The thing about going away for ten months to work on yourself is that, well, ten months is a long time. Frank had been angry and resentful and detoxing, but then he’d been left with just himself. He’d gone to meetings and therapy appointments and yoga sessions and whatever else they wanted him to do.
And somewhere along the way, well, it started to fucking work.
He was still anxious about it all and a little defensive, but he wasn’t angry anymore, wasn’t resentful. He’d gotten used to talking about himself in a way he’d never been able to before. Jack isn’t who he thought he’d feel safe talking to about these things, but he is. And so he does.
He finds himself talking about things he doesn’t with anyone else, about the pressure, the pain, the disappointment with himself, the desire to change but not always knowing how. Jack opens up in turn, seeing his vulnerability and offering pieces of himself rather than advice. He tells Frank a little about his PTSD, about learning to live without the leg, about finding balance after his wife died. He doesn’t go into detail about her, but he talks about the routines he built afterward, about woodworking in his garage when he couldn’t sleep, the veterans he still meets for coffee once a month, the neighbour who drags him fishing whether he wants to go or not.
Frank is a little jealous of how many people and things he’s surrounded himself with; he says so, and Jack laughs.
"It comes with time," he says. "And I have some years on you. Besides, you’re starting now, aren’t you? You have me."
There’s an energy between them sometimes, and he can feel it now, their eyes connecting over empty breakfast plates and cold coffees.
"Yeah," Frank agrees quietly. "I have you."
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