45. Now
45
NOW
Jack strode through his parents’ house, carrying his easels on one arm and his prints under the other. Mhairi had not exaggerated about Gemma taking the lead on organizing the event—she didn’t even greet him at the door.
His mum’s coping mechanism had turned from fretting to planning every detail of the life celebration. Their living room was piled with everyone’s contributions, ready to be transported to Skye tomorrow. Two teal flowerpots full of purple geraniums sank deep into the plush carpet. Jack couldn’t venture a guess as to where that podium had come from.
The reality he’d been avoiding—hiding behind his computer, editing his video for Mhairi—struck him all at once, a knife to the ribs. There was a day, and soon, when his world would contain a gaping hole. He wanted to wrest back her time, physically fight whoever was responsible. But all he could do was show some pictures at a ceremony he wished they didn’t need to hold. It left him feeling beyond helpless.
The table Gemma used for entertaining was out, covered in old photographs. Jack set his prints and easels against the wall and pored over them, his finger nudging the softened edges to uncover another layer of shiny pictures. Mhairi as a baby who’d look indistinguishable from Reid if it weren’t for the black-and-white photography. Mhairi in pigtails while a young Gemma held the handlebars of a tricycle. Mhairi holding Jack and his brothers as newborns.
Each photo resurfaced a memory of his childhood. The smell of soil and new leaves while Mhairi took them grasshopper hunting in her garden with an absurdly large net. The taste of buttercream frosting on birthday cupcakes in the garage. The rifling of the breeze through his hair on the boat off of Skye, the life jacket cinched high and tight across his chest. He’d always felt such a thrill of adventure around Mhairi, that sunny outlook that anything could happen.
Gemma walked into the room and without so much as a greeting, gestured toward his prints. “You have four, correct?” She didn’t even go in to adjust his collar.
Guilt wrapped around him for all the times he’d taken his mother for granted. He’d needed distance sometimes from a family that was so close, but it didn’t excuse all the times he’d swatted her away, rebuffed her fussing. He would even welcome it at the moment. And surely Gemma needed to be fussed over sometimes, too.
Jack stilled her with a hand on her arm and pulled her into a hug.
Gemma stiffened as if surprised and then melted against him. “Och, Jack,” she said against his shoulder. Warm wet spots seeped through his shirt. A matching grief welled up in him, caught in his throat, pushed at the backs of his eyes.
Gemma pulled away, her eyes puffy, and waved a hand in front of her face. She headed in the direction of her room and his chest ached for all of them. He felt completely unmoored, completely useless. And he couldn’t ask the only two people who always made things better to comfort him.
Jack crossed his arms on the back of the couch and rested his head on top. He wanted to curl up and sleep, to fast-forward to when this didn’t feel like endless sadness sprawling down the road of his future.
His phone dinged in his pocket and he straightened, pulling it out. A notification popped up with an email from the gallery in Leith. His overtaxed heart gave a whimper, the slightest stirring of that damnable hope that never let him quit.
Opening the email, Jack braced himself for the inevitable rejection he’d hardened himself against, even though it always managed to slip in like a paper cut.
Dear Mr. Sutherland,
We are pleased to inform you your photograph “First Blush” has been selected for inclusion in our next gallery exhibition. Congratulations!
The selection committee was impressed by the creativity, technical skill, and unique perspective demonstrated in your work.
Details regarding the exhibition dates, opening reception, and any additional requirements will be provided in a follow-up email. In the meantime, please ensure that your artwork is ready for display, and feel free to contact us if you have any questions or require further information.
Best Regards,
Susan Landis
Curatorial Director, Portside Arts
The cut never came. Jack reread the email, not absorbing the words. Congratulations. They’d accepted him. He had a gallery spot.
“What is it?” Neil said, suddenly beside him.
Startled, Jack looked up from his phone. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. To tell his dad. To make all the fights and disappointments worthwhile.
“I got accepted to a gallery in Leith.” He could barely believe the words leaving his mouth, and understood even less that the photo to make it was not a black-and-white composition he’d been working so hard to perfect, but the one that he’d taken for Mhairi on a night where he and Brooke had felt that first blush of reconnection.
It had the depth and light and life that he wanted to capture. Clouds so soft you could feel the vastness of a summer night, resurface the smell of the briny sea air and the caress of the wind off the water. It might even elicit the musings of another life in another century or ignite the curiosity for the communities nearby.
Neil’s hand landed heavily on Jack’s shoulder. “Jack, that’s brilliant. Well done.” He looked Jack straight in the eye, said the words earnestly with genuine pride on his face.
It was all Jack had wanted. Not the gallery spot, but the credibility. The justification. But it didn’t feel at all like he’d imagined, like a balm to erase the past. The right words were there, but the euphoria he’d dreamed of was missing. Instead, there was something like resentment that he’d felt the need to justify himself at all. That he’d needed this validation.
Maybe he was too old to need his parents’ approval, but he was still their child, still hurt by their expectations he could never quite reach.
Jack hadn’t slept in days. Everything hurt and he wanted to make it worse.
“You know that’s all I ever wanted to hear from you.”
Neil’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve always told you you’re talented.”
“No, you said, ‘These would be great for The Heart’s website’ or, ‘Those will grab attention on The Heart’s social media.’ It was always about business. Never about me. ”
The rational part of Jack’s brain was aware that this was the kind of moment people told stories about when a loved one passed away and everyone lost their minds, stealing inheritances or speaking ill of the dead. Everyone’s emotions ran high and between losing Brooke and imminently, Mhairi—the only two people who had ever really seen him—Jack’s emotions were higher than he could tame.
“You pushed me into something I was ill-suited for and acted like it was the best choice for me. You had to have known it wasn’t.” You had to have seen me better than that.
Neil gave that long-suffering sigh like he knew where Jack was headed with this conversation and the fatigue only fueled Jack’s anguish.
“We knew you didn’t love guiding. But, Jack, you were so lost. We were trying to give you a direction.”
“You were holding up a mirror in the exact shape and size of Logan.”
Neil grimaced and his mustache bunched above his lip. “Logan is just like me—he was easier to parent because of that. He was easier for me to understand. But it never meant I loved you any less.” Neil slipped a hand to the curve of Jack’s shoulder and squeezed. “You never said what it was that you did want. You never committed to anything.”
“I did, once.”
The accusation hung heavy around them, the ghosts of that afternoon in this house still here, still lingering, when his parents hadn’t believed in him or supported him, but pushed him back on the path they’d forged without asking.
“Son, you’ll forgive us if the one time it was real we didn’t recognize it. We were trying to give you a purpose. The Heart had given us so much satisfaction and joy. We only wanted the same for you.”
“I’ve found it now.” And shockingly, it wasn’t Neil’s approval that Jack had been chasing for years. It wasn’t even the gallery spot.
Both those things were incredible, but they were nothing compared to the feeling of taking a photo that captured a moment that meant something to him. Jack knew the cost of not following a dream, the physical pain of leaving it tethered inside. “I’m going to start a vlog and sell photos in tourist shops in Portree. And make postcards. And maybe a fucking calendar.”
Neil beamed at him, a slight question in his eye like he might never fully understand, but he cared anyway. “I’m proud of you for naming your dream. Go after what you want.” He gave Jack one last squeeze and headed back to the kitchen.
Like everything these days, Neil’s words made Jack think about Brooke.
He’d never chased after what he wanted with her, either.
Back then, Jack had been in a position of power he never wanted to abuse. He’d been trying to be responsible. And on the trail, he’d known he’d hurt her. He hadn’t wanted to press.
But that’d been awfully fucking convenient to never have to put himself out there, to always be assured of her interest in him without having to take a risk.
He’d let her walk out of his life twice now and he’d be a damn fool if he didn’t at least tell her how he felt.