Chapter 9
Jack
Ten Weeks
“Was it weird?” David asks, his voice muffled through a mouthful of burrito. “Being at the appointment?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I’m glad I was there to support her.”
If I’m being honest with myself, it actually was a little weird. I never imagined that the first time I saw an ultrasound would be with my best friend, standing in where her husband should have been. I figured it would be with my wife, whoever she ends up being, looking at our first child together.
Not that I’ve ever really given much thought to marriage. It’s not that I’m scared of commitment, or want to sow my wild oats or whatever. I’ve just never met a woman that lights a fire in my soul. And if she doesn’t do that, what’s the point?
It doesn’t help that the three most important women in my life have set an impossible standard–Ellie, the first person I ever felt really comfortable sharing my emotions with, Granny, the strongest and most selfless person to ever walk this earth, and Abby.
Abby, with her fierce independence and indomitable spirit.
Abby, who, alongside Aaron, became the family I never really had.
It was a lonely childhood until I met David and Griffin.
Granny did her best–she was caring, and nurturing, and taught me everything I know about character.
But there’s only so much a woman in her fifties can do with a seven year old boy, especially one that shut himself away to deal with the horrors of the first years of his life.
Try as she might, there was no cracking that exterior, no coaxing me out of my shell.
It took two wild twelve year olds (who left me no choice in the matter) to finally start bringing down some of those walls.
I don’t talk much about my childhood with anyone.
It’s not exactly fun or comfortable to talk about my drug addict parents, or the way they’d leave me to fend for myself when I was too small to even pour myself a glass of milk.
The way CPS got involved when things finally came to a head.
The way I had to adjust to living with a grandmother I’d spent no time with because my dad had burned that bridge.
So yes, it might have been a little weird to be at that appointment. But I would do anything for any one of the five friends who I call my family. Especially one dealing with the kind of heartache very few people have experienced so young.
I’ve never lost a spouse, but I know heartache.
“I’m glad you were there, too,” Griffin agrees, wiping at his shirt where he just dropped an entire chip’s worth of salsa. “You’ve been there a lot recently. I feel like I’ve seen your car more than normal.”
“I’ve been bringing her food,” I say. “And she called me the other day because some awful girls were mean to her at the pharmacy.”
Both of their eyebrows raise, but I wave them off.
“It was a whole thing,” I say nonchalantly, avoiding the details.
Every time I think about it I get fired up again, and I don’t want to ruin lunch.
“But she didn’t want to be alone, so I was there.
The house feels different now. Quieter. I sit at home and think about her alone in that house, and before I know it I’m at her door,” I explain.
In a lower voice, I add, “I just can’t stand the thought of her feeling alone, even for a second. ”
“I’ll make sure we’re better about going over there,” Griffin promises, guilt flickering across his face. “I mean we’re just across the street, you shouldn’t have to drive over there constantly. It’s tough when Ellie travels for work, part of me feels weird going over there without her.”
“Yeah,” David agrees. “Me and Abby never hang out. I’d do anything for her, obviously, she’s been one of us since Ellie came into the picture. But I think it’d be weird for us both if I just showed up.”
“I get it,” I say reassuringly. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, or make you do anything. It makes sense for me to be there. I don’t think she’s upset with you, either. I don’t think she has the energy to think about it.”
And besides, I like being the one there for her. I think I’d be uncomfortable if it was anyone else–out of loyalty to Aaron, and to Abby. It should be me.
It also keeps the guilt at bay, even a little. It’s the least I can do for her.
I quickly shove those thoughts down. Maybe I’ll allow myself to look into that corner of my mind someday. But that day is not today.
“Okay, but what about you man? Who’s there for you?”
“You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, my tone hardening. “It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling. She’s the one we should care about.”
“We care about you too, bro,” David says, frowning. “There’s no use in pretending that you didn’t also go through something fucking horrible. We have room to care for both of you. You just have to let us.”
“It’s okay to admit if you’re struggling, Jack,” Griffin adds. “It kills me to think that you’re carrying what happened by yourself, the same way it kills you to think that Abby might be lonely.”
I don’t want to have this conversation. We haven’t had it for a reason. I can’t even get close to the subject without flashbacks ripping painfully through my body.
“C’mon man, stay with us. Don’t do this, you gotta fight.”
“I’m fine, really,” I say, shaking the memory from my head. “I’m dealing with it.”
Griffin stares at me, looking troubled, but he doesn’t push. He knows better. We both do–pushing me about it will just make me want to talk about it even less. It’s always been like that.
But he’s going to make me talk about it eventually. Being known so well is a real pain in the ass sometimes.
***
The beeping of the microwave overlaps with the start of the show intro, and I yank the bag out, burning my fingers in the process.
"Jack, hurry up! You're missing it!" Abby shouts from the living room.
"I'm working on it!" I holler back, haphazardly dumping the popcorn into a large bowl, making a mess that is definitely a problem for later.
I rush into the room, launching myself onto the couch and colliding with Abby, spilling popcorn over us both as Jesse Palmer begins his season-opening monologue.
"I'm so fucking excited," she says, her voice muffled by the fistful of popcorn she just shoved in her mouth. "God, I missed reality TV."
For ages, me, Abby, and Aaron measured our years not by the seasons, but by which reality show we're watching. Everything from Survivor to The Real Housewives (Salt Lake City is the best one, hands down) to Dancing With The Stars—if there's any amount of drama, we're there.
"Remember when Aaron damn near broke the TV throwing the remote when Hannah picked Jed over Tyler?" I say, grinning at the memory.
"Oh, he was so mad," she gasps. "I'd never seen him that heated about anything before."
"But that was nothing compared to you when Jen Shah got arrested," I say. "I think you were more excited about that than your wedding day."
"Shah-mazing is still in my regular vocabulary," she says. "I wish I could send her flowers to thank her."
"I'll never get over the fact that both of your hall passes is Jeff Probst," I chuckle, shaking my head. "Aaron might have loved that man more than you."
"And he's right," she laughs. "That's the correct opinion."
We fall into comfortable silence, watching as two dozen sparkle-clad women pour out of one limousine after another in the hopes of finding the love of their life.
"I wish he were here," she says quietly.
"Me too," I reply gently, reaching over to grab her hand. "Me too."
"Thank you," she says, her eyes finding mine.
"For what?" I ask.
"For talking about him like a normal person," she says, turning her attention back to the TV. "People are always so scared to bring him up, like it might break me."
"The last thing you are is breakable," I say firmly. "We're not taught how to deal with grief. It's one of our biggest flaws as a society. We just pretend it doesn't happen, and avoid thinking about it at all costs. But I don't want to avoid thinking about Aaron, I want to remember my friend."
"You were the most incredible friend to him," she says, looking at me again. "To both of us. I know how much it would mean to him that you've been here, even for something as simple as watching reality TV. He'd be glad we're keeping the tradition alive."
"Speaking of traditions, I have a confession," I say sheepishly. "Don't make fun of me."
"You know I can't promise that," she teases.
"I got tickets to the final game of the season for the Rangers," I say, my eyes locked on the half-empty popcorn bowl.
"I'm planning on going by myself, and saving that second seat empty in his honor.
I don't know, I think it'll be good for me, to do something we loved, and leave that room for him. Is that stupid?"
She removes the bowl from my hands, setting it on the coffee table before sitting up on her knees and wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
"No, I don't think that's stupid," she murmurs. "I think that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. He would love that."
"You don't think I'll look like a weirdo?" I ask nervously, leaning into her touch.
"You probably will," she says. "But that's because you're you, not because you'll be alone."
"I should have seen that coming," I grumble, playfully pushing her away as she cackles.
"Are you sure you want to go alone though?" she asks in a more serious tone, settling back into her seat. "I would go with you, if you want."
"You hate baseball."
"Yeah, but I love you."
My stomach clenches uncomfortably at those words—not because we haven't said them a thousand times, not because they mean anything different than they always have, but because it's usually a 'we.' We love you. There's no 'we' anymore, there's just her. The reality of it is almost unbearable.
"No, it's okay," I say, clearing my throat to fend off the emotion threatening to rip through me. "I really do want to do this alone."
"Oh good," she sighs. "I was hoping you wouldn't take me up on it. Now can we rewind this? I think I saw a girl drive up in a clown car but we completely missed it."
"You got it."