn and I hadn't been to the theater. We normally waited for movies to hit the Redbox-which was good, because there was no predicting the movies Quinn would enjoy all the way to the end and those that would have him dancing around bored after twenty minutes.
But the drive-in. The drive-in was safe. And Jack had suggested it.
He'd shown up less than half an hour later, a small cooler and two blankets on the passenger seat of his Tacoma. We'd transferred the gear into the Bronco and headed out towards Bradshaw.
Jack put a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Yeah, I haven't seen Muppets for an age."
"Did I ever tell you... that I used to have a crush on Gonzo when I was little?"
Jack snorted into his popcorn. "I guess that's why you fell for me."
"You are not like Gonzo."
His eyes twinkled. "Aren't I? A bit?"
"No. Do you have a romantic interest in chickens?"
"Do chicks count?"
I hit his arm, and he pretended it hurt, rubbing the spot. "I had a crush on Ariel... from the Little Mermaid."
"Shocker."
"What?"
"I think we all had a crush on Ariel from the Little Mermaid."
He reached for the radio volume and spun the dial down to its quietest setting. "Please. Tell me more about your crush on Ariel. The girl mermaid."
"That must be why you fell for me," I said, sarcastically. "I'm as much like Ariel as you're like Gonzo."
The scattered and disarranged light from the big screen flickered over Jack's smile. "Muppets and Mermaids... maybe that'll be the title to my next album."
"Mm, I don't think so." I munched a handful of popcorn. "Unless it's like a kids-bop type of thing."
"Definitely not."
Jack matched my frank gaze. I wondered if my smile matched his seemingly easy one.
"How do you pick the titles for your albums?"
He shifted gingerly, taking care not to disturb Quinn. "It's not as romantic or interesting as you might expect."
"That makes me more curious."
"So... I don't know how it is for all artists but my label requested I submit several options. They have specialists that pick the one they think will sell the album best. Exciting, huh?"
"That's not at all what I expected."
Jack turned back to the windshield. "Yeah, they picked my least favorites, too. The douchey, fuck-around garbage I included to make the others seem more apt."
"Really? That... that sucks. What should they be called?"
His grin grew, light from the big screen flickered over his teeth. "Well. I'd have called them My Wife Fucked Another Guy, The Lies - Part 1 & 2. But they told me that sounded too much like a Country-Western record."
I just blinked at him. Several times. Like windshield wipers – I was trying to clear the way for vision to put my thoughts back on track.
Jack chuckled. "I'm kidding, Kit. Fuck. Your face."
"I just... I think that's the first time you've... joked. About what I did."
Jack set the popcorn tub on the seat next to me and pinched the Mexican blanket with his fingers to get the salt off.
"Times like this. Like here, and I can sort of hold on to this idea that things were supposed to go this way. I mean... I hate to rely on a cliché of things happen for a reason. I don't think that, normally. But I don't know."
He caressed Quinn's soft hair, his hand large against Quinn's small face.
"You hear about stages of grief, you know. I went through all that. Rage and denial and depression. All that. And you finally get to Acceptance... right? But within Acceptance there are still more stages. Humor, maybe. And maybe something like– Revitalization. Like, relief that you can still laugh. Don't mistake me. It's not like I never laughed without you."
He appealed to me with earnest eyes. They were colorless and somehow more appealing for it. Black and white, easy eyes.
"I get that. A lot," I encouraged. "I laughed without you."
He stalled there, turned his face back to the movie. I watched the screen but absorbed nothing. I kept smothering words and ideas that rose up my throat, kept biting back against the need to say something, hindered by the idea that he needed me to talk. The car seemed to fill with my expectation. I imagined breaking the stalemate of speaking directly into the unspoken, but the thought of my own voice—any words—I just knew anything I said would be the wrong thing.
I tucked my hair behind my ears, a ruse to tip my face toward Jack. He wasn't looking at me this time, his profile perfectly cut against the window. His mouth was soft, his jaw carved in the movie light, casting shadow down his neck.
I reached for the ignition and turned it over. The Bronco flared to life, the air roaring on at our feet and up the dash. It was the third time I'd engaged the engine to prevent battery death and try to warm the car back up. This time though, I'd really done it for something to do. Besides sit here wanting to say something, choking on all the quiet.
"I feel like... like you need me to say something. But I don't know what that something is," I said finally.
Jack sighed. "I always want you to say something. I think I've been pretty clear how much I want it. To know where your head's at. Especially now. You've always been... choosy about words... but you know. You're really reluctant now."'
"Maybe."
"See. Right there, I would have given you way more syllables than two."
"You always give more. You always have." I didn't know if Jack would hear my whisper over the motor running, but he did.
Jack shook his head. "Whatever I gave, I took in kind. That's why we were good together."
I smiled. "We were good together. For the most part."
"That's just it, right. You know. Where we went wrong... I think we were just. Too. Early. Artificially ripened. You know? Like... we looked ready. But our insides still had to..."
He gestured with his hand, a rolling come hither wave. A beckon to the word he couldn't find.
"Mature?"
"Maybe."
Quiet again between us as the hushed speakers buzzed with movie dialogue and dramatic music. My mind wandered in pursuit of his fruit analogy, trying to make it fit. I thought of the grocery store produce section full of beautiful rock-hard fruit. You could never really smell the fruit, and you couldn't ever pluck a peach or a plum from their bins and bite into it right away. You always had to plan your fruit ahead. The simple act of buying a snack had to be mapped out.
"Soften. Sweeten?" I ventured.
Jack nodded. "No, though."
I arched a brow at him.
"You were already pretty soft." He turned his face to his lap, spoke to it. "And sweet."
"The fruit analogy doesn't work, then. We've both hardened, become bitter even." I didn't want to start throwing accusations around, but his reminder of how soft and sweet I used to be riled me a bit.
"Maybe it does still. Maybe we've rotted."
"Nice."
"Maybe we're to cut the bruises off. Maybe we throw those bits away."
Almost rotten, overripe fruit was good for very little. You could make jam with it, if you were careful. You could do pie. All my possible angles on this thread pointed to smashing the fruit together. My heart was wild and the beat of it seemed to push words out. I wanted to say it. I wanted to be brave and say that we should be smashed back together. Recombined. Remade.
"Fruit like that is only really good for..." I trailed off, couldn't get where I needed to. I couldn't interpret Jack's expression, he didn't look hopeful or thoughtful or anything I would have taken encouragement from.
"Blending. Into something new."
"I like that idea. That we can be something new. Something that still... tastes good." I shook my head and smiled. "Friends," I added lamely.
"Friends is definitely something."
...
The house was still and dark save for the soft glow drifting into the hallway from Quinn's night light and another blur of illumination from the one in my bathroom. And the flaring glow of my phone in my hand, flickering light from YouTube videos of Glastonbury.
I'd abandoned the attempt at sleep about half an hour prior and embarked on an Internet mission to understand Glastonbury and if I could handle it. Propped up on pillows and burritoed in my comforter, I googled the festival and read its Wikipedia page. I learned about its origin and historical line-ups, but little more. The article didn't help me with what I needed most - scope. I jumped from there to the festival site, where I bypassed ticketing information and went right to the gallery. I skimmed years of photos, encouraged by the incredible variety of age groups in the photos, discouraged by the inconceivable amount of mud in quite a lot of them.
I'd then spiraled down the YouTube rabbit hole, clicking from one video to the next, absolutely gobsmacked by the size of the crowds. It was one thing to read the attendance statistics as digits on a screen, and another to see all those units as actual bodies pressed together in communal musical joy. I knew, if I found it overwhelming on the small four-inch screen of my iPhone, that being there in person would boggle me. Boggle me right out of myself.
And it wasn't just me I'd have to watch out for. I'd have Quinn with me. There was no way I could take Quinn into a crowd like that. The idea panicked me. What if he fell, what if he pulled away from me? What if I fell? What if... what if... what if.
In all my imaginings, it was just me and Quinn. I kept telling myself Jack would be there, too. Jack would be there to help. But I couldn't visualize it, somehow. I couldn't visualize Jack and me at this place of complete boisterous creativity, being together and cooperating.
I felt the truth lay closer to partial togetherness, spotty cooperation, and potential outbursts and disharmony. I saw him walking a few yards ahead of me and Quinn, distancing himself from us.
I leaned over to my bedside table and pulled a notepad out for questions I needed to ask Jack. Things like: how big is the camper, how far away will it be, will we be in a VIP area, will he be with other friends there?
I hated the idea of being alone amongst so much obvious togetherness. A great big love-in where I would be loveless.
On impulse, I typed Jack's name and Para Pacem into the YouTube search field. I sort of had the idea that, if I was going to watch him perform live, I'd need to work up to it, like build up an immunity somehow. I should start watching videos of him, become accustomed as much as I could to the sights and sounds of him in performance.
I scrolled past several live videos, not opening any, thinking possibly I could ask Bettie to recommend some tamer stuff to start, then build me up to the big emotions. I could do it gradually; I could re-find Jack in baby-steps, a reverse addiction coping method. I'd quit him cold turkey; I'd severed the connection between me and the width and breadth of his online representation. I'd stopped pursuing him in the places he lurked, bar stages on bad recordings, dimly lit and darkly furry vocals on a shaky cam. But now I felt like I needed to reclaim just a bit of that, just a bit to understand the man he was now.
Because the man I'd broken from was different to the man he'd become. Not universally or epically, just. Enough. Enough different.
I kept scrolling, pep-talking myself but not choosing.
Just pick one.
But a moving, singing version of these small silent stills of Jack—the idea recalled me to wasted, desperate days in Vegas where I had nothing but those tiny glimpses. I couldn't go back there. I'd escaped that horrible time. I couldn't go back.
Still I scrolled.
Jackson Killian live at The Asylum
Jackson Killian live at The Mint
Jack Killian Para Pacem in Dublin
Jackson Killian walks off interview
The interview was from last year and my finger hovered over it, curious. I tapped it. The red wheel spun as the video loaded, then I saw a still photo of Jackson in a studio, a big microphone in front of him. The clip was audio only, and it took me a moment to understand Jack's mouth wouldn't move, as a sexy-husky Londony female voice opened with a blanket question.
"So tell us a bit about this album. It's a little different from your first."
"Yeah. Um. Well, I think we sort of... our art evolves as we do. I mean look at any musician who's been on scene for more than a song or two, and you get to see this sort of progression in their work. I think that's healthy. We're not supposed to stay still, stay static. We need to grow and stretch into new spaces, new ideas, new feelings. So. Yeah."
I could hear the slight discomfort in his tone, the smile on his mouth at the end of his ramble.
"Well, this is definitely a new space. Your first album was somewhat strident, very solitary. This follow-up has a bit more bones, a bit more meat. More layers."
"Well, more instruments, for sure. We've got some strings in, and a bit of backup vocals, too."
"It's lovely. It's just really lovely. I really loved it."
"Oh, thank you, thank you. That's kind."
"I looked at the credits but didn't recognize the name."
"Voice for hire, really."
"Will she be touring with you?"
"Unfortunately, no. She's got loads going on here."
"So the live experience will be different from the album?"
"Well. Yes. A bit. But still a good one, I hope."
"I'm sure. You know, I saw you last year, at the show you did in Camden Town."
"Did you?" Jack was quiet a moment, I could hear him thinking. "At the... at Roundhouse?"
"Yes, it was right after Amy Winehouse died. I'll never forget that show because you spoke of her during the set, which I found surprising because I've never known you to banter or anything, during shows. But, I was moved by what you said about her."
"I think well. I think the loss of Amy really hit us all hard. I mean it's not like we weren't expecting it. Or. Maybe that's not the right way to put it. We all sort of watched as this bright, amazing talent got sucked down by... well - certainly she had demons. But it was more than that. Everyone wants to point fingers. It was Blake; it was fame; it was mental illness... it was paps. I'm sure it was all that. But what's most frustrating is how the media takes no responsibility."
"What responsibility should they take?"
"The girl was hounded. Literally hounded all the time. Not only by cameras, but by.... perceptions of herself. Like the concept of being clean. Was Amy finally getting clean? And I just find that word so tragic, because the opposite of clean is dirty. And I know they use that word to be... well to be positive? Like being clean should be something you strive for. But when you can't quite get it, can't achieve clean... what are you? You're scum; you're dirty; you feel it through you and in you like a vile condition you can't escape. You're not allowed to just be. It's the hammer that drives you into the ground, really."
I felt like he was talking about me, about those strung-out, dark days in Vegas where I couldn't stand myself. And I couldn't get away from myself. All I heard in Jack's rant was me.
Maybe that was the real reason I avoided his art and his commentary, because I always found myself there, and I didn't like what I saw.
"You sound like you speak from experience, maybe?" The interviewer's tone was more confidential, like they were going to start sharing secrets, despite the fact that they were obviously broadcasting.
I think I heard Jack sigh, and then. "A bit, yeah."
"But you're sort of insulated right?"
"Oh definitely. I mean, just being a man even. If some pap gets a photo of me looking like death warmed over– it's not headline news. I'm just not scrutinized that way. And I'm very, very thankful for that. I couldn't stand against that."
"Is that why no one's allowed to ask you of your own drug issues? Or Kate?"
Dead silence. I wished hard I could see Jack in that moment, but the still of him was a gently postured, relaxed, and smiling Jack. Maybe the Jack that had gone into the interview. The Jack that had been emphatic and passionate, but enjoying himself, up until I was brought up. Or maybe it was the reference to his addiction problems.
Then Jack spoke softly. "Why are you asking me this? Why are feeding into this shock-shlock pseudo-journalism? Why, especially right after we remembered Amy, why?"
"I'm curious. All your fans are curious."
His voice was ice. "There's a reason we give you lot that off-limits card. It's to preserve some of our humanity. Some of our desperately needed privacy. This is the responsibility someone should take... for Amy, for anyone who puts their art out there and gets lied about over and over and over. Badgered. I'm tired of this *bleep* This interview is over. Thank you."
"Jackson don't go. Ian get him back..."
A pause in the feed. Then the DJ, whomever she was came back brighter than ever. "Okay, well I tried, folks. But no luck. So anyway, pick up Jack's latest. He'll be doing an acoustic set at Virgin tonight so don't miss that. But whatever you do, don't ask him about his ex-wife. Right Ian?"
The clip ended.
My eyes were warm and dry from staring at the unmoving photo of him. I blinked quickly and rubbed them, then ventured stupidly into the comments. Some were caring and sympathetic and supportive.
"Poor Jack" and "He's right about Amy." Lots of endearments.
Others were venomous, cruel, and infantile. About how he sucked and his music sucked and he was a queer-boy. One person didn't even believe he'd had a wife, that it was all label-created dramatics to increase his appeal. Another witty quipper commented that Jack had been bred on white-boy-whines-island and handed a guitar and a broken heart in exchange for his soul. He wasn't genuine; he was constructed. He was a pretty face on someone's sappy lyrics.
"This is a real person you're talking about," I whispered to my screen.
A real person who doesn't have to share everything he is with everyone who wants a piece.
I searched for Jackson Killian live in Camden and came up with a show from August of 2011. I tapped to play the video, and it opened with the static roar of a small bar in the full throes of musical engagement sucked into the bad mic of a phone camera.
Jackson was ranting into the microphone, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. His words blurred into near unintelligibility behind the chatter and bar sounds.
"Our love doesn't change anything. It never does. Anyway. I didn't know you, Amy. But I'm gonna miss the fuck out of you."
He turned from the crowd and gestured to the folks behind him. His guitar sat unused in its stand as the band kicked to life at his back.
"I don't know what I think I'm about covering Amy. This is seriously wanky. But here goes."
The music picked up tempo behind him, and he began to croon. If croon was the right word. He opened his mouth and pain came out.
I tumbled backwards without moving, into a memory. The smell of a burnt pan, of a fresh shower. The day he brought home "Back to Black" and fell hard for it. A dark, somber, stretched out day. He'd taken the small boom box into the bathroom and forgotten the kettle on the stove. It must have whistled for him for an hour—more. It was screeching an angry rasping shriek by the time I got home. I'd found it bone-dry and bent on the cooktop and snapped the stove off before going off manic in search of Jackson.
I could hear the music though the closed bedroom door. I pushed it open to find Jack, a towel around his waist, his hair dry, flat-out asleep on top of the duvet, the cd running on loop. His pipe was on the bed with him, the black bowl completely burned out. The room had the sticky closed char-smell of resin.
I didn't wake him. I was frustrated by his apathy, his lack of attention to a situation that could have had our apartment up in flames. I slammed the groceries I'd bought into the cabinets, passive-aggressive and unwilling to have it out with Jack. I threw the now-cool kettle into the trash and left with the idea that I'd go to the thrift store for a new one. I ended up walking the strip, alone. From one end to the other, not wanting to go home. Almost nine miles, feeling brutally alone and not knowing how to fix it.
I'd been grappling with Jack's statement of hating his life for a while at that time, and Jack had been in a down-space since. I shopped alone; I went to movies alone; I went to work and came home to a man stuck inside himself.
A man barely there. He wouldn't write. He wouldn't sing. The only place he went was work, with a stop by the mini-mart for smokes. There was a rangy distance between us. He was only ever reactive, never engaging me. Responding to me with answers short and sometimes sharp. He himself would grow sharp, too, become leaner and more angular with lack of appetite. He smoked weed furiously and incessantly, while letting dinner go cold on the counter. He didn't reach for me, or roll into me while asleep, or come cuddle me in the kitchen. He was trapped and he didn't want my help getting out.
"Jack, I'm going to the taqueria. You want to come?"
"Not really."
"You want anything from the liquor store?"
"Not really."
"Jack, you're mom's on the phone. You want to speak to her."
"Not really."
All I did was bother him. All he did was exist.
I'd made the mistake in the past of trying to force him out of his funk by booking tickets to a show or taking him to a company party despite his protests. Those outings ended, every time, with us in an enflamed silence, the message in every part of Jack's countenance one of I told you I didn't want to be here.
He would disappear, and then I followed. I felt invisible, seen only when I irked or upset my husband's complacency. I started to lose touch with normal Jack, how bright and right things were when he was good. In the depths of his darkness, his normal vigor seemed like a dream I once had.
Amy Winehouse was the soundtrack to that final depression, the last one I experienced before my high school reunion, the one Jack was just starting to emerge from when I'd made the snap decision not to argue with his understanding of the compromised position he found me in.
I honestly hadn't expected him to make it to South Lake. He'd barely been making it across the street, let alone 500 miles. But he had, and somehow fate had put us both right in the way of an opportunity that seemed right in that stupid spur of the moment. An opportunity to, at the very least, rattle him a bit. But it went so much further than that.
And you have Quinn because of that.
My smile was reflexive, somehow conciliatory to a me from that dark time after Jack left. A backwards apology to that desperate, unhappy girl who didn't know how much joy was in her future, and that Jack would still be the one to bring it to her.
I turned my phone off and stared into the darkness until sleep finally found me.
...
"So." Danny said, his tone light. Too light. "Can I ask where you're going?"
I slipped the box cutters back in my pocket and popped open the first of six toaster-sized boxes from our medical supplier. I sorted the contents quickly, all of them routine, and made small checks by the item description on my order sheet.
"Hmm? Going where?"
Danny cleared his throat. "I um. Your vacation request. Vivian's delegated coverage coordination to me. So. I mean, you don't have to tell me."
I looked sideways at him. His attention was focused on the bottles of pills I'd scooted down the counter for him to double check and enter into inventory. Loss prevention always required two people stock meds and supplies.
"I don't mind telling you. I don't even know if I'm going yet... but..." I sighed. "Thought I better request the time just in case. I might go to the UK. With Quinn. Take him to meet his grandmother. Maybe... I don't know. I've been invited to go to the Glastonbury festival."
Danny nodded, still not meeting my eye. His manner was confident, suggesting he wouldn't pass up a chance to go to Glastonbury, so I was surprised when he asked me what it was.
"It's a music festival. Like um. Coachella. With camping and food and a carnival-I think."
We worked in silence for a few minutes, not the comfortable cooperative silence we'd had prior to his question. This silence had expectation mixed up in it. A strain of something unspoken.
And then Danny spoke it, and this time his question didn't surprise me. "With a man?"
I didn't initially know how to respond to that, and in the breath it took me to reach a decision, Danny kept talking.
"With Quinn's dad?"
My heart beat faster. "Yeah. It's his mother in Dublin. Mine... my folks are dead."
I knew I wasn't giving him the answer he was looking for, but he nodded again anyway, like I was and that was what he really wondered about.
I slid him three more bottles. He checked their labels and then added them to stock. We both signed the purchase order and the supply list. As soon as I finished dotting the i's and crossing the t in my name, Danny put his hand over mine.
"Are you guys... back together? It's just. I wanted to know. I mean. I like knowing when things change, is all."
I wanted my hand back, but it would seem rude to pull it away. "No. We're not together. We're not anything, really. Except History maybe."
I huffed out an uncomfortable laugh.
Danny squeezed my hand and let it go. The look in his eyes suggested empathy for me, something not quite pity, but built of it. I think he understood what it required of me to deal with Jack in the manner I had to.
"Does this change anything for us?"
I brought my box cutter back out of my pocket and flipped the empty cartons over to slit their bottoms and break them down for recycling. "No. Unless it does for you?"
"No. But. Let's keep the communication lines open, okay?"
I flexed a box in my hands. Back, forth, back, forth. I nodded.
"Can I come over tomorrow?"
Danny hadn't come over in a while. I found the idea of hooking up with him nice, needed maybe. Maybe I was using him, but he was using me too. It was the arrangement we had, that we'd had for a long time now. When one of us needed to get laid, we queried each other. Sometimes the answer was yes. Sometimes it was no.
My body said the answer was yes. It was an instinctual, unconsidered reaction to the idea of being touched and held. If I pushed harder into my evaluation, I might find the body and face and voice of the man that touched and held me didn't match up to Danny, but in that quick reflexive yes, it wasn't not him either.
On the heels of that thought, I saw Jack. I saw his black Tacoma pulling unannounced into my driveway to find Danny's silver 4-Runner there. I saw disgust or disdain on his face. I heard him dressing me down for some unknown reason, the collapse of all our forward progress since beginning therapy.
Or worse. Danny might arrive to find Jack there and then they would interface for sure.
"Um. What if. Could I come over to your place instead?"
"Yeah." Danny said happily. "Of course. I'd like that. I thought you were going to say no."
The buzzer zinged. Danny and I both turned to look, the front door being visible from the stock cabinets. I saw Quinn first. His nose was pressed right to tinted glass, Uma's fur flattened to the window beside him. He slapped the glass with his palm and shouted, "Momma!"
Jack stood next to him. At this distance I couldn't be sure, but thought he was looking at Danny, not me. I was suddenly aware of Danny's proximity, the way he was leaning into me, the way he was smiling. And probably, the way I was looking up at him. Not suggestively-I didn't think. But not innocent, either.
I didn't realize I'd begun internally praying. Please let this be okay. Please don't let this be a scene. Not where I work.
I glanced at my watch. It was still just Danny and I for another forty-five minutes. Jill wouldn't clock on until 9.
Danny slid his pen into his breast pocket and walked up to the counter where he pressed the unlock button. The latch snapped and Quinn charged in; he navigated the corner and jumped up into my hug.
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
He gave me a lot of information quickly, about how Jack had found my forgotten lunch in the fridge, and they had to go to the store and when they were there they saw a dog right in the store wearing a green jacket. He finished with, "Are there puppies tonight?"
I glanced at Jack. He held up my purple lunch bag and shrugged. "I didn't want to bother you at work but– I thought might want this. I texted you."
He looked almost abashed. I went to pull my phone from my pocket. It wasn't there. I patted the empty place it normally was. "I left it in my coat. Sorry."
Quinn wriggled, and I was relieved I could focus on putting him down and keeping his hand so he didn't storm back into the kennels. He pulled at my arm as soon as his feet were on the ground. I heard Danny and watched out of the corner of my eye as he extended his hand to Jack.
"Hey, I'm Daniel." His tone was light, but it was odd. No one called him Daniel. No one. He was Danny to everyone.
Jack took his hand, and I felt the force of their grip in my spine. Knuckles on both hands were white with the energy of their handshake. "Jack. Quinn's father."
I could tell by the way Danny shot a glance at me that the handshake had made it clear that Jack knew something of the nature of our relationship.
"I didn't mean to interrupt. Just..." He set my lunch on the countertop to demonstrate just what he was doing. "Quinn? Let's go."
Quinn strained in the opposite direction. "But puppies!"
"He can go back." Danny jerked his head at the kennel doors. "Just keep him away from the last one. Daisy's in , and she chomped at Mitch yesterday."
"Did she?" Daisy was a beagle we were boarding for one of Vivian's friends. "I didn't know that."
"Well. Yeah. No one else has had an issue with her. But... Better to be careful. But you can take Buster out."
Another one of MRAH's policies was that non-employees weren't allowed in the kennels unless they were okayed by a VIC (Vet in Charge) and accompanied by a staff member.
"Buster out!" Quinn commanded.
"You can go, too," Danny offered Jack.
"Thanks, man." Jack moved around the counter to join me and Quinn. I led them down the corridor and through the kennel doors. I felt Jack's hand on the small of my back as we went through them.
I looked up at him, confused. More confused when I saw Danny at the end of the hallway, watching us. Danny's shrug made me realize I must look as confounded as I felt.
Jack was mostly quiet for the ten minutes Quinn played with Buster. His play was cautious and happy; he'd reach for the dog with a tentative hand and squeal in delight at the feel of his short fur. Buster, normally an excitable and active pit-mix, was careful of Quinn. He licked him softly, then sat staunchly beside him with his back to Quinn as if protecting him. Quinn leaned on his strong back. Buster didn't flinch.
I was busy minding him and having treats ready, but Buster behaved well and so did Quinn.
"Is this dog sick?" Jack asked.
"Oh no. He's fine. He boards here a lot. He's got a busy family. They vacation a few times a year. The kids... one of them is a cheerleader and so they have to travel for her competitions, too. Sometimes they take Buster. But sometimes they can't. So Viv... that's my boss. Vivian. She boards him for them."
The worry didn't leave Jack's face.
"We take good care of him here," I reassured.
Jack finally looked up at me and gave a small nod. "He's not... stuck in that pen all the time though? Right?"
"I mean, he's in there a lot, but we take him out. Some of the staff take him home, when they can. Viv and Jeanie have him often."
"He just seems. Well, such a good dog."
"Don't let Bettie hear you going all soft over him. She'll turn you into a vegetarian, too."
Jack smothered a smile. "Is that what happened to you? I wondered."
"Bettie is very persuasive."
"Yeah," he agreed with a smile. "I like her."
The kennel was calm and happy as Jack and I smiled at each other.
"I don't like him, though."
"Danny?"
"Daniel," he corrected, saying his name with undeniable pretension. "Are you eeping-slay ith-way im-hay?"
I blinked. It took me a second to realize Jack was asking me the question he'd accused me of a few weeks back. There was expectation in his face and hesitancy in his Pig Latin.
"It's an FWB arrangement," I said, casually.
Jack curled his lips in then spoke. "You told me it wasn't my business, and you were right. And I'm going to be mature about this, I swear. I'm going to try to be. I mean. I don't want to stand here as the pot and call the kettle black. I don't like it. Thinking of it makes me sick."
"Sick, sick, sick," Quinn chirped to Buster.
We both looked down at Quinn, who smiled up at both of us. "I feel fine! I'm not sick!"
I smiled, despite my internal fiasco. "I understand."
He scowled at me.
"You and Sophia... make me feel... ick." I shook my head to clear it of the idea of his mouth full of her mouth.
"I didn't realize you knew about her."
I rolled my eyes. "You have a fan club. Maybe more than one. My best friend could start her own, if she had the time. Of course I know. And besides. James told me. Back in January."
"Don't worry about Soph."
"Don't worry about Dan," I said, huffily. His shortened version of her name hurt more than I could have expected. Was Soph his new Kit? "Is she the one who's 'just young?'"
Jack tilted his head, unsure.
"The one who advised you to undermine me as a parent."
I was satisfied by the flicker of mortification that crossed Jack's stony face.
"Um... no. It wasn't her. One of her mates. Not a very nice person, I should add. But she spun my head. Horror stories, you know. About... fathers. Without any... any opportunities to see their kids."
"I would never do that to you," I whispered.
He curled his fingers around my upper arm and squeezed. Squeezed and almost pulled. I was being drawn in, maybe into a hug-but I never got there.
The front door buzzer zinged, and Danny called my name, a touch of urgency in it.
"We have to wrap up," I said, and led Buster back into his kennel. "Can we finish this conversation at home?"
I latched Buster in and snapped a glance at Jack. He had Quinn by the hand, ready to go. His mouth said, "sure," but his eyes said something else. Something slightly hostile but possibly it was just disappointment. I hoped it was.
I followed them back into the reception area. A distraught-faced black man in a ball cap held a Maine Coon snug to his chest while Danny rapidly checked some boxes on the intake form. Jack and Quinn breezed by both of them. Quinn sang, "Bye puppies!" and Jack tossed Danny a quick, "Hey, nice to meet you, man."
Danny nodded in response, not having time for more. I opened the first exam area and guided our patients in.
The cat was called Alize and she'd gotten tangled in a fence. Her owner didn't know how long she'd dangled before he finally heard her frantic mews and found her. We sedated her in Chip's arms and Danny diagnosed a fracture before we got her in the x-ray, and the prints confirmed it a few minutes later.
Jill jumped into the fray right at nine and I went to the exam area where Chip waited for news.
"Hey, Alize will be fine. She's hurt her paw, but we can fix it."
"Oh thank goodness."
"We'd like to keep her overnight, you can go home and get some rest. When you pick her up tomorrow, she'll already be on the mend."
"Oh thank goodness," he said again.
"Come with me to the front desk and I'll get you written up."
Chip left and Danny took Alize into the operating room with Jill while I minded the front. I could see Quinn's nose and fingerprints on the door-pane. I'd been surprised to see them there, surprised at the heat and happiness that rippled through me at the sight of both of them. Heat that seemed to sweep me clean of any desire to go to Danny's. It had gone from a mildly appetizing idea to a complete chore.
I heard Danny's footsteps in the corridor and turned my face to him.
"How's Alize?"
Danny nodded and pulled his pen from his breast pocket. "She's good. Convalescing in kitty-recovery unit five."
He jotted some notes in the file, likely dosage and intervals for antibiotics and steroids. I kept my eyes on him, expectant for some reason. There was definitely something tense in the room with us. Something stilling the air and silencing any possible distraction.
I thought it might be that he was picking up on my new reserve, my change of heart, or maybe—and more likely,-I was aware of it and finding it difficult to be neutral in posture and attitude.
Danny clicked his pen closed and slipped it back into his pocket. He held the file out for me, but didn't let it go when I made to take it. My inner turmoil leapt into my eyes as I raised them to meet his.
But his blue eyes were the way they always are. Friendly. Non-accusatory. "So... just so you know... I don't know what that is... but it definitely isn't history."