by G. B. Gordon
And tonight Mawmaw was wrong. Tonight there was no shrugging off the sadness and getting on with his life, because he was stuck. He didn’t want to lie to Mark, but he couldn’t tell him the truth either. But not seeing him again? Without any explanation? If that hurt Mark half as much as it would hurt him, it was out of the question. Rock? Hard place? Check and check.
I don’t feel like going straight home, too full of everything that’s happened tonight. Too full of Jack. Instead I cross at Main and Second and walk down toward the marina and past it along the water until I can’t hear the clanging of the boats anymore. Until the only sound is the murmur of the waves, and the only light comes from the stars. Until I can think. About what exactly happened tonight, because it wasn’t just sex. I’ve had just sex. From that first catastrophic attempt in high school to figuring out that some people in the kink community are open to a don’t touch decree, though they ultimately expected more from me than I’m comfortable dishing out. Most of the time it’s been easier to do without sex than to try to negotiate its pitfalls.
No, this isn’t that. This has been a revelation. A discovery of possibilities. Jack said he would try to be like the man in my waking-dreams, but he managed to be so much more. He not only let me set my own pace and rules of the game; he was thoroughly turned on by them.
If this is possible, if Jack is not only okay with what I do to him, but complements my desires like this, then maybe I have a chance at something better than occasionally interrupted solitude.
The beach is different at night than when I run here in the mornings. I stretch my arms above my head and dig my feet into the sand. I feel good. Notably unfractured. The way I felt when I first realized I could make a career out of my tactile obsessions.
Almost drowned out by the drumbeat of my heart, of Jack!, the major notes of the evening form an elusive theme: hope.
I lose track of time out there on the beach, get home in the small hours, and don’t sleep a wink. I’m up early, but catch myself daydreaming again, and again, until I have to hurry to meet Jason.
In my haste I almost run Ellen over at the foot of the stairs.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?”
“Sorry, I’m late.”
“Then run, but don’t think I don’t want to know what brought that glow to your face.”
I didn’t realize that my happiness would show. Is that a good or a bad thing? Are people going to remark on it? Expect me to answer their questions?
At least Jason won’t. Another reason to be grateful for his taciturn temperament. I make extra sure I have my headphones before I get in his car.
Later I have lunch on one of the picnic benches under the trees and stare at my phone. No message, and no reason why there should be, really. I wish we’d thought to make plans for the weekend before I left last night, though the weekend seems a long way away. We don’t usually meet during the week with both of us working long days and early mornings, but maybe I can walk over tonight, just for a quick hello?
Unsurprisingly, things don’t quite turn out that way. Stuff breaks, shit hits the fan, and everybody ends up working overtime to fix things.
So when, the next day, Jason tells me he’ll have to leave work early because he needs to talk to his bank, I jump at the excuse to shorten my day as well.
Jason drops me off at home, which is more convenient for him, and I walk over to the store. It’s packed when I get there, which isn’t saying all that much, given how small it is. But Jack is helping a customer and chatting with two others, while a fourth stands browsing the greeting cards.
Jack glances up and nods when I set the bell chiming, but is there a brief shadow crossing his face? Because I’m showing up while he works? I didn’t think about how I might be a distraction, but I can certainly see how me hovering would be. So I stay back and watch the easy way Jack has with people, his funny exaggerations and dramatic air keeping them entertained while they wait. Another customer comes in while Jack deals with the last of the crowd, and then another one after that. Jack mouths a silent Sorry in my direction, and I shrug. I didn’t think this through. There’s a reason I don’t do spontaneous: I suck at it. Hell, I hate surprises myself. Why did I think this was a good idea?
But eventually the store empties and Jack comes out from behind the counter.
“Are you okay? What are you doing here?”
Worried, he’s worried at what has made me break my routine. Of course. That explains the shadow on his face earlier.
“Everything’s fine. The guy I ride with had to come back early today, so I thought . . .” I shrug. “Sorry I barged in on you like this. It was a stupid idea.”
“No.” Jack’s voice grows soft. “No, it’s good to see you.” The light in his eyes is the same one that was there last night, when he said he had the best sex of his life. It does funny things to my stomach. It’s unsettling, but not in a bad way.
“I’m only sorry you had to wait so long. It’s been nicely busy all day.”
“Want me to come back tonight, bring some pizza?”
There’s that shadow again, and I don’t like it one bit.
“I wish. Man, I’m so sorry. I have a truckload of preorders to pack. Which, mind you, is good. People love phoning their orders in and having them charged to their credit card, so they just have to come and pick them up. No waiting. It’s been my best business idea to date. But it means I’m up late filling orders most evenings.” He shrugs, then his glance goes to the door, and the bell chimes behind me.
“Be with you directly,” Jack calls out. He turns back to me. “Rain check on the pizza till the weekend?”
“Sure.” He’s right, brisk business is good. Am I starting to get jealous of his job? Before I can ask about the weekend, Jack whispers, “See you soon,” and turns to his new customer.
I try hard not to let disappointment get the better of me. What was Jack supposed to do? Ignore his customer to continue chatting with his lover? Boyfriend? Whatever.
And there’s always Saturday. I catch Jack’s eye and wave, and get a wave and Jack’s brilliant smile in return. Better.
On Saturday morning, however, Jack sends me a message to say that he can’t make it. Something about the company who’s supposed to deliver his packaging material having a busted truck.
If I don’t want to wait until Monday, and I can’t because I have phone orders for tomorrow morning, I’d better drive into Port Angeles to get it. I have no idea what time I’ll be back and done packing. Sorry, Jack writes.
Well, fuck. I mean, I’m happy for Jack and Margaret that the store’s doing well, but the timing for business to pick up really sucks. What routine we have is for our friendship, not this new thing that’s between us, and the lack leaves me feeling unmoored. I try not to read too much into the fact that we’ve barely had two minutes together since last weekend, but it’s getting harder to tell myself that I didn’t mess it up, that Jack isn’t avoiding me, that this isn’t going to go down the drain like my every other attempt at a relationship before.
Bummer, I text back. Does pickup mean you’re open on Sunday?
Jack’s said he tried the Sunday gig, and it isn’t worth keeping the lights on. For as long as I’ve known him at least, the store’s been closed on Sundays.
Naw, it’s strictly pickups. They’ll have to ring the bell.
I stare at my screen for a few seconds, then, before I can chicken out, message back: Want me to bring breakfast?
Then I stare at the screen some more, watch the word typing appear and disappear under Jack’s name three, four times. Then nothing. My phone screen goes black, and I swipe the fucker alive again.
When Jack’s answer finally appears, it’s a single word: Sure.
When?
Dunno. Nine?
I’ll be there.
For a heartbeat I see Jack typing some more, but then he goes offline without a reply.
Well, what did I expect? Do I want him to turn this into a cheesy gam
e of no-you-hang-up?
Disgusted with myself, I put the phone down and pick up a pen and the ad section of the paper to hunt for the weekend’s yard sales and flea markets.
Sunday at nine I’m balancing a box with breakfast sandwiches, a coffee tray, and a peach turnover for Margaret up the street when I see Jack help a very tall and very handsome park ranger carry his groceries to a white pickup, then lean into the passenger window for what looks like a little flirt, before the stranger drives off.
I don’t know what to say. The sniping that’s at the front of my mind is surely inappropriate. But the last week has left me unsettled enough that a bit of jealousy can snarl at me through the cracks. I stand there until Jack notices me and smiles and points at the disappearing truck.
“One of my very first customers here,” he says. “Used to buy his groceries every Sunday, like clockwork. He was quite happy when he heard about the Sunday pickup thing.”
Jack shepherds me inside and jokes around while we set the table. He seems to be in a sunny mood, but his display of good humor strikes me as off. It’s glib. That invisible film that I thought gone for good after last weekend is back between us.
I’ve brought a coffee for Margaret, but I’m not surprised when she pushes it back. She does however clap her hands in delight when she sees the peach pastry and immediately sets upon devouring it.
“Do you want some milk with that, love?” Jack asks her.
“Margaret.”
Jack’s cheek muscles clench. “So be it.” As he turns away, he mutters under his breath, “If that’s how you want to play it.”
Are they quarreling? I’ve never seen them fight before, but there’s definitely something going on here.
Breakfast is a disjointed affair. Jack has to get up a couple of times to serve customers, and each time he helps them carry their bags and stands and chats for a bit. It takes the sting out of that first encounter I saw this morning, but it doesn’t leave us much time together.
“Got any treasure hunts planned for today?” Jack asks when he comes back for the third time.
“Well, there’s an antique market in Sequim, but I don’t have—”
“You should go. It’s a stunning day. Who knows how many more of these we’ll have before fall hits us with rain and thunderstorms.” Jack is moving around the table as he talks, throwing trash into the empty takeout box and stacking the plates we used. He doesn’t look at me.
“It’s not one of my favorites.” I don’t want to spend the day alone, and I have no idea why he thinks I should. “Prices are high, and it’s mostly furniture.” I search Jack’s face for a clue. Maybe he doesn’t want me to go by myself? “Unless you’d like to go?”
“Naw, you go. Gives me a chance to clean up the store, dust the shelves, that sort of thing. Has to be done now and then, and I haven’t had much of a chance lately.”
“No,” Margaret says, alternately tapping her leg and the armrest of her chair. Trying to calm herself.
“Well, it ain’t doing itself,” Jack snaps. Margaret starts rocking back and forth, then abruptly jumps up and leaves the room.
Jack stares after her, then shrugs. “Sorry about that. Sibling disagreement.” He smiles his bright smile. “We’ll get over it.” He picks up the sugar bowl and a used spoon. “Well, I’d better get started. You have fun at your antique sale. Hope you’ll find something worthwhile.”
Somehow I find myself standing in the street without any clear idea of how that happened or why.
Whatever issue Jack has seems to be with his sister, not with me. But I’ve definitely just been bundled outside. Most skillfully and diplomatically, but kicked out, nevertheless. I wish Jack were sure enough of my friendship to let me help, but, last weekend seems to have uprooted not only my routine, but Jack’s as well. And, of course, some things are better dealt with in private.
The noise of the usual Sunday traffic in the road clashes with a wind chime on someone’s porch, and the radio of a car stopped at the corner. Traffic is light enough that I trust myself to drive into Sequim, but I doubt that it would be worth the price of gas. Maybe I should drive myself to the studio and get started on that new design they want for the midseason finale.
The week goes by with its usual level of craziness at work, and without a word from Jack. By midweek I’m getting antsy, but the ball is solidly in Jack’s half now. By Friday, however, I’m worried enough to fire off a quick message. Everything okay?
The answer comes within a few minutes: Peachy. Just busy. TTYS
It pisses me off, that short message, and it takes me all day to wrestle that spike of anger back down. In the end, it’s choir practice that calms and anchors me, like it always does.
When there finally is a message about weekend plans, it doesn’t come from Jack, but the message ID displays Margaret. Surprise. She’s sent a link. Underneath it she typed, 19th September, and, y/n?
That’s tomorrow. The link is for the state fair in Puyallup. Apparently there’s a midway and junk food, and apparently Margaret wants to go. There’ll be a truckload of people and noise and flashing lights. Do I want to see Jack bad enough for this? Hell yes. My index finger has already tapped the y. I have to hope that I’ll hold out as long as or longer than Margaret. Worst case, I’ll have to wait in the truck until the crowds get too much for her too and they are ready to leave.
Margaret sends back a picture of a music group. By their clothes, and by the instruments, it’s a jazz or blues band I don’t know on a stage in a club. I scan the image for something recognizable, something that’ll tell me why she sent it, then stare in disbelief at the guy with the saxophone. Jack. Some ten, fifteen years younger, possibly barely out of, or even still in, high school. But unmistakably Jack. What the ever-loving fuck is going on here? Why is she sending me this? This isn’t sharing for fun. I’m positive that it’s important to her, and that she’s trusting me to figure it out, but I’m stumped. I go so far as to google Jack Daley saxophone and get nothing except a Joe Daley, saxophone, and Jack Daley, bassist, one of whom is dead, and the other is a studio musician in New York. Not my Jack, neither of them. So what, then? Of course I can just ask Jack when I see him tomorrow. He usually knows what Margaret is saying. Or I could ask him, if he weren’t acting so damned weird.
When Jack opens the door for me on Saturday, he’s in jeans and an old T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, face flushed from a recent shave. Utterly fuckable. I can’t resist. I lay my palm against his cheek, against the heat and the smoothness there, follow the outline of his lower lip with my thumb, then bend down for a quick kiss that tastes of toothpaste. Jack’s face is wide open, vulnerable, and stunned. Only the knowledge that Margaret is waiting for us keeps me from doing more. I shove both hands into my pockets. “You’ve got quite the James Dean impression going here. I like it.”
Jack blinks, then takes a step back to let me in. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Did I screw up? Did we have a date for breakfast?”
A faint alarm starts ringing in the back of my brain, and I don’t move. “Er, state fair?”
“What?”
“Okay, sorry. I thought we had plans to go to the state fair today.”
“We did?” Jack still looks out of it.
“Margaret messaged me. I thought—”
“She what?”
I push all ten fingers through my hair at the sight of the thunderclouds gathering in Jack’s face. “Shit.”
Jack holds out a hand and squeezes his eyes shut. “Are you telling me Margaret told you we were going to some fair today?”
Instead of trying to explain, I pull out my phone and show him the message. “It’s okay, Jack. I guess she just really wanted to go, and you’ve been busy lately.”
“No.” It sounds dazed. Still, my hackles rise at the curtness of it.
For Margaret’s sake I try again. “I could take her, you know? Just for a bit. I don’t think either of us is going to be happy in the crowds for very long, but i
t might not be so bad during the day.”
“No, that’s not it. I mean she does like midways, but— Okay, you’d better come in. Gimme a second.”
He goes to check the dining room, then walks through it to the sitting room behind it. “She was here a minute ago. She’s probably upstairs.”
I stay by the door of the sitting room. I have the wary feeling that I’ve stumbled into the middle of another family feud, or that I’ll step on a mine any second.
The crystals on the window aren’t moving; there’s dull traffic noise from outside, and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
“I need to talk to you,” Jack says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally we’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it is, that’s been a palpable tension in the air for the last two weeks.
But after that promising start, Jack doesn’t seem to know how to continue. He shoves both hands in his pockets and stares at his feet. “Do you want to maybe sit?”
I perch on the edge of the couch, and Jack starts pacing. “Look,” he says. “I’ve been putting this off, sticking my head in the sand, but I can’t do this anymore.”
The relief of a minute ago turns to dread.
“Can’t do what anymore?”
Jack throws up his hands. “Make nice. Pretend everything’s peachy . . .”
The first tendrils of anger make my voice sharper than I want it to be. “So tell me what’s wrong.”
“I wish I could.” Jack’s voice has died down to a whisper.
“What’s keeping you?”
Jack shakes his head. “Margaret should not have sent you that message.” Suddenly he freezes. “What else did she tell you?”
“That you used to play the sax. In a blues band. In school?” I’m fishing, casting around for a hit, anything that’ll kick loose some answers as to what the fuck is going on here.
“The little wretch.” Jack laughs, a despairing back-to-the-wall sound that hits me like a slap in the face. His chin comes up. “Is your gut telling you to run yet?”