by Julia London
That was his problem—he was never there when anyone needed him.
Jack swallowed again, and with his fists shoved deep in his pockets, he went back inside.
Seventeen
Christie had been beside herself with happiness when she actually saw Jack at her house. “He’s going to be all right, don’t you think?” she’d whispered excitedly to Whitney in her kitchen when Jack had gone outside with Chet. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Whitney had thought it was significant progress, too, and had been all smiles along with Christie. Look what we’ve done—we’ve beaten his agoraphobia!
But in the week that followed, Whitney was less confident that his anxiety could ever be tamed.
It was true that Jack had made some great strides. But she had not fully realized what a foe she was up against until she learned he had not returned Zane’s texts to meet up for a drink. He had completely ignored them.
“I don’t understand,” Whitney had said. “I’ll be with you—you told me you feel safer when I’m with you.”
“I do,” he’d said earnestly. “You’ve changed my life, Whitney. But it doesn’t go away in a day, and I can’t shake the dread.”
She’d stared at him, that familiar squeeze of sorrow against anger in her chest. She didn’t want to be insensitive, but he was a big, strong man. Why couldn’t he shake this off? It was just drinks. “You could have invited them here,” she’d pointed out.
“Whitney, please,” he’d begged her. “I just can’t this time, okay? Please try to understand.”
“I’m trying,” she said. “I am really trying, Jack. But Jesus, you make it hard.”
He sighed sadly. “I know, baby, I know.” He folded her in a strong, comforting embrace, trying to soothe her.
That worked for a couple of days. Whitney could see that he was trying so hard for her. He and Buster accompanied her in an anxiety-ridden, yet successful jaunt to the little studio she rented, then watched her make cupcakes that looked like little flower baskets.
“You’re amazing,” he said, dipping his finger into the frosting.
He’d stopped complaining about going for walks and seemed relaxed when they added another block or two each night. Each time they ventured forth, it at least appeared easier for him.
There were moments Whitney was full of hope. But there were moments she felt as if his disorder were an insurmountable mountain that she was too tired to climb. He still wouldn’t go into a crowded place, and he wouldn’t go out alone.
After refusing to answer Zane’s text, Jack promised to meet Whitney and her friend Louisa at a bar on his street. It was a quiet bar, without a crowd—she’d never seen more than a few people inside. She explained all this to Jack, and he had nodded along, as if he understood.
And yet, he stood her up.
“I don’t know about this guy, Whit.” Louisa sucked an olive off a little plastic pike. “Maybe it’s me.”
“It’s not you,” Whitney scoffed.
“Oh yeah? Then why is it he never shows up when I’m involved?”
“He’s just really busy,” Whitney said.
Louisa rolled her eyes.
In all honesty, that sounded pretty lame to Whitney, too. She couldn’t imagine how Jack did it, how he offered that excuse constantly to friends and family and even to her. How exhausting that must be.
“So, did you decide about the café?” Louisa asked excitedly. “I got them down to twenty thousand a month, Whit. Someone should give me a medal.”
Louisa and Whitney had looked at a half dozen properties since she’d seen the café. They both agreed, the café was the best option of all that Whitney had seen—the perfect size, the perfect location, with minimal renovation required to turn it into a coffee shop and patisserie. But it was still insanely expensive, and that place was going to require a bigger chunk of her inheritance than she’d planned. She didn’t want to blow all of it on something that might not work.
You have to be willing to take a risk if you’re going to do this thing, her sister Taylor had warned her when they’d texted earlier this week. If you’re risk averse, you have no business setting up a shop.
It’s not that I’m risk averse. I just don’t know if it’s smart.
Well, that’s been the million-dollar question since you bailed on taking the bar, hasn’t it? Taylor had texted without a hint of derision.
That’s just what sisters did. They told each other the truth.
Which of my shoes are you wearing? Whitney had shot back.
The leopard print Manolos. Why?
Taylor’s comments about the risks had bothered Whitney all week. Was she risk averse? How far out on that limb was she supposed to walk? Till the bough broke? She was supposed to be filled with sunny optimism, with that can-do attitude, and yet, she wasn’t. She was worried.
“I’m still thinking about it,” Whitney said to Louisa.
Louisa groaned. “You might lose it if you wait too long, you know.”
“It’s been sitting empty for six months, Louisa. I think I can take a couple of weeks to think about it.”
“When will you make up your mind?” Louisa demanded as she dug her wallet out of her purse.
Whitney sighed. “I don’t know. Soon, I promise.” As her father was due to arrive next week, Whitney would love to have this thing wrapped up before he got here—it would give him less to opine about. But there was just something in the cosmos that was keeping her from pulling the trigger.
“Fine.” Louisa tossed a few bills onto the table. “I’ve got to go. I’m having dinner with an old flame.”
“Ooh la la.” Whitney winked. “Have fun.”
She stayed behind to close the bill out. As she waited for change, her phone rang. She ignored it. She didn’t have to look to know that it was Jack.
She gathered the change and walked outside. She paused there and looked down the street toward the high-rise where Jack lived. She wasn’t angry. She was mostly disappointed. She thought of his coffee-brown eyes, of the way he looked at her when they made love, as if he couldn’t believe she was there with him. She thought of the way he smiled, the light that shone in his eyes, and the reverent way he touched her. In some ways, he was perfect, the kind of man she’d dreamed of dating after failed runs with men who were better off with her father than her. He was sensitive and caring. He was tender and respectful. He was all the things a great boyfriend, a potential husband, should be. Except for his anxiety.
Unfortunately, the grip of his disorder was beginning to affect her feelings for him. She wanted to be supportive, but it was much harder than she’d imagined. It also seemed as if Jack didn’t try as hard to understand how his disorder affected her. That, in and of itself, was a red flag. He’d apologized numerous times, had told her he was sorry for being such a burden to her. But he never really thought about how his disorder affected her.
A wave rushed through her. What was that—anger? Anger. Because she really needed for him to understand how it affected her.
Whitney struck out for his apartment.
* * *
Jack and Buster were waiting for her at the door of his apartment. His fists were shoved into his pockets, which Whitney had come to recognize as a sign his anxiety was ratcheting. He looked sheepish. Contrite. Worried.
She walked past him into the apartment. “You could have done it,” she announced. “Did you even try?”
“I thought I could, too,” he agreed somberly. “And I did try, for what it’s worth.”
She sighed irritably.
“I don’t like letting you down, Whitney. I hate it. I never want to be the kind of guy who lets you down. I want to be the man you deserve.”
Whitney groaned with frustration and dropped her bag at her feet. “I don’t know if I can deal with this.”
“Don’t say that,” he said.
“But it’s true.” She leaned backward slightly with the weight of his anxiety. “I don’t know i
f I’ll ever be able to count on you.”
“Whitney, Whitney.” He withdrew a fist from his pocket, put his hand on her arm, and pulled her forward. “Baby…have patience.”
“I have been patient—”
“I know, God, I know.” He laced his fingers in hers. “But it’s a progression. It doesn’t happen overnight. Dr. Pratt said it could take weeks. I need you to hang in there, baby. You were right—I’ve been making progress. And I know I need to make more. I will make more.”
“Dr. Pratt also says you should take what she’s prescribed you, too, you know.”
He clenched his jaw. She knew his reluctance—he was afraid of them, afraid of what they would do to him, afraid of becoming dependent, of being unable to function without them.
She could read all those fears in his face and hung her head. “I want to hang in there, I do, but sometimes, it feels overwhelming. It feels like I have to carry the weight of your anxiety into the world and try to explain it, and honestly? It’s embarrassing.”
Jack surprised her with a soft laugh. “You’re telling me?” He pulled her into his embrace. “Just hang in there with me, Whitney. I promise, one day soon, you won’t have to carry the weight of anything but your own happiness into the world.”
That was the way it always went—she felt his arms encircle her, and she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, and she gave in. She sagged into him. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know,” he said sincerely. “All I can tell you is that I am doing my level best, I swear it on my life. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where I would be. Do you realize how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me?” He kissed her cheek. Then the bridge of her nose.
“How much?” she asked weakly, and closed her eyes.
He kissed her forehead, her other cheek, her mouth. “More than I can say.” He picked her up. And Whitney let him, because she was weak when it came to him. In some ways, she needed him as much as he needed her.
He meant what he’d said—he showed Whitney just how much he meant it. He took his time, moving her through a tsunami of emotions and desire and lust, and of affection and love. That’s what was beating in her heart as he lifted her to the heights of pleasure—love. It wasn’t just pleasure swimming through her veins. It was true, deep emotion for this scarred man.
When they had exhausted themselves, they lay in bed together. Whitney told him that Louisa was pressuring her to lease the café and her misgivings about it.
“But nothing else compares,” Jack said, stating it as if it was a fact to be added to the mix.
“Nothing else compares,” she agreed. “Still, it’s too expensive. I don’t know, maybe this was a pipe dream to begin with. Maybe my family was right.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Jack brushed the end of a tress of her hair over her bare shoulder. “Maybe Seattle isn’t the right city for it. What about the suburbs? Or Portland?”
“Portland?” She came up on an elbow and stared down at him. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Never.” He pulled her down and kissed her. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Sending me to another city is not helping. Not yet, anyway.” She kissed his chest. “What about you? What’s going on with your article?”
“It’s interesting. Sharon’s schedule revealed some things. I’ve been making my way through the appointments, calling people on the list, trying to get a handle on what went on there. My gut instinct is that there is a big, important story here, but I’m still putting the pieces together. I owe it to Peter.” He stared off, his thoughts somewhere out there in the middle distance.
Whitney traced a line down his chest. “I never asked, but…have you ever…I mean did the thought ever…” She couldn’t ask.
“Have I ever wanted to kill myself?” he asked for her. “No. My problem is entirely different. I want to figure out how to get back to the life I had before the Marines. Not how to end it.”
Whitney propped her chin on his chest. “You want to be Romeo again?”
Jack grinned. He suddenly caught her and rolled them so that she was on her back beneath him. “You got a problem with that, Katie Cupcake?” he asked, and kissed her through her giggles.
The next morning, Jack made Whitney breakfast as she bathed and dressed to go out. “Pancakes!” she said with delight when she emerged from his room.
“They won’t be as good as yours.” He slapped three on a plate and slid them across the bar to her. “But they’re edible.” He winked.
She picked up her fork. Her phone pinged and she looked at the screen. “Oh.” She frowned a little.
“What is it?” he asked, and proceeded to heap maple syrup on his pancakes.
“It’s my dad. He’s in town next week and wants to take me to dinner.” She picked up her phone and typed back. Would love to. Bringing a friend.
The dots popped up, indicating her father was typing back. A moment later, his text appeared. What sort of friend?
An important one, she texted back.
Boyfriend?
Something like that.
Good. I’d like to meet him. I’ll have Lois make a reservation.
“What going on?” Jack asked. “Your pancakes are getting cold.”
“Just a second,” she muttered, and typed, Actually, I’d like to pick the restaurant if you don’t mind. Can I text you a time and place?
I’d prefer a call from my daughter, but yes, you may text me. I’ll see you next Friday. Love you.
Love you.
She put down the phone and looked at Jack. “My dad is coming to town next week and wants to have dinner Friday. I’m thinking about the Italian place around the corner.”
Jack nodded. “Good place. Eat your pancakes.”
Whitney did not pick up her fork. “I told him I’m bringing a friend.”
Jack’s body instantly stiffened. “I don’t know about that.” He tried to smile. “It’s a restaurant—”
“But a quiet one. I will make sure we get a table in the back, so you can have your back to the wall,” she said, but Jack was shaking his head. “Jack, please. This is really important to me. I need my dad to understand that I am actually making a life here.”
He put down his fork and braced his hands against the bar. “You are making a life here. You don’t need me to prove that.”
“Yes, I do. I need you. All my life, I’ve done what he’s wanted. If I give in now, if I let him talk me out of this, he will run my life.”
Jack shrugged. He picked up his fork. “Then don’t give in.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Whitney—”
“Don’t Whitney me!” she snapped. “You, of all people, should know that sometimes we can’t help that we do the exact opposite of what we want, right, Jack? I don’t know how he does it, but my dad has a way of making me do things I don’t want to do, and for once, just once, I want to be in control, and I could really use your support. This is what I was trying to tell you yesterday. I don’t know if I can count on you.” She stood up, intending to leave.
“You’re right,” Jack said.
She paused. She eyed him skeptically. “You’ll come?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, and straightened up. “For you, I will come. You can count on me.”
“Do you promise?” she pressed him.
“I promise.”
Whitney suddenly grinned. She sat down, picked up her fork, took a bite of the pancake and said through a full mouth, “Great. Let’s go walk Buster.”
“Now?”
“Now.” She took another hurried bite, and another. “I want you to practice being on the street, because you’ll have to meet me there. And we can walk by the restaurant and choose which table.”
“God, you and Pratt.” He pointed at her with his fork. “But I gotta say, I like how you’re thinking like an agoraphobe.”
She smiled. “I’m learning.” As hard as it was, Whit
ney was once again determined to understand and to help. She would just slather the small stain of doubt that it was possible to help someone like Jack on the rest of her pancake and eat it.
Eighteen
Whitney was so determined to drag Jack back into the land of the living that he was inspired to be dragged. Whitney was right—she needed to be able to count on him. And although Jack could see his progress, he needed to make more for her. So he made the decision to start taking the medicine. Dr. Pratt had told him that it would take two weeks before he noticed the effects, but after a week, Jack believed he was already seeing the benefits. After a few days, he didn’t feel so drugged when he took them. He felt…normal.
He was feeling good about everything, really, except the article he was working on. The schedule Sharon had copied was blurry in some places, and in others, the handwriting illegible. There were enough names and phone numbers for him to cull through. But he was hitting walls at every turn. When he called the vets, he’d get no answer, or if he did, and said he was writing an article, many of them hung up. He was cussed out once, accused of being part of a conspiracy twice. But two vets confirmed what he knew—their appointments took weeks, if not months to get, and the follow-ups were just as slow.
But Jack needed more. He needed to know where the money for the appointments on the “official” computer schedules was going.
He was mulling all this over one evening as Whitney baked another cake. A lot of her baking accoutrement had migrated to his apartment. Jack had learned that when Whitney was nervous—which she was, as her father was due to arrive in two days—she baked. That meant his apartment no longer smelled like dogs and unwashed socks, but of pies and cakes. It was a sweet, homey smell, and he liked it.
He liked it so much it scared him a little.
He was at the kitchen bar, going down Sharon’s schedule again when he ran across a name he had somehow missed before. “Diana Franklin,” he said aloud. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Probably because that’s one of the biggest event planners on the West Coast. You’ve seen the commercials, right? Diana Franklin knows how to party?” Whitney said absently.