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i know i havenât posted a fic on here in over a year but,, i am active in the marvel/bucky barnes fic community over on my main blog, @houseofhyde <3
Hello. I wanted to stop by and say hello. I've not seen you post in a while, and I can understand that feeling. However, I hope you come back to finish your stories. They're beautiful and heartfelt. But if not, please know that what you've shared has been a lovely experience. I'm grateful that I got to live in their world for a short time.
first of all, i apologise i'm only replying now, you've likely forgot you even left this in my inbox 𫣠second of all, in regards to not having posted in a while, it's been for 2 different reasons.
the first reason is that uni sucked all the creativity out of me for a solid 8 months or so and left me with an awful case of writer's block. the second reason is that, unfortunately, the writing space around pedro characters has become horribly uncomfortable to me. there's nothing that has happened to me personally, as i'm fairly solitary in my little bubble online, but watching some of my personal favourite writers be driven off the site and having their names dragged through the mud by strangers over fanfiction has definitely contributed in putting me off posting. there's just a hue of hostility about this writing space that, perhaps is just in my head, but it doesn't feel like the community that fic writing is supposed to provide.
i really appreciate how sweet your ask is, it means a lot to know someone views my stories so highly. i do want to get back to writing them and posting them soon, it would just be disingenuous of me to say when because i really don't know when i will.
lastly, "I'm grateful that I got to live in their world for a short time." this sentence has been on my mind since i first read your ask. thank you for wanting to live in my fics' for a short time, it means the world to me.
Tell me why I felt it in the air that you posted again before even seeing it. I had a sudden thought to check up on you and boom, posted today. Guess Iâm just good at sensing when my favs are active đ
Speaking of, I think itâs time to re-read âyou cut your hair, and take some spaceâ for the fourth time! Thatâs series lives in my head, itâs so good. Itâs one of my favorites and so are you <3 Youâre very talented! Hope everything is going well and youâre taking care of yourself! đđâ€ïž
i'm so sorry i'm only now getting round to replying to this, in all honesty, i completely forgot i hadn't replied đ thank you for enjoying "you cut your hair, and take some space", i'm eternally sorry part 3 has still not been posted yet but i promise i haven't given up on it! i'm just struggling to get it how i want it to be. thank you for being so kind, i hope you're taking care of yourself too <3
pleaseee tell me part 3 of cut your hair and take some space will come at some pointđđ
it's currently living in my google docs and glaring at me every time i write something else (there's literally only two scenes left to write, and it's killing me that i've not been able to finish it yet... unfortunately i hate every word i put on the page and am struggling to get it right. but part 3 will definitely come at some point, hopefully within the next month!)
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just had to watch bobby nash die, now youâre telling me i have to watch joel miller die (again!)? tough week to be a proud lover of father figures ig.
i just got home from watching the wild robot,,, fink was so cute and iâm genuinely amazed by pedroâs voice acting! unfortunately, i did in fact relate a little bit too much to brightbill ( and roz ) bc he felt a little autistic/neurodivergent coded đâŒïž
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Hii!! Just wanted to let you know that ever since iâve discovered your blog I have been BINGE READING your fics and let me tell you the way you write joel miller has actually altered my brain chemistry. Iâm obsessed. Your talent is literally beyond words. Ily!!!
heyy !! welcome to the wasteland that is my blog, so happy to hear you're enjoying my silly little fics đ„ș i'm a little lost for words bc you're being so sweet to me and my writing and i don't know how to properly convey how greatful i am other than: aaaaaah thank you, ily2 <333
pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader
synopsis. the last time you sat in jackâs infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, youâre sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and heâs driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared?
warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's.
word count. 14.7k
hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event.
if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.
INTRO â silver springs.
âTime cast a spell on you, but you wonât forget me.â
Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitressâ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.
Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes youâve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.
You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out whatâs next. What youâll do, where youâll go, how youâll get there. The elderly couple whoâd been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.
It wasnât a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes youâve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. Itâs not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.
You wonder if any of them know youâre not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.
Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. Itâs been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.
The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesnât know how. Maybe she wants to ask if youâre okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave.Â
The bell above the door rings as it opens. Itâs been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. Sheâd not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You canât imagine itâs the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.
A sip from your coffee. Itâs as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If youâd only stayed at the venue, youâd be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and⊠had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You canât remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.
In retrospect, youâd disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-lawâs chagrin. So out sheâd gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.
Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitressâ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.
A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.
âAre you lost, sweetheart?â The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, heâs a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. Heâs brown-eyed affection. Heâs an aquiline nose. Heâs a well-groomed moustache. Heâs Jack. âThink itâs a few miles up north theyâre expecting a pretty bride.â
Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat youâd never failed to spot amongst any crowd. Thereâs a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world.Â
An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.
He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.
âYouâve worried a lot of people, darlilnâ,â his gaze studies you. You wonder if itâs the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. âRunninâ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know youâre alright.â
Your dad. Heâd slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise heâd be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jackâs words catch up to you.
He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.
Jack was at the wedding.
âWhat happened?â His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. âWhyâd you run?â You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. âYou gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?â
Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. Thereâs a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if heâs the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. Thereâd been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.
âA glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how âbout somethinâ to please a sweet tooth, hm?â His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. âSpied a pretty mean lookinâ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlinâ?â Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. âThink sheâs gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!â
The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.
âYou shouldnât drink and drive.â
Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. âDidn't order it for me,â he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. âEat up, drink up. You need it.â
Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden itâs as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isnât so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.
âHow did you find me?âÂ
âYou doubtinâ my skills?â Heâs teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. âI stopped at a gas station. Runninâ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ainât on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkinâ about some bride sittinâ at a dinner a few miles down. Donât take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was youâ
âOh.â
You shouldnât feel disappointed by his answer, thereâs no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.
The last youâd seen of Jack was through your carâs rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. Heâd begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. Youâd been the one to declare it useless.
âThis isnât something we can fix, Jack!â
âBut, darlinâ, I love you.â
âA happy coincidence, I was lookinâ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me whatâs goinâ on inside that head of yours yet?â At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. âLook, I mean well when I say this, but darlinâ, youâre lookinâ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.â His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. âSo hereâs whatâs gonna happen. Iâm gonna take a trip to the gents, then Iâm gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then weâre gettinâ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.â
Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.
âWhere are we going?â
âFor a drive, sweetheart.â
TRACK 1 â vienna
You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.
An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, thatâs what heâd claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, youâd tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.
One dance led to unimaginable love.
As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the carâs leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girlsâ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle.Â
The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.
The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.
Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.
âDâyou remember our trip to Vienna?â
Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how youâd fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driverâs seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the lightâs already green, Jack!
âHow could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peterâs church?â
âHey, now darlinâ, letâs not start playinâ the blame game!â His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how youâve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. âYou knew what you were doinâ wearinâ that pretty little sundress.â
The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, youâd caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.
âI still dream of the gardenâs at Schönbrunn Palace,â a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man youâd imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.
If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? Heâd asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.
Promise me weâll get married here, and Iâll consider it.
âI still have nightmares of the boat.â
âThe boat!â The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. âI still canât believe you fell off it!â
âI jumped.â
âBackwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!â
âI jumped, to make you laugh!â
âOh, donât worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!â
A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldnât be the first time heâs visited your dreams.
You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction.Â
âSometimes I wish weâd never left Vienna.â
His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.
All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. Youâre just stressed, darlinâ, heâd said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. Iâm sorry, I canât be with you. Not anymore.
âYeah,â you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. âMe too.â
In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.
TRACK 2 â purple rain
A perfect summerâs storm.
Mother natureâs mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for whatâs yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the carâs roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.
âYouâve not bought any new albums? None at all?â The question comes as you flip through Jackâs collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time youâd sat in his car.
This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. Heâs always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home youâd once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.
âNothinâ new sinceâŠâ His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. âYou were always the one buyinâ me music. Said you didnât want me get-â
âGetting bored on missions,â impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. âI remember.â
It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jackâs job came up.
On your first date, heâd told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos heâd send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.Â
Then, out came the truth.
A phone call from one of Jackâs co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jackâs been shot.
A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.
You couldâve died, Jack.
Now how could I go dyinâ, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?
You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.
Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, youâd tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. Heâd gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.
I promise Iâll always come home to you safe.
âDonât need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,â Jackâs impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. Itâs like he knows what youâre thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. âShit, they even got Princ-â
âStop the car.â
âHuh?â
âJust pull over, Jack!â
Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. Thereâs a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, itâs easy to forget this is the first time youâve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you werenât willing to give.
Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself thatâs sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.
Under the storm's wrath, youâre reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that theyâll mix with the rain and be swept away.
Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. Youâre unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.
âHeaven to Betsy, darlinâ!â Jackâs hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. âDidâya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takinâ a leak?â
You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and youâre suddenly so aware of how close you both are.
Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? Itâs not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.
But youâre not a married woman, are you?
Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.
âCareful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Donât go givinâ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.â His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest heâs willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.
Heâs stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.Â
Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Princeâs voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.
âYouâre lucky I got spare clothes in the back,â Jackâs voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think heâs not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. âAinât no hope in hell Iâd let you in my car, all drippinâ wet.â
âYou never used to complain about me being wet in your car.â
Itâs a quickfire response, the kind you donât quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the carâs roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.
You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jackâs already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.
âCanât just be sayinâ things like that, darlinâ,â he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. âNot unless youâre tryinâ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.â
In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dressâ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.
âJack,â it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner youâll be changed, and the sooner youâll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, âcome help me out my dress.â
No reply comes your way.
At first, you think heâs not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that youâve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.
Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrensâ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.
Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.
âI used to dream about doinâ this someday.â
âI think we both know this isnât the first time youâve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.â
âIs your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?â A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. âI meant that I dreamt about this, me helpinâ you take your weddinâ dress off.â
Thereâs an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin heâd once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.
Your dress falls to the floor.
ââCourse I never thought Iâd be doinâ it on the side of the road, but beggars canât be choosers.â
TRACK 3 â lover you shouldâve come over
âWait, are these pyjama pants?â
The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look atâ besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seatâ youâve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing heâd handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne youâd bought Jack on your last anniversary. Heâs paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.
âTook myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasinâ after a view of the Northern Lights.â Thereâs a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember thatâs what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. âI was livinâ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure youâll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.â
He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what heâs referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.
Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jackâs own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.
âI forgot those were in there.â He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. Youâd known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. âYou can read âem, if you want. They were written for you anyway.â
Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find thereâs no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars heâd promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.
One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.
Itâs your old address.
âTheyâre all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasnât sure where youâd moved to, I figured there was a chance youâd gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,â he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home youâd made for yourself since moving out of your parentâs place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. âWrote the second one because you didnât reply, and I was missinâ you. Then I just kept writinâ em, and sendinâ em, and waitinâ on you writinâ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasnât from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me theyâd been keepinâ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writinâ to a ghost.â
Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal thatâs slightly opened at the edges, the glueâs hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.
I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how youâre doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didnât know about the break up. I told them you werenât feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.
You feel as though youâre invading his privacy, reading over words heâd written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesnât mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.
Or maybe I wonât have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, youâll have come home. Thereâs still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasnât something we can fix. I think youâre wrong. Thereâs never been an issue we couldnât solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Letâs get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know itâs something you want, that Iâm something you still want.Â
Jackâs quiet in the driverâs seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.
You return to his letters, the second heâd sent already open in your palm.
I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what Iâd done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isnât just that Iâve lost you, itâs that I donât even know why.
You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.
I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.
Eggsy and Tilde got married. Itâs the first wedding Iâve been to without you. Iâm doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? Iâm not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and sheâs beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, sheâs nothing.
Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didnât want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew youâd get it. Iâm so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard youâve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I donât want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure youâre safe. The guyâs got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? Iâm not.Â
Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.
This last one, you read the letter in full.
Darling girl,
Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. Iâve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.
I visited Tequila last week. I donât know if itâs right to call him that anymore. Champâs still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. Thatâs not what Tequila wouldâve wanted. He wouldâve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds heâs on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didnât say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.
You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day mustâve been for you. Weâd just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequilaâs wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I couldâve been the one who didnât come home to the woman I love.
Iâm sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. Iâm agent Whiskey no more. Iâm coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.
Love always,
your Jack.
âYour wedding invitation found me first,â Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.
The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.
The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.
âI didnât invite you,â youâre unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think youâd be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day youâd once promised to share together. âI didnât invite anyone. I was⊠busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she mustâve written you down by accident.â
Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your motherâs always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.
âYeah,â Jack sighs out from the driverâs seat, resignation in his voice. âI figured you didnât invite me.â
TRACK 4 â 50 ways to leave your lover
Jack drives deeper into the night.
Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlierâs storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. Thereâs no discussion of destination, no sanctuary youâre waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you donât have to take the wheel, you donât have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.
Itâs just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.
âAsk me,â permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. âI can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise Iâll answer this time.â
âI guess Iâm tryinâ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runninâ through that pretty head of yours,â Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, heâs let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. âHowâd you do it?â
âI just slipped out the back, Jack,â thereâs a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jackâs chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. âSomeone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and thatâs where I stayed until-â
âUntil I found you,â itâs a reminder you shouldnât want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. Itâs not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You canât help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconsciousâ joy. âWhy did you run away?â
Your smile fades.
The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought thereâd be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.
Why did you run away?
You know the answer. Of course youâve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you canât change the truth. That doesnât mean youâre ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: âWhy did you come to the wedding?â
It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesnât even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.
âI wasnât goinâ to come at first,â comes his admittance. You canât say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. âNearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellinâ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.â
A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. Thereâs a desire to have his full attention on you. Thereâs also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?
âHe said Iâve been livinâ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchinâ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.â
INTERLUDE â go your own way
Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.
No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend youâre simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, thereâs no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.
The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.
âThinkinâ timeâs up, sweetheart,â his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. Itâs not your place to think about them anymore. âWhere are you goinâ?â
Decision has never been something youâve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.
You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldnât, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?
You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?
A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like youâve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you werenât expecting.
âWhat do you think I should do?â You donât want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.
âYou canât ask that of me. My answerâs gonna be nothinâ but selfish.â Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. âI can say this, though⊠Your fianceâs a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchinâ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ainât just your weddinâ, itâs his too.â
Heâs right, and you hate it.
Thereâs no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.
The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if heâll still have you. With him, youâve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.
Besides, thatâs what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.
With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, âdrive me back to him, Jack.â
The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the carâs course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths youâve already travelled.
You tell yourself youâre doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldnât be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?
A yawn escapes you.
âWeâre a few hours out from the chateau.â Thereâs something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. âSleep, itâs late.â
âArenât you tired?â Pull over, you want to say. Letâs sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.
How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.
One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.
âIâm fine. Donât sleep much these days anyway,â the sound of Jackâs voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. âNever got used to the feeling of an empty bed.â
TRACK 5 â iâm on fire
When your eyes next open, the sunâs warmth is caressing your face.
The sound of childrenâs laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jackâs shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.
Thereâs no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hatâs back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Broncoâs been replaced with the view of your parentâs backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.
You know this memory.
Youâve lived this memory.
âHey, sleepyhead,â just like you remember, Jackâs stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. âHow you feelinâ?â
âLike my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,â your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.
âThat good, huh?â A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jackâs free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. âGot these off your mother. Let me go get you somethinâ to eat, then you can take two, hm?â
You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then heâs off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.
Jackâs always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, itâs unnoticeable, but you donât miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. Heâs desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,Â
âEat up, drink up, you need it,â he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. âYour old man was sayinâ we should probably head off soon, âfore it gets too late. Think heâs startinâ to warm up to me, heâs even worryinâ bout me drivinâ in the dark.â
âOh, he loves you,â you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. âHe kept looking for you at the dinner table at my momâs birthday, you shouldâve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.â
Months later, youâd come to find out he wasnât in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.
In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.
âWhat? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?â Youâd asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. âWait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?â
âI love you.â
No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.
He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what theyâre wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time youâd heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. Thereâs a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.
âBless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryinâ all cause old Jack says-â
âTell me now baby, is he good to you?â
You jolt awake.
Jackâs by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.
âYou were mumblinâ in your sleep. Were you dreaminâ of somethinâ sweet?â
âI was,â too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesnât involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. âAbout the first time my fiance told me he loves me.â
You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. âWell, câmon, donât go keepinâ it to yourself!â
âHe, uh, wrote it in the sky.â
âHow romantic. Pricey too, I bet.â
âIt was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.â
As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You donât remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.
It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.
âJeez, if thatâs how heâs tellinâ you he loves you, I canât imagine how he proposed.â
You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life youâd gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love.
âIn a restaurant,â you canât remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesnât belong to you, never belonged to you. âI ordered dessert, âwill you marry me?â was written on it in cherry sauce.â
âYou mustâve said yes immediately.â
âI did.â
You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.Â
After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?
TRACK 6 â sheâs always a woman
It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.
It wasnât his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites youâd drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.
The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when heâd catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, heâd throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.
In the present, itâs you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.
âYou were right, in the letters,â the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. âIâm sorry.â
âRight about what?â As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and heâs letting you go, setting you free.
You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.
âI couldnât be with Agent Whiskey anymore.â A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. âI didnât want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didnât want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if youâd ever come back. Then, when Tequila⊠You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?â
âDarlinâ if you think thereâs any world where losinâ you was easier than losinâ Whiskey, youâre out of your mind.â Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing heâd turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.
Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything youâve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.
50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.Â
âIâm hungry.â
âThose energy bars should still be in there, if youâre wantinâ-â
âJack, Iâm hungry,â you say it louder, hoping heâll pick up what youâre laying down.âCanât we stop somewhere for breakfast?â
His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. âIf it had been me waitinâ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?â
You try to picture it.
Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when youâd been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?
Would you have ran?
âItâs not something I planned, yâknow? Running. I didnât think it was even an option,â youâre laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. Youâre unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. âI took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. Thatâs why I ran. I couldnât⊠marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.â
âYouâve not answered my question,â itâs the first youâve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. âWould you have ran?â
âNo.â
Jack just keeps driving.
TRACK 7 â dancing in the dark
âYou canât be serious!â
Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.
The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterdayâs make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares youâd gained in your wrinkled gown.
âDeadly. Iâm a serious tap-dancinâ student,â his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. âRetirement breeds weird hobbies.â
âBefore long, youâll be playing bingo at the old folks home.â
âI just have to ask, I really do,â a dread you havenât felt since stepping out the carâ with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door openâ creeps back in. You donât want to talk about your own current reality, not when itâs been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, youâre simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. âThis fiance of yours⊠is he bigger than me?â
As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.Â
âOh my god, Jack!â You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.
âWhat?â
âYou did not just ask me that.â
âOh, but I did.â
âYou canât just say things like that!â In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. âBut, no, he isnât bigger. Happy?â
âYouâve no idea.â As though youâre being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. Youâre not the only one who takes notice, Jackâs eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. âThink thatâs our queue, darlinâ.â
âSit back down.â
âOh, câmon now, donât be so uptight,â he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. âOne dance, sweetheart, then Iâll leave you in peace.â
Just like your younger self, youâre incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before itâs too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you werenât deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.
âThis song was playinâ when we met,â he says it like you donât know, like you donât remember, like you arenât replaying that night as you speak, pretending youâre both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love youâll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware youâre dancing on borrowed time and, soon, youâll have to go. âKnowinâ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, Iâd still ask you to dance. Iâd do it all again.â
âThis gunâs for hire, even if weâre justâŠâ
He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. Itâs far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.
The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jackâ even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at youâ feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you canât help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.
The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jackâs mouth lands atop yours.
A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winterâs day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing youâre exactly where you belong.
And itâs absolutely terrifying.
You rip away from him, flashes of your fianceâs face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.
You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.
Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. Itâs almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.
A knock rings against the door.Â
Itâs followed by a gentle call of your name.
You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, youâll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.
Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.
He calls your name again.
âDarlinâ,â itâs muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. âI just got caught up, Iâm sorry. Come on out and weâll get back on the road-â
The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jackâs tie before you can will yourself to be rational.
He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. Thereâs a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.
All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jackâs quick to rectify it.
âWatch, darlinâ,â he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. â Want you to see how perfectly your lilâ pussy takes me.â
You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last. Â
âHe canât fuck you like this, can he?â Despite his ego-fueled words, thereâs a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. âTell me he canât.â
He canât, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.
Any minute now, you worry, someoneâs going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.
âFuckinâ made for me, meant for me,â both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. âMy sweet girl.â
An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.
âIâm sorry,â his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. Thereâs a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry. I love you, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry I love you.â
âItâs okay, Jack,â you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.
TRACK 8 â hit the road jack
The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.
A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isnât cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.
âI hope you get your happy ending,â the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that itâs the last time youâll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. âNo one deserves it more than you, Jack.â
âNo promises, darlinâ,â he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.
The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why youâre here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. âIâll see you inside, right?â
The boot slams shut, and itâs an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head thatâs shaking no.
âThe mighty fool that I am, thinkinâ I could stomach watchinâ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours⊠well, I guess I just ainât ready to hit play yet.â A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you donât need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. âGoâon, get! Thereâs a good man in there, waitinâ to give you everythinâ you deserve.â
Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.
Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jackâs engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.
âHit the road, Jack, and donât you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!â
Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driverâs seat, you share one last laugh.
OUTRO â everywhere
âThank god youâre okay.â
Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.
On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.
You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, âhow bad is the damage?â
âWe told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think youâve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think thatâs justified for the bruising youâve given my ego.â
âSanti,â the shape of your fianceâs name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you canât say it in full. âIâm so sorry-â
âDonât be, what matters is youâre here now.â
Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.
But to you, his arms just feel like a cage youâve lost the key for. âWhy did you ask me to marry you?â
âI donât know. We just⊠make sense.â
âWe do,â you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. âBut is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?â You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. âDo you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I donât think you do, and I donât think I love you like that either.â
Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.
The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though youâre racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.
âWhen you didnât walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.â
âI just fucked my ex in a bathroom!â In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. âGod, weâre a mess.â
âWait, the cowboyâs your ex? I shouldâve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.â Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. Thereâs a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. âWhat car is it the cowboy drives?â
âA Bronco.â
âWell, you might wanna hurry, because heâs just pulling out of the parking bays.â Itâs more than just a warning. Itâs a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find thereâs no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. âGo, before itâs too late! Iâll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way thatâs heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.â
Thereâs more you want to say, but nowâs not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now youâre too busy rushing to the door.
A call of your name comes when youâve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.Â
Goodbye.
âPromise me one thing.â
âAnything.â
âDonât invite me to your wedding.â
You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jackâs car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.
Donât speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.
âJack!â You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, heâll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. âWait!â
The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he canât trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find heâs already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat youâve always belonged in: by his side.
He canât seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.
âDrive, jack,â you finally proclaim, asking him what you shouldâve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.
âWhere to, darlinâ?â
âAnywhere, everywhere!â You canât help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. âIt doesnât matter, as long as Iâm with you, all roads lead home.â
Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.
âOh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.â
bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!
this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.
this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!
something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.
okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday đ«Ą
if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !
fun ( to no one but literally me ) fact, i actually wrote the first draft of this fic in script format, in an attempt to practice writing like that, so i'm feeling a little giddy at the fact the fic still has a cinematic vibe. thank you so much for reading + reblogging my fic <33
pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader
synopsis. the last time you sat in jackâs infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, youâre sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and heâs driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared?
warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's.
word count. 14.7k
hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event.
if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.
INTRO â silver springs.
âTime cast a spell on you, but you wonât forget me.â
Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitressâ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.
Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes youâve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.
You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out whatâs next. What youâll do, where youâll go, how youâll get there. The elderly couple whoâd been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.
It wasnât a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes youâve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. Itâs not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.
You wonder if any of them know youâre not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.
Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. Itâs been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.
The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesnât know how. Maybe she wants to ask if youâre okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave.Â
The bell above the door rings as it opens. Itâs been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. Sheâd not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You canât imagine itâs the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.
A sip from your coffee. Itâs as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If youâd only stayed at the venue, youâd be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and⊠had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You canât remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.
In retrospect, youâd disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-lawâs chagrin. So out sheâd gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.
Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitressâ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.
A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.
âAre you lost, sweetheart?â The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, heâs a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. Heâs brown-eyed affection. Heâs an aquiline nose. Heâs a well-groomed moustache. Heâs Jack. âThink itâs a few miles up north theyâre expecting a pretty bride.â
Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat youâd never failed to spot amongst any crowd. Thereâs a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world.Â
An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.
He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.
âYouâve worried a lot of people, darlilnâ,â his gaze studies you. You wonder if itâs the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. âRunninâ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know youâre alright.â
Your dad. Heâd slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise heâd be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jackâs words catch up to you.
He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.
Jack was at the wedding.
âWhat happened?â His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. âWhyâd you run?â You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. âYou gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?â
Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. Thereâs a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if heâs the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. Thereâd been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.
âA glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how âbout somethinâ to please a sweet tooth, hm?â His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. âSpied a pretty mean lookinâ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlinâ?â Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. âThink sheâs gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!â
The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.
âYou shouldnât drink and drive.â
Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. âDidn't order it for me,â he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. âEat up, drink up. You need it.â
Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden itâs as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isnât so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.
âHow did you find me?âÂ
âYou doubtinâ my skills?â Heâs teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. âI stopped at a gas station. Runninâ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ainât on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkinâ about some bride sittinâ at a dinner a few miles down. Donât take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was youâ
âOh.â
You shouldnât feel disappointed by his answer, thereâs no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.
The last youâd seen of Jack was through your carâs rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. Heâd begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. Youâd been the one to declare it useless.
âThis isnât something we can fix, Jack!â
âBut, darlinâ, I love you.â
âA happy coincidence, I was lookinâ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me whatâs goinâ on inside that head of yours yet?â At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. âLook, I mean well when I say this, but darlinâ, youâre lookinâ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.â His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. âSo hereâs whatâs gonna happen. Iâm gonna take a trip to the gents, then Iâm gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then weâre gettinâ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.â
Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.
âWhere are we going?â
âFor a drive, sweetheart.â
TRACK 1 â vienna
You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.
An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, thatâs what heâd claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, youâd tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.
One dance led to unimaginable love.
As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the carâs leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girlsâ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle.Â
The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.
The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.
Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.
âDâyou remember our trip to Vienna?â
Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how youâd fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driverâs seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the lightâs already green, Jack!
âHow could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peterâs church?â
âHey, now darlinâ, letâs not start playinâ the blame game!â His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how youâve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. âYou knew what you were doinâ wearinâ that pretty little sundress.â
The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, youâd caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.
âI still dream of the gardenâs at Schönbrunn Palace,â a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man youâd imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.
If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? Heâd asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.
Promise me weâll get married here, and Iâll consider it.
âI still have nightmares of the boat.â
âThe boat!â The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. âI still canât believe you fell off it!â
âI jumped.â
âBackwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!â
âI jumped, to make you laugh!â
âOh, donât worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!â
A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldnât be the first time heâs visited your dreams.
You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction.Â
âSometimes I wish weâd never left Vienna.â
His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.
All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. Youâre just stressed, darlinâ, heâd said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. Iâm sorry, I canât be with you. Not anymore.
âYeah,â you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. âMe too.â
In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.
TRACK 2 â purple rain
A perfect summerâs storm.
Mother natureâs mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for whatâs yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the carâs roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.
âYouâve not bought any new albums? None at all?â The question comes as you flip through Jackâs collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time youâd sat in his car.
This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. Heâs always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home youâd once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.
âNothinâ new sinceâŠâ His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. âYou were always the one buyinâ me music. Said you didnât want me get-â
âGetting bored on missions,â impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. âI remember.â
It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jackâs job came up.
On your first date, heâd told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos heâd send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.Â
Then, out came the truth.
A phone call from one of Jackâs co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jackâs been shot.
A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.
You couldâve died, Jack.
Now how could I go dyinâ, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?
You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.
Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, youâd tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. Heâd gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.
I promise Iâll always come home to you safe.
âDonât need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,â Jackâs impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. Itâs like he knows what youâre thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. âShit, they even got Princ-â
âStop the car.â
âHuh?â
âJust pull over, Jack!â
Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. Thereâs a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, itâs easy to forget this is the first time youâve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you werenât willing to give.
Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself thatâs sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.
Under the storm's wrath, youâre reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that theyâll mix with the rain and be swept away.
Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. Youâre unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.
âHeaven to Betsy, darlinâ!â Jackâs hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. âDidâya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takinâ a leak?â
You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and youâre suddenly so aware of how close you both are.
Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? Itâs not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.
But youâre not a married woman, are you?
Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.
âCareful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Donât go givinâ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.â His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest heâs willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.
Heâs stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.Â
Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Princeâs voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.
âYouâre lucky I got spare clothes in the back,â Jackâs voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think heâs not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. âAinât no hope in hell Iâd let you in my car, all drippinâ wet.â
âYou never used to complain about me being wet in your car.â
Itâs a quickfire response, the kind you donât quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the carâs roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.
You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jackâs already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.
âCanât just be sayinâ things like that, darlinâ,â he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. âNot unless youâre tryinâ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.â
In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dressâ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.
âJack,â it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner youâll be changed, and the sooner youâll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, âcome help me out my dress.â
No reply comes your way.
At first, you think heâs not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that youâve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.
Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrensâ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.
Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.
âI used to dream about doinâ this someday.â
âI think we both know this isnât the first time youâve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.â
âIs your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?â A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. âI meant that I dreamt about this, me helpinâ you take your weddinâ dress off.â
Thereâs an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin heâd once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.
Your dress falls to the floor.
ââCourse I never thought Iâd be doinâ it on the side of the road, but beggars canât be choosers.â
TRACK 3 â lover you shouldâve come over
âWait, are these pyjama pants?â
The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look atâ besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seatâ youâve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing heâd handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne youâd bought Jack on your last anniversary. Heâs paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.
âTook myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasinâ after a view of the Northern Lights.â Thereâs a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember thatâs what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. âI was livinâ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure youâll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.â
He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what heâs referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.
Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jackâs own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.
âI forgot those were in there.â He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. Youâd known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. âYou can read âem, if you want. They were written for you anyway.â
Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find thereâs no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars heâd promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.
One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.
Itâs your old address.
âTheyâre all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasnât sure where youâd moved to, I figured there was a chance youâd gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,â he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home youâd made for yourself since moving out of your parentâs place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. âWrote the second one because you didnât reply, and I was missinâ you. Then I just kept writinâ em, and sendinâ em, and waitinâ on you writinâ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasnât from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me theyâd been keepinâ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writinâ to a ghost.â
Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal thatâs slightly opened at the edges, the glueâs hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.
I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how youâre doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didnât know about the break up. I told them you werenât feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.
You feel as though youâre invading his privacy, reading over words heâd written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesnât mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.
Or maybe I wonât have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, youâll have come home. Thereâs still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasnât something we can fix. I think youâre wrong. Thereâs never been an issue we couldnât solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Letâs get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know itâs something you want, that Iâm something you still want.Â
Jackâs quiet in the driverâs seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.
You return to his letters, the second heâd sent already open in your palm.
I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what Iâd done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isnât just that Iâve lost you, itâs that I donât even know why.
You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.
I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.
Eggsy and Tilde got married. Itâs the first wedding Iâve been to without you. Iâm doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? Iâm not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and sheâs beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, sheâs nothing.
Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didnât want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew youâd get it. Iâm so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard youâve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I donât want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure youâre safe. The guyâs got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? Iâm not.Â
Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.
This last one, you read the letter in full.
Darling girl,
Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. Iâve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.
I visited Tequila last week. I donât know if itâs right to call him that anymore. Champâs still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. Thatâs not what Tequila wouldâve wanted. He wouldâve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds heâs on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didnât say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.
You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day mustâve been for you. Weâd just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequilaâs wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I couldâve been the one who didnât come home to the woman I love.
Iâm sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. Iâm agent Whiskey no more. Iâm coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.
Love always,
your Jack.
âYour wedding invitation found me first,â Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.
The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.
The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.
âI didnât invite you,â youâre unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think youâd be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day youâd once promised to share together. âI didnât invite anyone. I was⊠busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she mustâve written you down by accident.â
Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your motherâs always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.
âYeah,â Jack sighs out from the driverâs seat, resignation in his voice. âI figured you didnât invite me.â
TRACK 4 â 50 ways to leave your lover
Jack drives deeper into the night.
Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlierâs storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. Thereâs no discussion of destination, no sanctuary youâre waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you donât have to take the wheel, you donât have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.
Itâs just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.
âAsk me,â permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. âI can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise Iâll answer this time.â
âI guess Iâm tryinâ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runninâ through that pretty head of yours,â Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, heâs let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. âHowâd you do it?â
âI just slipped out the back, Jack,â thereâs a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jackâs chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. âSomeone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and thatâs where I stayed until-â
âUntil I found you,â itâs a reminder you shouldnât want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. Itâs not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You canât help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconsciousâ joy. âWhy did you run away?â
Your smile fades.
The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought thereâd be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.
Why did you run away?
You know the answer. Of course youâve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you canât change the truth. That doesnât mean youâre ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: âWhy did you come to the wedding?â
It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesnât even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.
âI wasnât goinâ to come at first,â comes his admittance. You canât say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. âNearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellinâ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.â
A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. Thereâs a desire to have his full attention on you. Thereâs also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?
âHe said Iâve been livinâ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchinâ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.â
INTERLUDE â go your own way
Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.
No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend youâre simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, thereâs no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.
The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.
âThinkinâ timeâs up, sweetheart,â his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. Itâs not your place to think about them anymore. âWhere are you goinâ?â
Decision has never been something youâve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.
You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldnât, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?
You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?
A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like youâve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you werenât expecting.
âWhat do you think I should do?â You donât want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.
âYou canât ask that of me. My answerâs gonna be nothinâ but selfish.â Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. âI can say this, though⊠Your fianceâs a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchinâ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ainât just your weddinâ, itâs his too.â
Heâs right, and you hate it.
Thereâs no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.
The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if heâll still have you. With him, youâve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.
Besides, thatâs what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.
With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, âdrive me back to him, Jack.â
The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the carâs course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths youâve already travelled.
You tell yourself youâre doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldnât be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?
A yawn escapes you.
âWeâre a few hours out from the chateau.â Thereâs something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. âSleep, itâs late.â
âArenât you tired?â Pull over, you want to say. Letâs sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.
How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.
One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.
âIâm fine. Donât sleep much these days anyway,â the sound of Jackâs voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. âNever got used to the feeling of an empty bed.â
TRACK 5 â iâm on fire
When your eyes next open, the sunâs warmth is caressing your face.
The sound of childrenâs laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jackâs shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.
Thereâs no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hatâs back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Broncoâs been replaced with the view of your parentâs backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.
You know this memory.
Youâve lived this memory.
âHey, sleepyhead,â just like you remember, Jackâs stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. âHow you feelinâ?â
âLike my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,â your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.
âThat good, huh?â A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jackâs free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. âGot these off your mother. Let me go get you somethinâ to eat, then you can take two, hm?â
You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then heâs off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.
Jackâs always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, itâs unnoticeable, but you donât miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. Heâs desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,Â
âEat up, drink up, you need it,â he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. âYour old man was sayinâ we should probably head off soon, âfore it gets too late. Think heâs startinâ to warm up to me, heâs even worryinâ bout me drivinâ in the dark.â
âOh, he loves you,â you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. âHe kept looking for you at the dinner table at my momâs birthday, you shouldâve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.â
Months later, youâd come to find out he wasnât in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.
In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.
âWhat? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?â Youâd asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. âWait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?â
âI love you.â
No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.
He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what theyâre wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time youâd heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. Thereâs a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.
âBless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryinâ all cause old Jack says-â
âTell me now baby, is he good to you?â
You jolt awake.
Jackâs by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.
âYou were mumblinâ in your sleep. Were you dreaminâ of somethinâ sweet?â
âI was,â too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesnât involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. âAbout the first time my fiance told me he loves me.â
You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. âWell, câmon, donât go keepinâ it to yourself!â
âHe, uh, wrote it in the sky.â
âHow romantic. Pricey too, I bet.â
âIt was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.â
As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You donât remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.
It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.
âJeez, if thatâs how heâs tellinâ you he loves you, I canât imagine how he proposed.â
You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life youâd gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love.
âIn a restaurant,â you canât remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesnât belong to you, never belonged to you. âI ordered dessert, âwill you marry me?â was written on it in cherry sauce.â
âYou mustâve said yes immediately.â
âI did.â
You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.Â
After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?
TRACK 6 â sheâs always a woman
It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.
It wasnât his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites youâd drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.
The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when heâd catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, heâd throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.
In the present, itâs you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.
âYou were right, in the letters,â the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. âIâm sorry.â
âRight about what?â As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and heâs letting you go, setting you free.
You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.
âI couldnât be with Agent Whiskey anymore.â A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. âI didnât want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didnât want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if youâd ever come back. Then, when Tequila⊠You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?â
âDarlinâ if you think thereâs any world where losinâ you was easier than losinâ Whiskey, youâre out of your mind.â Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing heâd turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.
Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything youâve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.
50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.Â
âIâm hungry.â
âThose energy bars should still be in there, if youâre wantinâ-â
âJack, Iâm hungry,â you say it louder, hoping heâll pick up what youâre laying down.âCanât we stop somewhere for breakfast?â
His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. âIf it had been me waitinâ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?â
You try to picture it.
Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when youâd been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?
Would you have ran?
âItâs not something I planned, yâknow? Running. I didnât think it was even an option,â youâre laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. Youâre unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. âI took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. Thatâs why I ran. I couldnât⊠marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.â
âYouâve not answered my question,â itâs the first youâve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. âWould you have ran?â
âNo.â
Jack just keeps driving.
TRACK 7 â dancing in the dark
âYou canât be serious!â
Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.
The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterdayâs make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares youâd gained in your wrinkled gown.
âDeadly. Iâm a serious tap-dancinâ student,â his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. âRetirement breeds weird hobbies.â
âBefore long, youâll be playing bingo at the old folks home.â
âI just have to ask, I really do,â a dread you havenât felt since stepping out the carâ with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door openâ creeps back in. You donât want to talk about your own current reality, not when itâs been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, youâre simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. âThis fiance of yours⊠is he bigger than me?â
As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.Â
âOh my god, Jack!â You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.
âWhat?â
âYou did not just ask me that.â
âOh, but I did.â
âYou canât just say things like that!â In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. âBut, no, he isnât bigger. Happy?â
âYouâve no idea.â As though youâre being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. Youâre not the only one who takes notice, Jackâs eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. âThink thatâs our queue, darlinâ.â
âSit back down.â
âOh, câmon now, donât be so uptight,â he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. âOne dance, sweetheart, then Iâll leave you in peace.â
Just like your younger self, youâre incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before itâs too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you werenât deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.
âThis song was playinâ when we met,â he says it like you donât know, like you donât remember, like you arenât replaying that night as you speak, pretending youâre both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love youâll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware youâre dancing on borrowed time and, soon, youâll have to go. âKnowinâ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, Iâd still ask you to dance. Iâd do it all again.â
âThis gunâs for hire, even if weâre justâŠâ
He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. Itâs far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.
The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jackâ even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at youâ feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you canât help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.
The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jackâs mouth lands atop yours.
A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winterâs day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing youâre exactly where you belong.
And itâs absolutely terrifying.
You rip away from him, flashes of your fianceâs face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.
You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.
Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. Itâs almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.
A knock rings against the door.Â
Itâs followed by a gentle call of your name.
You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, youâll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.
Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.
He calls your name again.
âDarlinâ,â itâs muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. âI just got caught up, Iâm sorry. Come on out and weâll get back on the road-â
The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jackâs tie before you can will yourself to be rational.
He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. Thereâs a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.
All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jackâs quick to rectify it.
âWatch, darlinâ,â he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. â Want you to see how perfectly your lilâ pussy takes me.â
You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last. Â
âHe canât fuck you like this, can he?â Despite his ego-fueled words, thereâs a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. âTell me he canât.â
He canât, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.
Any minute now, you worry, someoneâs going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.
âFuckinâ made for me, meant for me,â both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. âMy sweet girl.â
An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.
âIâm sorry,â his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. Thereâs a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry. I love you, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry I love you.â
âItâs okay, Jack,â you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.
TRACK 8 â hit the road jack
The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.
A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isnât cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.
âI hope you get your happy ending,â the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that itâs the last time youâll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. âNo one deserves it more than you, Jack.â
âNo promises, darlinâ,â he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.
The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why youâre here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. âIâll see you inside, right?â
The boot slams shut, and itâs an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head thatâs shaking no.
âThe mighty fool that I am, thinkinâ I could stomach watchinâ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours⊠well, I guess I just ainât ready to hit play yet.â A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you donât need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. âGoâon, get! Thereâs a good man in there, waitinâ to give you everythinâ you deserve.â
Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.
Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jackâs engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.
âHit the road, Jack, and donât you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!â
Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driverâs seat, you share one last laugh.
OUTRO â everywhere
âThank god youâre okay.â
Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.
On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.
You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, âhow bad is the damage?â
âWe told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think youâve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think thatâs justified for the bruising youâve given my ego.â
âSanti,â the shape of your fianceâs name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you canât say it in full. âIâm so sorry-â
âDonât be, what matters is youâre here now.â
Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.
But to you, his arms just feel like a cage youâve lost the key for. âWhy did you ask me to marry you?â
âI donât know. We just⊠make sense.â
âWe do,â you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. âBut is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?â You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. âDo you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I donât think you do, and I donât think I love you like that either.â
Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.
The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though youâre racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.
âWhen you didnât walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.â
âI just fucked my ex in a bathroom!â In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. âGod, weâre a mess.â
âWait, the cowboyâs your ex? I shouldâve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.â Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. Thereâs a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. âWhat car is it the cowboy drives?â
âA Bronco.â
âWell, you might wanna hurry, because heâs just pulling out of the parking bays.â Itâs more than just a warning. Itâs a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find thereâs no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. âGo, before itâs too late! Iâll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way thatâs heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.â
Thereâs more you want to say, but nowâs not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now youâre too busy rushing to the door.
A call of your name comes when youâve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.Â
Goodbye.
âPromise me one thing.â
âAnything.â
âDonât invite me to your wedding.â
You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jackâs car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.
Donât speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.
âJack!â You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, heâll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. âWait!â
The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he canât trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find heâs already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat youâve always belonged in: by his side.
He canât seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.
âDrive, jack,â you finally proclaim, asking him what you shouldâve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.
âWhere to, darlinâ?â
âAnywhere, everywhere!â You canât help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. âIt doesnât matter, as long as Iâm with you, all roads lead home.â
Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.
âOh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.â
bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!
this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.
this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!
something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.
okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday đ«Ą
if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !
i was so nervous when writing for jack, so i'm really relieved to be told i did him justice ! and yes, i couldn't help but make santi her fiance, he just fit in so perfectly đ€ thank you for taking the time to read my fic, i appreciate it <33
pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader
synopsis. the last time you sat in jackâs infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, youâre sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and heâs driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared?
warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's.
word count. 14.7k
hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event.
if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.
INTRO â silver springs.
âTime cast a spell on you, but you wonât forget me.â
Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitressâ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.
Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes youâve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.
You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out whatâs next. What youâll do, where youâll go, how youâll get there. The elderly couple whoâd been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.
It wasnât a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes youâve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. Itâs not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.
You wonder if any of them know youâre not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.
Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. Itâs been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.
The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesnât know how. Maybe she wants to ask if youâre okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave.Â
The bell above the door rings as it opens. Itâs been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. Sheâd not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You canât imagine itâs the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.
A sip from your coffee. Itâs as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If youâd only stayed at the venue, youâd be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and⊠had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You canât remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.
In retrospect, youâd disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-lawâs chagrin. So out sheâd gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.
Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitressâ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.
A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.
âAre you lost, sweetheart?â The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, heâs a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. Heâs brown-eyed affection. Heâs an aquiline nose. Heâs a well-groomed moustache. Heâs Jack. âThink itâs a few miles up north theyâre expecting a pretty bride.â
Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat youâd never failed to spot amongst any crowd. Thereâs a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world.Â
An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.
He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.
âYouâve worried a lot of people, darlilnâ,â his gaze studies you. You wonder if itâs the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. âRunninâ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know youâre alright.â
Your dad. Heâd slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise heâd be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jackâs words catch up to you.
He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.
Jack was at the wedding.
âWhat happened?â His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. âWhyâd you run?â You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. âYou gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?â
Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. Thereâs a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if heâs the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. Thereâd been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.
âA glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how âbout somethinâ to please a sweet tooth, hm?â His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. âSpied a pretty mean lookinâ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlinâ?â Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. âThink sheâs gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!â
The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.
âYou shouldnât drink and drive.â
Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. âDidn't order it for me,â he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. âEat up, drink up. You need it.â
Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden itâs as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isnât so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.
âHow did you find me?âÂ
âYou doubtinâ my skills?â Heâs teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. âI stopped at a gas station. Runninâ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ainât on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkinâ about some bride sittinâ at a dinner a few miles down. Donât take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was youâ
âOh.â
You shouldnât feel disappointed by his answer, thereâs no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.
The last youâd seen of Jack was through your carâs rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. Heâd begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. Youâd been the one to declare it useless.
âThis isnât something we can fix, Jack!â
âBut, darlinâ, I love you.â
âA happy coincidence, I was lookinâ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me whatâs goinâ on inside that head of yours yet?â At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. âLook, I mean well when I say this, but darlinâ, youâre lookinâ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.â His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. âSo hereâs whatâs gonna happen. Iâm gonna take a trip to the gents, then Iâm gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then weâre gettinâ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.â
Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.
âWhere are we going?â
âFor a drive, sweetheart.â
TRACK 1 â vienna
You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.
An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, thatâs what heâd claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, youâd tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.
One dance led to unimaginable love.
As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the carâs leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girlsâ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle.Â
The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.
The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.
Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.
âDâyou remember our trip to Vienna?â
Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how youâd fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driverâs seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the lightâs already green, Jack!
âHow could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peterâs church?â
âHey, now darlinâ, letâs not start playinâ the blame game!â His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how youâve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. âYou knew what you were doinâ wearinâ that pretty little sundress.â
The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, youâd caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.
âI still dream of the gardenâs at Schönbrunn Palace,â a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man youâd imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.
If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? Heâd asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.
Promise me weâll get married here, and Iâll consider it.
âI still have nightmares of the boat.â
âThe boat!â The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. âI still canât believe you fell off it!â
âI jumped.â
âBackwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!â
âI jumped, to make you laugh!â
âOh, donât worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!â
A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldnât be the first time heâs visited your dreams.
You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction.Â
âSometimes I wish weâd never left Vienna.â
His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.
All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. Youâre just stressed, darlinâ, heâd said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. Iâm sorry, I canât be with you. Not anymore.
âYeah,â you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. âMe too.â
In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.
TRACK 2 â purple rain
A perfect summerâs storm.
Mother natureâs mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for whatâs yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the carâs roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.
âYouâve not bought any new albums? None at all?â The question comes as you flip through Jackâs collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time youâd sat in his car.
This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. Heâs always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home youâd once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.
âNothinâ new sinceâŠâ His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. âYou were always the one buyinâ me music. Said you didnât want me get-â
âGetting bored on missions,â impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. âI remember.â
It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jackâs job came up.
On your first date, heâd told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos heâd send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.Â
Then, out came the truth.
A phone call from one of Jackâs co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jackâs been shot.
A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.
You couldâve died, Jack.
Now how could I go dyinâ, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?
You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.
Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, youâd tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. Heâd gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.
I promise Iâll always come home to you safe.
âDonât need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,â Jackâs impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. Itâs like he knows what youâre thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. âShit, they even got Princ-â
âStop the car.â
âHuh?â
âJust pull over, Jack!â
Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. Thereâs a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, itâs easy to forget this is the first time youâve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you werenât willing to give.
Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself thatâs sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.
Under the storm's wrath, youâre reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that theyâll mix with the rain and be swept away.
Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. Youâre unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.
âHeaven to Betsy, darlinâ!â Jackâs hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. âDidâya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takinâ a leak?â
You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and youâre suddenly so aware of how close you both are.
Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? Itâs not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.
But youâre not a married woman, are you?
Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.
âCareful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Donât go givinâ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.â His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest heâs willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.
Heâs stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.Â
Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Princeâs voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.
âYouâre lucky I got spare clothes in the back,â Jackâs voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think heâs not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. âAinât no hope in hell Iâd let you in my car, all drippinâ wet.â
âYou never used to complain about me being wet in your car.â
Itâs a quickfire response, the kind you donât quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the carâs roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.
You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jackâs already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.
âCanât just be sayinâ things like that, darlinâ,â he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. âNot unless youâre tryinâ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.â
In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dressâ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.
âJack,â it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner youâll be changed, and the sooner youâll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, âcome help me out my dress.â
No reply comes your way.
At first, you think heâs not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that youâve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.
Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrensâ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.
Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.
âI used to dream about doinâ this someday.â
âI think we both know this isnât the first time youâve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.â
âIs your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?â A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. âI meant that I dreamt about this, me helpinâ you take your weddinâ dress off.â
Thereâs an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin heâd once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.
Your dress falls to the floor.
ââCourse I never thought Iâd be doinâ it on the side of the road, but beggars canât be choosers.â
TRACK 3 â lover you shouldâve come over
âWait, are these pyjama pants?â
The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look atâ besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seatâ youâve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing heâd handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne youâd bought Jack on your last anniversary. Heâs paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.
âTook myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasinâ after a view of the Northern Lights.â Thereâs a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember thatâs what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. âI was livinâ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure youâll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.â
He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what heâs referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.
Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jackâs own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.
âI forgot those were in there.â He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. Youâd known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. âYou can read âem, if you want. They were written for you anyway.â
Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find thereâs no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars heâd promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.
One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.
Itâs your old address.
âTheyâre all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasnât sure where youâd moved to, I figured there was a chance youâd gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,â he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home youâd made for yourself since moving out of your parentâs place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. âWrote the second one because you didnât reply, and I was missinâ you. Then I just kept writinâ em, and sendinâ em, and waitinâ on you writinâ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasnât from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me theyâd been keepinâ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writinâ to a ghost.â
Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal thatâs slightly opened at the edges, the glueâs hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.
I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how youâre doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didnât know about the break up. I told them you werenât feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.
You feel as though youâre invading his privacy, reading over words heâd written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesnât mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.
Or maybe I wonât have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, youâll have come home. Thereâs still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasnât something we can fix. I think youâre wrong. Thereâs never been an issue we couldnât solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Letâs get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know itâs something you want, that Iâm something you still want.Â
Jackâs quiet in the driverâs seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.
You return to his letters, the second heâd sent already open in your palm.
I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what Iâd done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isnât just that Iâve lost you, itâs that I donât even know why.
You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.
I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.
Eggsy and Tilde got married. Itâs the first wedding Iâve been to without you. Iâm doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? Iâm not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and sheâs beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, sheâs nothing.
Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didnât want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew youâd get it. Iâm so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard youâve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I donât want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure youâre safe. The guyâs got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? Iâm not.Â
Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.
This last one, you read the letter in full.
Darling girl,
Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. Iâve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.
I visited Tequila last week. I donât know if itâs right to call him that anymore. Champâs still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. Thatâs not what Tequila wouldâve wanted. He wouldâve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds heâs on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didnât say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.
You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day mustâve been for you. Weâd just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequilaâs wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I couldâve been the one who didnât come home to the woman I love.
Iâm sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. Iâm agent Whiskey no more. Iâm coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.
Love always,
your Jack.
âYour wedding invitation found me first,â Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.
The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.
The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.
âI didnât invite you,â youâre unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think youâd be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day youâd once promised to share together. âI didnât invite anyone. I was⊠busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she mustâve written you down by accident.â
Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your motherâs always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.
âYeah,â Jack sighs out from the driverâs seat, resignation in his voice. âI figured you didnât invite me.â
TRACK 4 â 50 ways to leave your lover
Jack drives deeper into the night.
Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlierâs storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. Thereâs no discussion of destination, no sanctuary youâre waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you donât have to take the wheel, you donât have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.
Itâs just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.
âAsk me,â permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. âI can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise Iâll answer this time.â
âI guess Iâm tryinâ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runninâ through that pretty head of yours,â Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, heâs let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. âHowâd you do it?â
âI just slipped out the back, Jack,â thereâs a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jackâs chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. âSomeone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and thatâs where I stayed until-â
âUntil I found you,â itâs a reminder you shouldnât want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. Itâs not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You canât help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconsciousâ joy. âWhy did you run away?â
Your smile fades.
The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought thereâd be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.
Why did you run away?
You know the answer. Of course youâve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you canât change the truth. That doesnât mean youâre ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: âWhy did you come to the wedding?â
It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesnât even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.
âI wasnât goinâ to come at first,â comes his admittance. You canât say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. âNearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellinâ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.â
A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. Thereâs a desire to have his full attention on you. Thereâs also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?
âHe said Iâve been livinâ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchinâ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.â
INTERLUDE â go your own way
Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.
No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend youâre simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, thereâs no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.
The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.
âThinkinâ timeâs up, sweetheart,â his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. Itâs not your place to think about them anymore. âWhere are you goinâ?â
Decision has never been something youâve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.
You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldnât, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?
You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?
A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like youâve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you werenât expecting.
âWhat do you think I should do?â You donât want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.
âYou canât ask that of me. My answerâs gonna be nothinâ but selfish.â Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. âI can say this, though⊠Your fianceâs a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchinâ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ainât just your weddinâ, itâs his too.â
Heâs right, and you hate it.
Thereâs no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.
The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if heâll still have you. With him, youâve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.
Besides, thatâs what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.
With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, âdrive me back to him, Jack.â
The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the carâs course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths youâve already travelled.
You tell yourself youâre doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldnât be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?
A yawn escapes you.
âWeâre a few hours out from the chateau.â Thereâs something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. âSleep, itâs late.â
âArenât you tired?â Pull over, you want to say. Letâs sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.
How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.
One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.
âIâm fine. Donât sleep much these days anyway,â the sound of Jackâs voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. âNever got used to the feeling of an empty bed.â
TRACK 5 â iâm on fire
When your eyes next open, the sunâs warmth is caressing your face.
The sound of childrenâs laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jackâs shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.
Thereâs no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hatâs back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Broncoâs been replaced with the view of your parentâs backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.
You know this memory.
Youâve lived this memory.
âHey, sleepyhead,â just like you remember, Jackâs stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. âHow you feelinâ?â
âLike my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,â your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.
âThat good, huh?â A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jackâs free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. âGot these off your mother. Let me go get you somethinâ to eat, then you can take two, hm?â
You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then heâs off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.
Jackâs always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, itâs unnoticeable, but you donât miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. Heâs desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,Â
âEat up, drink up, you need it,â he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. âYour old man was sayinâ we should probably head off soon, âfore it gets too late. Think heâs startinâ to warm up to me, heâs even worryinâ bout me drivinâ in the dark.â
âOh, he loves you,â you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. âHe kept looking for you at the dinner table at my momâs birthday, you shouldâve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.â
Months later, youâd come to find out he wasnât in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.
In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.
âWhat? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?â Youâd asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. âWait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?â
âI love you.â
No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.
He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what theyâre wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time youâd heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. Thereâs a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.
âBless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryinâ all cause old Jack says-â
âTell me now baby, is he good to you?â
You jolt awake.
Jackâs by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.
âYou were mumblinâ in your sleep. Were you dreaminâ of somethinâ sweet?â
âI was,â too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesnât involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. âAbout the first time my fiance told me he loves me.â
You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. âWell, câmon, donât go keepinâ it to yourself!â
âHe, uh, wrote it in the sky.â
âHow romantic. Pricey too, I bet.â
âIt was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.â
As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You donât remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.
It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.
âJeez, if thatâs how heâs tellinâ you he loves you, I canât imagine how he proposed.â
You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life youâd gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love.
âIn a restaurant,â you canât remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesnât belong to you, never belonged to you. âI ordered dessert, âwill you marry me?â was written on it in cherry sauce.â
âYou mustâve said yes immediately.â
âI did.â
You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.Â
After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?
TRACK 6 â sheâs always a woman
It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.
It wasnât his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites youâd drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.
The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when heâd catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, heâd throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.
In the present, itâs you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.
âYou were right, in the letters,â the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. âIâm sorry.â
âRight about what?â As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and heâs letting you go, setting you free.
You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.
âI couldnât be with Agent Whiskey anymore.â A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. âI didnât want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didnât want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if youâd ever come back. Then, when Tequila⊠You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?â
âDarlinâ if you think thereâs any world where losinâ you was easier than losinâ Whiskey, youâre out of your mind.â Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing heâd turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.
Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything youâve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.
50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.Â
âIâm hungry.â
âThose energy bars should still be in there, if youâre wantinâ-â
âJack, Iâm hungry,â you say it louder, hoping heâll pick up what youâre laying down.âCanât we stop somewhere for breakfast?â
His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. âIf it had been me waitinâ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?â
You try to picture it.
Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when youâd been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?
Would you have ran?
âItâs not something I planned, yâknow? Running. I didnât think it was even an option,â youâre laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. Youâre unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. âI took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. Thatâs why I ran. I couldnât⊠marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.â
âYouâve not answered my question,â itâs the first youâve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. âWould you have ran?â
âNo.â
Jack just keeps driving.
TRACK 7 â dancing in the dark
âYou canât be serious!â
Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.
The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterdayâs make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares youâd gained in your wrinkled gown.
âDeadly. Iâm a serious tap-dancinâ student,â his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. âRetirement breeds weird hobbies.â
âBefore long, youâll be playing bingo at the old folks home.â
âI just have to ask, I really do,â a dread you havenât felt since stepping out the carâ with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door openâ creeps back in. You donât want to talk about your own current reality, not when itâs been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, youâre simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. âThis fiance of yours⊠is he bigger than me?â
As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.Â
âOh my god, Jack!â You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.
âWhat?â
âYou did not just ask me that.â
âOh, but I did.â
âYou canât just say things like that!â In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. âBut, no, he isnât bigger. Happy?â
âYouâve no idea.â As though youâre being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. Youâre not the only one who takes notice, Jackâs eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. âThink thatâs our queue, darlinâ.â
âSit back down.â
âOh, câmon now, donât be so uptight,â he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. âOne dance, sweetheart, then Iâll leave you in peace.â
Just like your younger self, youâre incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before itâs too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you werenât deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.
âThis song was playinâ when we met,â he says it like you donât know, like you donât remember, like you arenât replaying that night as you speak, pretending youâre both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love youâll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware youâre dancing on borrowed time and, soon, youâll have to go. âKnowinâ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, Iâd still ask you to dance. Iâd do it all again.â
âThis gunâs for hire, even if weâre justâŠâ
He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. Itâs far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.
The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jackâ even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at youâ feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you canât help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.
The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jackâs mouth lands atop yours.
A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winterâs day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing youâre exactly where you belong.
And itâs absolutely terrifying.
You rip away from him, flashes of your fianceâs face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.
You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.
Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. Itâs almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.
A knock rings against the door.Â
Itâs followed by a gentle call of your name.
You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, youâll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.
Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.
He calls your name again.
âDarlinâ,â itâs muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. âI just got caught up, Iâm sorry. Come on out and weâll get back on the road-â
The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jackâs tie before you can will yourself to be rational.
He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. Thereâs a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.
All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jackâs quick to rectify it.
âWatch, darlinâ,â he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. â Want you to see how perfectly your lilâ pussy takes me.â
You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last. Â
âHe canât fuck you like this, can he?â Despite his ego-fueled words, thereâs a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. âTell me he canât.â
He canât, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.
Any minute now, you worry, someoneâs going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.
âFuckinâ made for me, meant for me,â both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. âMy sweet girl.â
An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.
âIâm sorry,â his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. Thereâs a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry. I love you, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry I love you.â
âItâs okay, Jack,â you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.
TRACK 8 â hit the road jack
The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.
A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isnât cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.
âI hope you get your happy ending,â the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that itâs the last time youâll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. âNo one deserves it more than you, Jack.â
âNo promises, darlinâ,â he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.
The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why youâre here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. âIâll see you inside, right?â
The boot slams shut, and itâs an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head thatâs shaking no.
âThe mighty fool that I am, thinkinâ I could stomach watchinâ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours⊠well, I guess I just ainât ready to hit play yet.â A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you donât need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. âGoâon, get! Thereâs a good man in there, waitinâ to give you everythinâ you deserve.â
Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.
Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jackâs engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.
âHit the road, Jack, and donât you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!â
Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driverâs seat, you share one last laugh.
OUTRO â everywhere
âThank god youâre okay.â
Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.
On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.
You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, âhow bad is the damage?â
âWe told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think youâve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think thatâs justified for the bruising youâve given my ego.â
âSanti,â the shape of your fianceâs name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you canât say it in full. âIâm so sorry-â
âDonât be, what matters is youâre here now.â
Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.
But to you, his arms just feel like a cage youâve lost the key for. âWhy did you ask me to marry you?â
âI donât know. We just⊠make sense.â
âWe do,â you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. âBut is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?â You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. âDo you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I donât think you do, and I donât think I love you like that either.â
Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.
The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though youâre racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.
âWhen you didnât walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.â
âI just fucked my ex in a bathroom!â In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. âGod, weâre a mess.â
âWait, the cowboyâs your ex? I shouldâve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.â Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. Thereâs a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. âWhat car is it the cowboy drives?â
âA Bronco.â
âWell, you might wanna hurry, because heâs just pulling out of the parking bays.â Itâs more than just a warning. Itâs a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find thereâs no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. âGo, before itâs too late! Iâll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way thatâs heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.â
Thereâs more you want to say, but nowâs not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now youâre too busy rushing to the door.
A call of your name comes when youâve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.Â
Goodbye.
âPromise me one thing.â
âAnything.â
âDonât invite me to your wedding.â
You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jackâs car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.
Donât speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.
âJack!â You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, heâll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. âWait!â
The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he canât trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find heâs already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat youâve always belonged in: by his side.
He canât seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.
âDrive, jack,â you finally proclaim, asking him what you shouldâve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.
âWhere to, darlinâ?â
âAnywhere, everywhere!â You canât help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. âIt doesnât matter, as long as Iâm with you, all roads lead home.â
Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.
âOh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.â
bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!
this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.
this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!
something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.
okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday đ«Ą
if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !
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synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 3 ! (part 2)
warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation (please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !
word count. 15k
hydeâs input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!
âi told you, corazĂłn mia (my heart),â he can't meet your eyes. âmade it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.â
âi know,â you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. âbut if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?â
I cut my nose to save some face
You cut your hair and take some space.
The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.
Where there are usually your eyes, thereâs a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someoneâs taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you donât care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.
Itâs something new to fidget with.
On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.
You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, youâll regret it.
If you do, youâll blame him.
Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.
Youâd dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, youâd giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girlsâ night.
Theyâd ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.
Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.
You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.
You were careful all night to never speak of him.
One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who youâd gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.
And then it happened.
You didnât say his name, no.
Not aloud.
You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink youâd watched him nurse time after time. It wasnât him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.
But it was enough to make you want to leave.
Giving up your space, youâd made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesnât have white wine?
They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.
The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your fatherâs stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.
âHey kiddo!â Your dadâs a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing youâd been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. âYou here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ainât that right, boys?â
It was only then that youâd realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a weekâs work.
There were usually three of them.
"Weâre just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it made you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.
âAnd raising bets on his tardiness,â one of your fatherâs friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. âIâm saying heâs chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boyâs been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."
Itâs a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.
âMy guess is heâs pulled some muscle in his back and canât get himself out of bed,â a nudge from your fatherâs elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. âWhatcha think, kiddo?â
You didnât have an answer.
You didnât get to give an answer.
âYou need to quit speaking âbout me like youâre not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),â it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.
Youâre not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.
Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkept facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.
Javier Peña was none of that.
The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.
The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.
His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.
It was like, nothing.
And, yes, thatâs what youâd asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?
But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?
âHey officers, sorry to interrupt but,â a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your fatherâs smile. âSheâs ours for the night. Weâre going clubbing!â
That was never part of the plan.
Neither was skipping dinner, though.
You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.
A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, âno. Itâs nice, I like it.â
That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped upon your sternum. Heâs sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.
âYeah?â He asks, like he even needs to. âYou like it, corazĂłn (sweetheart)?â You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. âGuess I better keep it this way, then.â
Now heâs gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.
In a way, it feels like heâs cut you off with them.
We donât speak cause itâs too tricky
But if Iâm tricky, whyâd you kiss me?
The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.
He sits on the groomâs side, you sit on the brideâs.
It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldnât he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousinâs brother-in-lawâs wedding?
The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.
Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.
Heâs already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. Heâs still staring at you when theyâve passed.
The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night youâre booked in for.
An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you donât get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.
You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.
You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. Youâre back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.
If it werenât for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, youâd gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, youâll be damned if you donât get to sleep in it.
So you stumble to the elevator.
Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it mightâve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, thatâll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purseâs zipper, trying your best to pry it open.
You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.
You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.
Scuffed shoes come into view as youâre halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.
He catches you.
For a moment, it feels like youâve never left his arms.
âCâmon, letâs get you to your room.â You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.
He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.
Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. Thereâs a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.
Heâs still warm. Heâs still steady. but his cologneâs different and it makes your eyes sting.
Youâd warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.
âYou look like you had fun,â he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.
âI did,â you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if heâd stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you canât say that, because he doesnât want that.
âIâm glad.â
It turns out your floor is the ninth. Heâs careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.
Itâs easier to let him open the door, he tells you.
Itâs easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.
Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.
Youâve never shared a space like this with him, one thatâs hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature thatâs long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.
Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.
A thud against the nightstand.
You roll onto your side and find heâs still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.
The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.
Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.
âGet in bed, please,â you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. âJavi.â
Itâs the first time youâve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like heâs going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.
He looks like he wants to.
His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.
Against your forehead, lips that linger.
Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.
On the forehead, way up north
Pressed the scar and found the source
Vermont, â98.
Thatâs where it all began.
Your dad, turning fifty.
Javi just hit forty.
It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the stationâs rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.
Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.
Somewhere along the way, youâd been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?
Wrong.
The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.
Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.
A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.
Peaceful and quaint, until it wasnât.
The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lionâs roar in the dark of the Saharan night.
The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.
You put your head down, breathed more subtly.
The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.
The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.
They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.
One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.
You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.
Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.
âWoo! Look at you,â just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. âAinât seen an ass like that since we left the city!â
Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.
âWhy donâcha come join me and my buddies over there?â He nodded back at them, like they werenât the obnoxious centres of everyoneâs attention.
You were not scared of him, exactly. But youâve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.
So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, âthanks, but Iâve got an early flight. Have a nice night-â He told you his name, like you cared. âYeah, thanks, bye.â
And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.
Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.
You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.
âOh donât be a buzzkill!â He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. âItâs early, stay. Have a drink.â
âIâm not in the mood.â
âTo have fun?! Câmon, itâs too cold to be out here by yourself.â
âI have an early flight.â
âItâs just one drink, sweetheart. I ainât asking you to sign your life away.â
A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.
âHey!â He called after you. Your steps sped up. âWhere you going, sweetheart?â
It didnât even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.
âI ainât done talkinâ to you!â
The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.
Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.
He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.
You wouldnât give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.
It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.
He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets youâd never walked.
You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.
You donât remember which direction you turned.
âQuit running, you bitch!â
He was still following, how was he still following?
Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.
He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.
You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.
Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.
â...Gotta let me know, nena,â the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. âFucking Christ, look at the state of you.â
Youâd not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.
Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that heâd enjoyed the pumpkin pie sheâd brought to the stationâs Thanksgiving feast.
Thereâd been one time youâd caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. Youâd left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.
You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.
He didnât like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?
âYouâre bleeding,â he announced it, fresh news for you.
A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.
His thumb swiped over your palm.
Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.
He held you in place.
Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.
He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. Youâd not really been looking, in the first place.
The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.
You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didnât let him stray too far.
âIâm fine,â you lied. He didnât believe you, furrowing his brow. âIâm just cold.â
He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.
He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.
âLeave it, heâs not-â The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. âItâs not worth it.â
You said it not for the agentâs sake, but the boyâs.
The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.
It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.
He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.
âCâmon, the lodge is this way,â he pointed in some direction.
You didnât bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.
âPut this on.â It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.
Somewhere along the path, you realised youâd lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.
Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodgeâs bar with the rest of the men.
You shook your head, told him your dad couldnât see you in that state.
He took you back to his own cabin instead.
Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.
Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.
If you donât love me,
Whyâd you act it?
Late june brings nothing but gloom.
You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes itâs way through the cafe.
Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease youâre becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.
Tonight, youâre appeasing them.
Some line dance event, downtown in a bar thatâs only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. Itâs missing a horn and no one seems to know why.
Truth be told, you donât want to go.
You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.
Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.
In the mirror, itâs still lopsided.
The clock sits at eight forty-seven.
Theyâre 2 minutes late.
You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in itâs contents, searching for your keys.
You pull on something and- itâs a pack a gum.
Dive back in, search again.
An empty tube of lipbalm.
Third timeâs a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.
A broken earring.
A familiar car honkâs outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.
Bile burns the back of your throat.
He opens on the fifth knock.
Any other night, he practically rips the door off itâs hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.
Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You donât think too much into it.
He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, itâs hard to read his eyes.
The airâs uncomfortably quiet.
You thinkâs itâs all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.
âMy earring snapped today,â thereâs a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-â
âThe hearts dangling from them.â He finishes, on your behalf, and itâs the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.
The silence returns.
You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place youâve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.
He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.
You notice his bedroom door is shut.
Itâs never been shut before.
âIs- Am I-â You donât have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. âDo you have someone over?â
He blinks, slowly.
Itâs hard to tell if itâs from guilt.
âBecause if you do, thatâs fine!â Itâs not. âI understand,â You donât.
He doesnât answer.
You keep talking.
âTotally chill, Iâll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Wonât risk interrupting again-â
âThis needs to stop.â
You donât have to question it.
You do, anyway.
âWhat?â
âUs. This-â Heâs pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. Itâs like heâs rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. âThing weâre doing. Itâs done.â
âI donât underst-â
He cuts you off with your name. âWhyâd you come here tonight?â
Heâs stern.
Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.
âI,â youâre beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. âUh, I had a bad day.â
âOkay,â he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. âWhatâs that got anything to do with me?â
Everything, you want to tell him.
For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.
âI just thought-â
âYou thought, what?â His face twists up, just like your insides. Heâs angry and youâre the one to blame. âThis isnât a- Iâm not your boyfriend.â
I know, you mouth.
Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.
When he calls to make sure you got home safe.
When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out âwhereâd you go?â whispered into your neck.
When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.
Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.
So why does he act like it?
âLook, kid, youâre young, and I know-â
Kid.
That makes you angry.
He wasnât calling you kid when he bent you over your parentsâ bathroom counter.
âDonât call me kid.â
âAnd I know,â he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. âThis can be a lot at your age. Donât blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think youâre feeling for me, itâs not-â
âIs this about the p-â The word wonât come out of you, so your change the verbiage. âThe hospital? Because I told you, Javi. Weâve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-â
âNo, this is about me needing to do the right-â
At this point, youâre just interrupting one another.
Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.
He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. Youâd imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.
Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.
Silence.
You take the lead.
âSo, what? Thatâs it just... over?â
âI told you, corazĂłn mĂa (my heart),â he canât meet your eyes. âMade it clear from the start I wasnât looking for anything serious.â
âI know,â you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. âBut if it wasnât serious, whyâd you treat me like it was?â
It takes him a few minutes to answer. Thereâs a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.
Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.
The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.
âI got caught up,â his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he wonât let you be that. âIn the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.â
He breathes out your name, the most painful melody youâve ever heard.
âThis has to end,â youâre unsure if itâs only you heâs attempting to convince. âBefore someone gets hurt.â
Too late, you want to say.
Youâre already being torn apart by his hands, and heâs standing ten feet away.
âCorazĂłn, Iâm so sor-â
The car honks, again.
You breathe in, and find itâs hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.
Another honk.
You never make it to the line dance.
You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandlerâs bickering.
Loveâs a verb
And not a bandage
In retrospect, itâs hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.
A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.
Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you donât recall the exact date.
All you remember is a pounding at your front door.
1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.
You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-
Pause.
This could be anyone, anything.
You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.
Heâs on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, youâre too distracted to notice.
You let him invade your senses.
Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-
You pull back. He follows.
Itâs flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.
Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.
âMy dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?â Itâs meant to be a joke.
Thereâs nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.
He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.
Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise heâs inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.
This time, you do trip over them.
Itâs okay though, Javiâs there to catch you.
He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.
The gold of his skin shines brighter.
The red on his skin appears darker.
âWhat happened to you?â You donât need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.
âSânot important,â itâs spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. âIâll tell you later.â
Later with Javi never seems to come.
âIf youâre not busy, Iâll make you dinner later.â
âKeep it up and Iâll be fucking that attitude out of you later.â
âIâll get these back to you later.â
Heâd never made you that dinner.
Heâd dragged you into the stationâs bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.
Youâd never gotten those panties back.
You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if youâre âgonna put on a show for me, corazĂłn?â
The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.
You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.
Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.
Heâs insisting heâs okay, yet heâs hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.
âI,â he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.âItâs stupid.â
âJavi,â you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. âThe less you tell me, the more Iâll worry.â
It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.
âI was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably donât care about that,â he has no idea youâll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. âHeard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-â
He hisses.
Youâre pressing too hard on his fragile lip.
Thereâs no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.
A splotch of red stains your skin.
âCorazĂłn,â he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. âYouâre exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), Iâm fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.â
Itâs a tempting offer, and one youâve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.
A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.
Thereâs bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.
âBut, what?â You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.
Javi sighs, gives in.
He always gives in, to you, eventually.
âI just- I donât know, itâs crazy, but I kept thinking of you,â his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. âIn that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...â
He doesnât finish his sentence.
He doesnât need to.
âSo what did you do?â Itâs best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.
âI followed them outside,â he admits with a tinge of shame. âTried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,â youâve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. âI thought Iâd maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and theyâd got a cab back to her place. Or his.â
Heâs rambling.
Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.
You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.
âIt was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,â his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. Heâs burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. âRustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-â
He chokes.
On his words, on his breath, on his failure.
You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.
Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.
âDidnât think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.â Heâs still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you canât switch off. âI mustâve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-â
âDid you arrest him?â You cut him off.
He nods.
âDid you help her?â
Another nod.
âDid you get her someplace safe?â
This time, a reply.
âAn officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.â
âThen Javi,â you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when heâs not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. âYou did enough.â
A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.
âI didnât,â frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.
âWhat more could you have done?â
âI donât know... I couldâve-â He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. âI shouldâve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldnât have let...â A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. âShouldnât have let you go out alone.â
You whine out his name.
The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.
The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.
Heâs searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.
Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.
âNot everything about that night was so bad,â you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. âIf I hadnât gone out, then maybe we wouldnât be...â
The words catch in your throat.
Partially because you donât know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.
But mostly because he kisses you.
Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.
Heâs a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.
Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.
The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance thatâs unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.
He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.
When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.
The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.
Heâs slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.
When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his foreheadâs pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.
âThereâs not a universe where this doesnât happen, corazĂłn,â you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. âWant you too damn much to miss out on you.â
Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.
When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?
And Iâm spiritual cleansing (but the truth)
Is Iâm good at pretending (oh and you)
By July, things change.
The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.
The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.
Boredom leads to hobbies.
At first, you try pottery.
Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.
Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.
You hate it, running.
You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.
But when youâre gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you donât think about it.
The heartache.
The headache.
The agent.
You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your bodyâs shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.
Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of itâs usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.
The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.
But youâre not thinking about it, or itâs previous owner.
Not right now.
Now, youâre balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.
The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, youâve discovered.
No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.
You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.
Today, however, itâs more challenging.
The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your fatherâs the one to blame.
You have to come, kiddo.
The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.
Because it wouldnât be the same without you there.
Youâd wanted a better explanation than that.
Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.
You had no plans.
Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!
You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your fatherâs light didnât deserve to be dampened by your shadow.
Câmon, kiddo! Iâve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!
You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.
The whole stationâs gonna be there, you have to come!
He said it, like that would persuade you.
Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.
The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.
Just last night Javi was asking how youâre doing!
Youâd hung up.
Immediately.
Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.
Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.
All this heartache and pain, itâs not good for the soul.
Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isnât your dadâs closest confidant.
It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. Thereâs a sting of tears in your eyes.
Until you come to a screeching halt.
Double over.
Place your hands on your knees.
Dry heave.
You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.
Nor to the dog thatâs chasing itâs ball back forth between itâs ownerâs throws.
You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.
Youâll have to see him.
Spend time near him.
Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.
Itâs unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.
For not quitting the force.
For being your dadâs friend.
For not wanting you the same you wanted him.
Want him.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots youâd tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.
Youâre usually more careful.
You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.
You pick your pace back up.
Manage only a handful-or-two steps.
Your feet fly out in front of you.
Land ass-first on the gravel below.
Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab itâs ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.
You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.
Youâre met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.
Big mistake.
The hand tugs you.
You glance up.
And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.
âEasy, tiger,â he coughs up a laugh, like you donât wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. âYou trying to break my ribs?â
Itâs no less than you deserves, you think.
And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.
You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you canât smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.
He asks you how youâve been, and tries his best to smile.
It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.
You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.
You come up empty handed.
Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.
Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?
Thereâs a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.
Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.
Wedding attire, a post-party glow.
Itâs toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you canât quite form of him tucking you into bed.
Had he smiled, then?
Had he even been there?
Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-
His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.
His eyes donât greet your own. Instead, theyâre focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.
âHmm,â heâs so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.
Heâs still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your fatherâs, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.
Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.
Heâd slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.
âYou suit the ring,â his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. âI prefer it to that stud.â
âI- What?â Confussion.
You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.
He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.
Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.
Itâs hard to breath, but you do it anyway.
Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.
His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing itâs ball and failing to catch it.
You wonder if itâs a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.
And then you wonder if youâre the dog or the ball.
Or both.
âYou never answered me,â his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. âI want to hear how youâve be-â
âPeña, if you donât report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, Iâm putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.â
A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.
Your fatherâs voice.
Itâs enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.
Heâs not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.
Heâs Peña, your dadâs best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.
His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.
Maybe itâs sadness you see.
Thereâs definitely remorse.
Guilt, too.
âWe... Your dad caught the guy thatâs been breaking into college girlsâ apartments.â He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. Youâve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. âDo that and Iâll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).â
It wouldnât be the first time heâd commit an indecency within your parentâs bathroom.
But none of that matter, anymore.
Youâre already walking away.
Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.
He calls out your name, loudly.
Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.
People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.
You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.
He reaches out for your hand.
And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.
âIâll, um,â his adamâs apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. âIâll see you at the barbecue, right?â
He knows the answer.
You still give him it, âyes.â
Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.
You feel his eyes on you.
And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.
Broke me big time
Itâs funny and Iâm laughing baby
You think Iâm alright
Youâre laughing but itâs mostly fake.
A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that youâre still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.
Sheâs a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.
Today, sheâs paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.
Youâve known her since you were a kid, even if you canât remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dadâs height.
Youâd got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.
That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.
Itâs not her fault. You know.
Sheâs not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.
Your dad is.
And right now heâs stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peñaâs shoulder clapped under the other.
Even from here, you can hear him bragging.
So then Peñaâs on his ass.
Chases this guy, whilst heâs driving down the street!
Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.
All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your fatherâs praising.
Heâs exaggerating.
The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!
He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.
Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.
Heâs happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.
Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.
If you step inside the frame, it cracks.
Shatters.
And maybe he knows that.
Knew it all along.
Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.
And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.
The feeling lasts all but four seconds.
âKiddo!â
Your fatherâs voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.
It takes a moment, but you wave.
âCome over âere!â
Not the response you were hoping for.
Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.
Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.
âYou having a good time?â Your dadâs got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you canât bring yourself to ruin with the truth.
âIâm having a great time,â you barely manage out before heâs squeezing you into his side.
The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.
He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.
âI canât believe it,â he laments, speaking to no one in particular.
In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.
Itâs hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.
Perhaps youâre going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.
Itâs not a sight you want to see.
It fills you with dread.
Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.
âMy little girlâs spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-â
âLondon.â
Javiâs voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.
All eyes snap to him.
Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely heâs staring back you.
Your motherâs, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husbandâs.
Your father, confused and perplexed, âI- Yeah...â He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. âHowâd you know?â
âIâve been, you know?â Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. Itâs a nervous habit, of Javiâs. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. âTo London.â
That peaks your interest.
Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.
âReally?â
âYeah. Iâve been a few times, actually. Iâve got some friends out there.â
With Javi, friends could mean anything.
A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.
For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.
So itâs best you donât inquire on it.
âWhere do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?â
âMr... Bond?â
The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.
You can practically hear it, in his voice.
âYou know, like James Bond.â Thatâs the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. ââCause you were an agent and you like London, and heâs an agent in Lon-â
He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.
The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.
And, though it goes unaddressed, because itâs been too long since heâd last done it.
Even if heâd done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.
âThat was the worst pun Iâve ever heard, corazĂłn,â somehow, the words donât bruise your ego.
Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.
His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.
âIâd need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.â
âMaybe I need a tour guide,â a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. Itâs lulling you to sleep, at last. âYâknow, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.â
âI could,â he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and itâs hard to tell where he stops and you start. âI could check my calendar. See how many holiday days Iâve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.â
Itâs too late though.
Youâre already snoring against his skin.
âHow does he know?â Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. âI mean, seriously, are you blind!?â
For a minute, it feels like she knows.
She knows why Javi knows.
You should be panicking.
Both of you should.
Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.
But you arenât. Neither of you are.
Youâre just staring at each other, as if youâre working to commit each otherâs face to memory.
âHe knows because you wonât shut up about it!â
Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.
Your mom rolls her eyes.
Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.
âOk but,â your fatherâs back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least thatâs the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. âI bet Iâve not told you what sheâs decided to do on her travels!â
âYou have,â your motherâs tone is pointed.
Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.
Thereâs a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.
You try ignore the fact heâd promised you he was working on quitting.
âShh,â your father waves a hand in your motherâs face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.
Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.
Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.
Open, celebrated, acknowledged.
Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.
Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your fatherâs arm.
As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.
âSheâs gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,â your father reveals. Youâre frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. âWhat was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when youâre decorating the tree with your kids, youâll think of the places youâve been and tell them all about it?â
Your heart drops.
Javiâs seems to do the same.
For a moment, you worry heâs stopped breathing.
Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your fatherâs stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.
âUh, yeah,â the ground canât swallow you sooner. Youâre already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dadâll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him youâve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. âSomething like that.â
But Iâm actually bloody
Motherfucking batshit crazy
There are moments in oneâs life where they must question their own sanity.
Youâve lived plenty of such moments.
But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.
And all because you heard his voice.
âThis is what youâre craving?â Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. Itâs hard to see what exactly heâs holding, though.
Heâs facing a woman.
Sheâs pretty.
With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.
And a well-rounded belly.
âNo, Javi, this,â she doesnât say his name the same way you do- did. Thereâs a jovial tone, but thereâs no awe, no seduction. Maybe thatâs just what your bias hears. âIs what the baby is craving.â
Youâve never seen her before.
Not on the mantel of photos that line Javierâs television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.
Sheâs a total stranger, to you.
But that doesnât mean sheâs a stranger to him.
A very pregnant, non-stranger.
âWe gotta get this kid some better taste.â
His hand rests on her bump.
She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.
The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.
The blood drains from your face. Thereâs a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.
You wonât let it fester.
Take deep breaths, pretend thereâs no shake in your exhales.
Itâs not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.
Was she the reason things between you and him ended?
Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?
Was he with her, all along, while he was with...
Surely, he couldnât have.
But, then, why couldnât he have?
You were never exclusive.
You were never anything.
âDid-â Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. âDid it just kick?â
Your heartâs palpitating.
Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.
Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.
Because, how could he do this to you?
Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?
Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?
Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-
âHeâs a real kicker, ainât he?â
At first, you think itâs spoken to you.
But, no, itâs too distant. Too far.
A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.
Heâs handsome, in the typical sense.
Blonde haired, a nice smile.
Thereâs a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.
âHe?â Itâs Javi who echoes.
âDonât get him started,â the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.
The man nods, pride on his face, âIâm telling ya, Peña, itâs gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, âelse Iâm gonna be overrun by little girls.â
The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later heâs following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girlâs side and âlittle girls who I love very much.â Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. âI still want a son, though.â
âOlivia,â the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. Itâs hard to tell if thereâs a drool mark on the manâs shoulder. âWhy donât you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?â
The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.
The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.
Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.
And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.
Friends his own age.
Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.
Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girlâs eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffeâs tail.
âGlad you liked it, Olive,â curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. âI had to go all the way to Africa to find him.â
The little girl perks right up at that.
Eyes widened, head off her fatherâs shoulder.
âReally?!â Sheâs amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.
âMhmm,â he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. âIf youâre lucky, maybe Iâll go back next year and get you a zebra.â
âQuit lying to my kid, Peña.â
Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girlâs smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath âYour dadâs a right grump, Olive.â
You begin to wonder how long Javiâs known this couple, how he knows this couple.
âJust wait till youâve got your own kid and Iâm feeding it lies.â The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javiâs forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. âSpeaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?â
In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.
Your breathing stops.
Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, ânot any time soon.â
âReally? What about that girl youâve been seeing, the-â
âThat- We- It didnât work out, we wanted,â you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. âDifferent things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-â
âSorry, can I just,â your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. âGrab one of those?â
You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.
They walk away and youâre left alone, again.
Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-
Heâs no longer standing on the other side.
You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.
Try as you might, you canât shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.
I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs
So pour the gin and call Graham Norton
You wake up early.
You tell yourself itâs because youâre seizing the day.
Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.
The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.
The truth lies in that you can not sleep.
Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.
Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.
A quarter past six.
Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.
Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.
Itâs picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.
Yet, somehow, youâve never felt more gloom.
In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, youâre startled.
Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.
Your ringtone is the culprit.
Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.
Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.
You question if itâs one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find youâre not there, and press the green button.
âCorazĂłn.â
Itâs funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.
You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.
Anger that this is the first time youâve heard Javier Peñaâs voice in nearly two months.
Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.
âI- Shit, I canât tell if Iâve even dialled the right number...â Heâs muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. â... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-â
âIâm here,â itâs only a whisper.
Itâs enough to shut him up.
Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.
âYouâre in London,â he states.
âI am,â you affirm.
He hums, sips something.
Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.
âHow have-â His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe itâs the poor connection. âWas your flight okay?â
âYeah,â you spare him the details.
The truth.
The boredom, the turbulence. The fact youâre dreading the flight home.
âIâm glad,â he sighs the words out, worry going with them. âKnow youâre not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.â
âI wasnât alone,â itâs defensive, and ironic.
You sure felt alone.
âThatâs right, corazĂłn, you werenât,â something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. âYouâre never alone.â
âAre you...â The streetâs a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and youâre still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. âDrunk?â
âNo, Iâm javi.â If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. âHad a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, thatâs all.â
For a moment, it feels like you shouldnât be here, in London.
You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.
Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.
You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.
âWhyâd you call me, Javi?â Itâs a desperate plea.
For answers, for clarity, for closure
âI wanted to hear your voice,â thatâs too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. âWanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.â
âItâs your fault,â thatâs as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.
Even then, it kills you to do so.
ââS half my fault. Joder (fuck),â you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much heâs drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. âWanted to give you my answer, too.â
Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.
You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.
âWhat answer?â
âWhere you should visit, Mrs. Bond,â he says it, like it doesnât send you into cardiac arrest.
You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.
Heâd woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.
âThereâs this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, donât you, corazĂłn?â You nod, and itâs almost like he feels it. âIt doesnât look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But itâs some of the best gin Iâve ever had, in the greatest company.â
You try to picture him, sat amongst friends youâve never met. Friends who donât know your dad.
You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.
The image doesnât quite form.
âWant you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that youâve not to pay.â
Itâs like heâs given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace heâs sought out refuge in his lowest moments.
Refuge heâs willing to share with you.
That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.
You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.
âPromise me youâll go, corazĂłn.â
Your reply is instant, âI promise.â
âOk, Iâll let you go,â itâs solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didnât work last time. âEnjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.â
âJavi, I-â the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. âMiss you.â
Iâm gonna throw you down the river
Your mum can watch it over dinner
âHow you feeling, kiddo?â
You startle awake at your fatherâs voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.
âNot good,â he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. âGot it.â
Stepping off the plane, youâd managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.
All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.
Just till youâre back on your feet, sheâd said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.
Sheâs not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.
Neither of them have, really.
âActually,â your tone is matter-of-factly. âI almost smelt something earlier.â
âThatâs great, kid!â And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. âNow we just gotta figure out if itâs your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.â
Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.
âHey, Iâm just saying! Youâve got the flu, you ainât dying! Could be a little courteous to those whoâve gotta be around you and take a shower.â
âYouâre literally in my room!â
âWhich is literally in my house!â
Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.
Likely, sheâs telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.
Making eye contact, you both canât help the roll of laughter that comes out.
He steps a little closer, and thatâs when you spot it.
Tupperware, clasped in his hand.
The contents are hard to decipher.
Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.
âYour mom said ya wouldnât be up for eating much but, if youâre hungry,â he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket youâve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. âOne of the guys down at the station made you some stew.â
Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.
The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.
In fact, you canât think of anything better.
âItâs a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.â
Heâs popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes.Â
Immediately, you spot chicken.
Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.
You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.
Your father continues, practically talking to himself.
âWhatâd he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?â
âCazuela de ave.â
A change into warmer, drier clothes.
Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.
Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where heâd spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.
It wouldâve only taken him seventeen minutes if heâd dropped you at your apartment.
And that fact is partly what warms your insides.
You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.
Objectively, you think, heâs gorgeous.
Yet the word somehow doesnât seem like itâs enough to summarise him, when heâs making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.
He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of itâs contents over itâs edge.
And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.
The scent alone is enough to have you salivating.Â
Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.
âIt smells delicious,â you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.
And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.
Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.
A real date.
Only, this isnât even a fake date.
You guys donât do that.
âItâs- It was my momâs recipe.â
Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.
Heâs never mentioned his mother.
Or much about his family, really.
Thereâs the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dadâs ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.
But youâre no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.
A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javierâs existence.
Across the table, heâs relaxed. At ease.
Open.
His eyes, his mind, his heart.
And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.
âWas she a good cook?â
Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.
âNo,â and he laughs at his own admission.
Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.
A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.
Itâs disturbingly beautiful.
You wonder if thereâs a life where it could be like this, always.
Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.
âNo, she, uh,â he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. âShe was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.â
You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing.Â
Itâs hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.
In spite of his reputation, and the career heâs undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.
A modern-day hero, a knight whoâs exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.
âTell me more about her,â the words are out before you can reel them back in.
Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.
âShe not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.â Itâs like heâs been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. âShe was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time sheâd be out on the field, driving the tractor.â
Thereâs something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.
Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.
âShe was brave, too. Iâd like to think Iâm just like her in that respect. She didnât let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,â heâs getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. âThere was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didnât even know how to swim!â
You donât know what to say.
You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.
Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.
Your stomach rumbles, but it doesnât ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.
âListen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,â still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. Youâre still trying to process the possessive adjective heâd used to address you. My. His. âEat up.â
Both of you settle back in your seats.
You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-
âAsi no, corazĂłn (not like that, sweetheart),â he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. âYou drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.â
Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.
When your lips part and rest against the bowlâs edge, he tilts it and you feel itâs warmth invade your mouth.
And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.
Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, itâs one of the best things youâve ever tasted.
Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.
You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.
âJavi, this is...â You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and youâll get your taste of the stewâs fillings. âAmazing. Your mum would be proud.â
Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.
âShe would have liked you.â
You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.
Theyâre as open as before.
âReally?â
âMhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.â
âKiddo?â
Youâre ripped out your own head by your fatherâs voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.
âHmm?âÂ
âYou okay there? I was talkinâ to you but you seemed lost in thought.â Thereâs a little excitement in you fatherâs voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.
âIâm- Yeah, just tired, sâall.â
âOk, let me know when youâve finished your food,â he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. âNeed to get the tupperware clean âfore I give it back to Javi.â
Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.
synopsis. two seasons pass before joelâs very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. whatâs meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frankâs becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joelâs arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!
warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )
word count. 14.3k
hydeâs input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...â
read on ao3. series masterlist.
previous chapter. following chapter
Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.
At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another dayâs work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters â and perhaps the most obvious â a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.
So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summerâs sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match itâs slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking â the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robertâs lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the assholeâs nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frankâs garden.Â
The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things theyâll need to bring with their next visit.
Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, thereâs no sight of you.
Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joelâs indent has become stained into its very fabric.Â
This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily heâd be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he canât avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you arenât around never quite work themselves up.
What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beastâs size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otisâ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that youâd leave your fur-friend behind.
In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.
Joelâs dwindling hope seems to follow.
Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.
In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.
And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.
ââS quiet,â Joelâs not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long itâs been since the two were left in no company but one anotherâs.
Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. âIs that a problem?â
Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. Heâs been doing that more often than heâd like recently, lying.
To Tess, whenever sheâd ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. Sheâd not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.
To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why heâd been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. Theyâd not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.
And, to himself, when heâs searching for answers of whatâs been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, heâs a sleepless wreck.
Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.
With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way heâd once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.
âAinât seen much of your...â He pauses, considers what word best suits Billâs affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. âThe girl. She doinâ alright?â
Thatâs it, heâll keep it casual.
Passive, hardly-caring.
Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days itâs been since heâd last seen you â two hundred and four, but whoâs keeping count?
âSheâs fine,â the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. Heâs not entertaining Joelâs longing.
âThatâs... good, yeah,â heâs not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. âIâll let Tess know, give âer some peace of mind. Sheâs been wonderinâ-â
âCut the shit,â Bill barks over at him. âYou arenât asking for Tess.â
He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. âWhereâs she been? Canât remember the last time I saw her.â
âDidnât realise you were keeping count.â Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know heâd gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joelâs heart-rate spikes as he wonders if thereâs one in the kitchen. âSheâs out.â
Out.
A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel canât stomach the thought of you being, much less if itâs without him.
âYou sure thatâs the right thing to do?â
âI donât need your opinion on how I raise-â Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. âI donât need your opinion on how I take care of my people. Sheâs a smart girl, and itâs not her first time. Sheâs been going on solo runs since the end of winter.â
An act youâd never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. Heâs scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harmâs way.
A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joelâs stature, reputation and morals.
âWeâre old, she isnât. Thereâs gonna come a day where sheâs alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.â The other manâs risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though heâs merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. âAnd if she doesnât get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.â
Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and Iâll make sure sheâs never alone.
Bill never asks.
The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.
Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.
The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.
The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playinâ house, thatâs what heâd proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest âf us are out here fightinâ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playinâ house.
The misplaced anger was truly Joelâs green eyed envy.
And his own self-hatred.
Maybe if heâd been prepared like Bill, heâd have less blood on his hands. Maybe if heâd foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, heâd never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.
A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.
It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.
When the haze settles, you greet him.
You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sunâs rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. Thereâs a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crowâs feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But itâs the right hand that holds his attention, itâs grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.
As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. Heâd want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until youâre knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.
The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.
He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.
Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joelâs shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill wonât immediately notice itâs been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.
His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Babyâs first harvest, â13.
It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tessâ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, youâd gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?
He does like strawberry jam.
And heâd been afraid youâd never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.
With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joelâs attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter heâd had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise heâd not been in it since that night.
His mouth runs dry at the memory.
This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.
Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.
Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.
A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.
His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.
If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice?Â
Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, heâd be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-
âOk, so I didnât manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?â
Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.
That voice.
Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.
Itâs all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He canât see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.
Youâre getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, heâs really about to see you. Finally, after so long.
What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as heâd lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?
Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.
Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe â and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises â his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.
You are smiling.
At him.
âHowdy, stranger!â Normally, heâd find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. âLong time no see!â
Thereâs a million things Joel thinks to say to you.
Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way heâs missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.
Instead, Joel inhales.Â
And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.
âOh my god, Joel!â Youâre quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps itâs the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that youâre real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. âYou okay there, big guy? Donât go dying in this kitchen or else Billâs gonna lose his shit!â
Big guy. Thatâs new. Joelâs indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.
He means to say heâs fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you heâs okay, youâre holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.
Itâs nice to be comforted.
Itâs even nicer to be comforted by you.
Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge heâd tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he canât look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, heâs mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.
Itâs dangerous, how much he wants to.
He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk â some nuts and bolts heâs sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding â but thereâs something else capturing his attention.
Itâs not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box heâs sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.
ââS that ya got?â He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.
âOh, thatâs what I wanted to show Frank-â The moment Joelâs eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. âHey, what are you doing?!â
âThrowinâ this shit out-â Youâre near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach.Â
He doesnât comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.
 âWhy? Itâs harmless,â you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, heâs an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. âItâs literally just cake mix!â
You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact youâll own some part of him, even as heâs miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.
âAinât no way in hell I'm lettinâ you eat that.â He says it for your own good, your own safety.
All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.
âLetting me?â You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. âJoel, youâre no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?â
Itâs a kick in the guts.
And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if heâs honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harmâs way.
Heâd felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, heâd vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. Heâd do the same with you, if youâd just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I donât ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.
Of course, Joel doesnât tell you that.
Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.
âThe flour, you stupid girl, âs what started all this shit.â He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. âBut if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go âhead and be my guest.â
Itâs like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was â violence, disobedience, assertiveness? â in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.
Heâs so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. Itâs only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.
âYou donât have to worry about me, Joel.â The biggest lie of the century. Heâs well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times heâs spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how youâd walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, youâre the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer youâre getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion thatâll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. âBesides, this batch is harmless...â
God, youâre so close. All he can smell is you â sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hairâs breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.
Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. Itâs going to happen, he knows this, heâs accepted this. Youâre going to kiss him, and heâs going to let you, and then heâs going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.
Just a little closer...
Thatâs it. Kiss him.
Kiss him.
God, please. Kiss me.
âCheck the production date for yourself!â Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising heâs now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.
Youâre holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.
âStill donât mean you should eat it,â Joelâs stubborn, despite all, and canât seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. ââS gonna be long past its sell-by.â
âPlease,â you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps itâs the helplessness upon Joelâs face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. âSell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.â
A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.
There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.
Something is wrong.
Joel feels sick.
Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frankâs hand nervously tugging back on Billâs arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.
âTess!â Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. âWhatâs wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?â
âMe and Frank... we were walking...â She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip sheâs got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. âA hole... Under the fence...â
Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. Heâs got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safetyâs on, heâll need to remember that before he dares use it.
âHow many?â He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. âRaiders, infected, or whatever. How many of âem got in?â
He canât help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time theyâd met, to upgrade those damn fences.
âNo,â Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but thatâs not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. Itâs Bill, whoâs pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. âNothingâs got in. Itâs out, something got-â
âI swear I turned my back for one second, kid,â as if everything else wasnât enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like youâre a wounded fawn and Joelâs some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.
âWhat-â you start.
âThe hell are you lot talkinâ about?â Joel finishes.
They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.
Frank takes the fall.
âItâs Otis,â heâs exasperated, exclaiming it like itâs the heaviest of burdens. Joel canât quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression youâre wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. âOtis is missing!â
Thereâs a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyoneâs eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of whatâs spoken aloud.
Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.
âHe was with me this morning,â Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. Heâs explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joelâs never imagined the man capable of. âOut in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.â
The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.
A deep gasp cuts through the tension.
A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesnât seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joelâs all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.
Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though.Â
âHeâs fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, heâd be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you arenât anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. âHey, hey, listen tâme. Heâs gonna be okay. Bet heâs out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.â
You nod along to his words, as though youâre listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.
After a cautious step back, eyeing you like youâre a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. âGive me a few hours. Iâll track the dog and bring him home, alright?â
A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and heâs already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.
Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fenceâs newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.
Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.
Your voice calls out his name from behind.
Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.
âI'm coming with you,â you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what youâre saying.
His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. âYou sure as hell ainât.â
âYes, I am.â You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.
âNo.â
He holds his ground.
âYes.â
You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He canât risk harming you, not even for your own good.
âNo, you are-â
âJoel, please,â thereâs exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry â a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. Youâre nervous, in a rush. Youâre here without anyoneâs knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. âJust- I donât want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.â
Talking is limited.
Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.
This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where itâs only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection â he canât tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care â that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.
He misses his first shot â shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings â but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.
You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.
From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.
It forces him to rethink everything heâs come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly youâd wound up under Billâs roof.
You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.
âIf you donât mind me asking-â
âI do.â
Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. âWho taught you to shoot?â
âMy old man,â it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe itâs a bit longer than a few minutes, the sunâs shine seeming a lot less dim from when youâd asked. You say nothing, however, donât even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. âDragged me out back to where heâd tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we werenât goinâ back in till I shot it. Mustâa stood there for hours.â
And that was that.
As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, youâd dropped the subject â maybe youâd noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened â and heâd never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.
You make camp by nightfall.
A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. âS too risky, heâd explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Donât need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.
Heâd given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.
Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.
You donât seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. âI donât know how you can eat that.â
âIf you think thatâs bad, you donât wanna know what theyâre feedinâ us in the QZ.â Itâs a privilege youâll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Billâs traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. Heâs glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.
âI'm surprised they feed you at all,â for all your grimacing, youâve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. âConsidering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.â
He wants to defend himself, tell you itâs not true. Tell you itâs only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, itâll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. Itâs the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.
But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.
âThe hell are we, middle-schoolers?â
A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joelâs voice. Itâs an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything â living or dead â within a ten mile radius to hear. But youâre being ridiculous.
Your suggestion is ridiculous.
And youâre shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.
âNo, weâre two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,â you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess sheâd loved so much. âAnd that counts as one of your questions, by the way."
He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. Heâll sit there, heâll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, heâll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and heâll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-
âWhich means,â you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. âItâs my turn to ask you something, mister.â Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. âWhatâs your favourite colour?â
If looks could kill, youâd likely still be alive.
Perhaps a little bruised, but itâs the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.
âWhat?â You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. âItâs like⊠The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really donât think you want to tell me-â
âIâd just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,â the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. Youâre waiting to know more. âI ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my momâs, recently divorced, and with a whole new body sheâd bought with the divorce settlements.â
A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. Youâd still taste of the canned food you â reluctantly â devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.
âThat sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,â you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes heâll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.
âSurprised you even know what that word means,â he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesnât know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of â horrifically overpriced â alcohol.
âPorno?â You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. âYouâd be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.â
That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joelâs brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises heâs speaking his thoughts aloud.
âYou were in a QZ? You werenât always with Bill?â
âPittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasnât always with Bill.â He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. âAnd those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.â
He hadnât even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. Heâd just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But youâve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.
âWas it a one time thing,â unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. âWith your neighbour?â Heâs glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.
âNo.â
âOoh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.â If he wasnât so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. âDid you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?â
âNo,â he says once more, then quickly clarifies. âI didnât sleep with other clients. But also no, we werenât exclusive.â
âDid your mom-â
ââS my turn, darlinâ,â Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. Itâs like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question heâs ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscienceâs grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear youâve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you heâd never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. âHow did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?â
âGod, youâre bad at this game! Two questions, again!â And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. âBut no, I wasnât with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldnât have been brought in if it werenât for Frank insisting they couldnât just leave me out there to die.â
âYou were alo-â
âAh, my turn!â Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. âDid your mum ever find out about you and her friend?âÂ
âNo, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and IâŠâ Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out.Â
Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.
âI was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasnât always.â Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasnât always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, heâs struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones heâs allowed to ask. âHave you ever been in love?â
That quiets his mind. For a moment, itâs a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and itâs pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesnât want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.
âGreen,â the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. âI never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. Itâs green.â If you find his answer to be too late, or youâre disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you donât give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. âWhy were you alone?â
âEveryone changed, got bit, or died. I didnât want to be next.â Perhaps heâs a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things youâve lost like they donât haunt you. Like you havenât spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that theyâd mattered, and that theyâd loved you. Like you havenât drowned in grief, the way he has. Youâve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore. âWhoâs your butterfly?â
The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just canât help himself. âMy what now?â
"You know, the whole âif a butterfly flaps its wingsâ,â you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. âWho's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"
He cannot run.
He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken â and visibly ignored â question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train â in truth, a fork-ful of food â towards her lips.
Youâve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.
Suddenly, heâs angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.
ââS this what this whole things all about, huh?â Itâs snarky, itâs cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you donât even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact youâre letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. âYou want me to tell you somethinâ traumatic, somethinâ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lilâ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ainât special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.â
âAre you done?â You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joelâs laboured breaths filling the night air.
Heâs not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joelâs entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him.Â
"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?â You speak so softly, he almost doesnât hear you. But he does, and it hurts. âHell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. Iâd only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldnât let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding⊠interested in the answer.â
Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joelâs mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality heâs witnessed.
You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.
âFrank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Billâs gate. I⊠I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.â
He almost calls you by your name, then by the name heâs given you. Sol. But itâs too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.
âI didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.â It doesnât make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. âIt was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never⊠discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.â
And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.
Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ainât special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isnât the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he wonât be the last. Heâll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.
The hoot of an owl. Itâs somehow a reminder that youâre both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.
Those tears in your eyes still havenât fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because youâre not brave. Because youâre not his girl. Youâre the sun, and heâs just another planet thatâs been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.
âOne minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,â your voice is so soft, itâs almost a whisper. Perhaps heâll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him. âAnd the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, thatâs something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."
God, does it linger.
Heâs tried to lose track. Heâs tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he canât.
Just like how he canât think of what to say right now.
He knows he should comfort you.
He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then heâd be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and thatâs one thing heâs getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.
âWhat,â he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and heâs got no other layers to keep you warm with. âWhat were you gonna name her?â
Youâre gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if thatâs enough to regain your composure.
âThatâs her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frankâs flowerbeds,â thereâs a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, youâre talking about her, youâre honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel canât do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that heâs the greatest asshole alive. âItâs silly but⊠I like to think itâs her whenever the snowdrops bloom.âÂ
â'S a nice name," heâs a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you itâs okay. Tell you heâs sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think heâs trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesnât get to see what life blooms from atop his daughterâs grave?
"It was my mom's,â you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you canât believe youâre admitting this to him. Or maybe itâs not that. Maybe itâs a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, heâd feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. âShe'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."
Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.
He canât remember why he called her Sarah.
Youâre sleeping next to him.
Heâs spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.
But itâs sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and heâs back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the worldâs least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.
Youâd been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. Heâd told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.
You told him that you hadnât imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadnât grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. Heâd rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didnât mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.
But you wouldnât stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: âMove over.â
And now heâs here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.
You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.
Itâs not the only thing that grows harder, however.
Maybe itâs because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that youâre actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.
Whatever the reason is ultimately doesnât matter. Lamenting over it wonât change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And heâs trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend heâs not aware of his own body and the erection itâs bestowed upon him.
But you wonât stop moving, you wonât lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.
He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms youâre just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.
As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.
He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he canât, wonât, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.
Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and heâs down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when heâs working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tessâ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truckâs hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.
His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she â you â moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he shouldâve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you.Â
Joel, he can hear it, the way youâd sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.
âJoel,â he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what heâs doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand â far more delicate â envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. âYou should be asleep.â
âCanât,â he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.
âWhy not?â
âYou know why.â
âI do,â you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. âStill, I wanna hear you say it.â
One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.
Itâs embarrassing how much of a mess heâs becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. Itâs embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.
âBecause of you.â
âMe?â You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. âAll Iâve done is try to sleep. Youâre the one who canât keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?â
âYes.â
âDo I make you weak?â
âYes, fuck!â He feels like heâs gone back in time and youâre playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck youâd called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. âIâm gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.â
But you wonât let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm heâs trying so hard to stave off.
âNo, Iâm too tired,â even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? âLet's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.â
âTell me youâre wet,â it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know youâre enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know youâre not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.
âI am,â you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. âSo wet. Love touching you, Joel.â
âYeah?â He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. âThen let me fuck you, please.â
âNo, justâŠâ You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He canât help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. âJust wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.â
Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.
With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. Youâre there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesnât want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.
What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways heâd pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.
Maybe this time heâd try your other hole. Heâs wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until youâd bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. Youâd protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. Heâd always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.
Heâd not be kind. No, not when the time comes. Heâd ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once heâs sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. Heâd push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. Theyâd move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where youâre not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.
Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once heâs through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word youâll ever need to know.
But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.
Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that youâre there, in his arms, closer than youâve ever been.
The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.
âIâm sorry, Joel,â you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.
âHmm?â He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes heâd not even notice close peering open to look down at you.
âI didnât mean- I wasnât trying to make you angrier with the questions.â Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joelâs mouth. âItâs just⊠Youâre a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder⊠I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.â
With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.
Something wet wakes Joel.
Itâs a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that itâs taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.
Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of natureâs critters.
A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.
Lick.Â
His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.
âSunshine,â he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. Youâre not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking heâll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. âCâmon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here whoâs mighty excited to see you.â
That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, âwhatâre you talking abo- My baby-boy!â
No sooner than youâve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sunâs rays.
Youâre pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, âdonât ever do that again! I was so scared!â The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joelâs lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otisâ soft fur.
âMustâa caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,â Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. âHeâs a good boy. Arenâtâcha, boy?â
Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joelâs thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otisâ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.
Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joelâs grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joelâs. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.
As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than heâd like it to be, stands the borders to Billâs sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than heâd like it to be, the place where youâll part ways.
He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.
He needs to speak soon, act now, before itâs too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.
âMy, uh,â a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. âMy daughter.â
Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You donât speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.
âShe was my⊠Whatever you called it, last night.â He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. Youâve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. âThe one that changed my life. She was so⊠bright, I used to worry one day sheâd blind someone with her smile.â
In his memories, sheâs always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joelâs almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile.Â
âShe was everything good about me,â he says, and finds he canât help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. âNone of the bad.â
âCanât imagine thereâs much on that list.â
âI know, âs hard to believe thereâs even one good thing about m-â
âNo, Joel,â he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like youâre trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. âThe bad, it must be a short list.â
Three of you â man, woman, dog â find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joelâs feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherdâs collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dogâs incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.
Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.
"C'mon, Texas,â Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. âWe're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."
Bag already on his shoulder, Joel canât feign a reason to linger a little longer.
âWait!â You call out, parting from Frankâs side, fingers scratching at Otisâ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. âThank you, Joel.â Itâs just a whisper. Heâs not even sure exactly what youâre thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before youâre stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Billâs gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.
When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.
One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.