Chapter Twenty Jack
Chapter Twenty
Jack
“So anyway…he did come back around two a.m. , but I’m worried about him. He’s doing this more and more,” my mom says, lifting her coffee to her mouth for another drink.
We’re sitting at the Hot Bean (which is either the very worst or very best coffee shop name—I haven’t decided yet) because after the night she had, I thought she might need some decompressing. I invited her to Rome for the first time to see my house (from the outside because Darrell and his guys are inside working today) and tour the town. Also because I’m worried about her. I’m always worried about her actually, but especially after she calls me in tears like she did last night.
There are dark smudges under her eyes from sitting up most of the night waiting on my asshole father to come back home. Apparently when he hadn’t surfaced from his office in a while, and she wanted to make sure he was okay, she went into his office even though his door was closed (a cardinal sin to Fredrick). He blew up at her, saying she’d interrupted his flow and he wouldn’t be able to get it back now because of her. She apologized (which I hate) and said she’d leave him alone from then on, but he’s a petulant child and said it was too late, the muse was gone. He got up, grabbed his keys, and went right to his car. Wouldn’t tell her where he was going either. Classic Fredrick.
That was when she called me. Worried that he hadn’t come home yet and afraid he’d gone to a bar. After a painful moment having to watch Emily go into her house, I spent awhile talking my mom down. She texted me around two a.m. that my dad had come home safely—and thankfully, not drunk.
I study the dark circles under her eyes now, then have to avert my gaze to the coffee shop windows when a rage builds inside me. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that by him. Or anyone. You were just checking on him and he was a jerk to you. That’s not okay.”
My mom shrugs off my comment like she always does. She’s endured Fredrick’s gaslighting for so long now that she can never see when he’s manipulating her. “I shouldn’t have interrupted him, though. I know better than that—but he had missed lunch and dinner. And his stress has been so high with this book that I honestly worried something had happened to him in there.”
“Mom, those are good reasons to interrupt someone. Dad is just an entitled asshole who thinks he’s the god of creative writing and should be treated like it. It’s bullshit. There’s a difference between feeling grumpy from deadline stress and what he does. The way Dad acts is not normal or healthy.”
I’ve pushed too hard. I can see her shutting down. It’s what always happens anytime I try to bring up the truth about him. I know what she’s feeling now because I’ve felt it too: like you’re doing something wrong by calling out his toxic tendencies. Like you’re betraying him in some way even though he was the one who hurt you. I’m by no means fully healed of the wounds my dad left—I likely will be trying to cauterize them for the rest of my life—but I have spent enough time now recognizing where the wounds come from that I can talk myself through the logical truth of it all.
But my mom—I worry she’ll never get away from him long enough to find healing at all.
“Mom,” I begin gently, and adjust my glasses. “Have you ever thought of leaving him? I remember you saying once you didn’t sign a prenup—so I know you’d get money in the settlement. Probably a lot of money to keep you comfortable. You don’t have to keep enduring—”
“He has his issues”—she cuts me off—“but he’s a good man too. And he’s always taken care of me. I just need to get better at waiting until he’s out of these stressful deadlines to approach him. I’m sorry I panicked and called you last night. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that she absolutely ruined my evening. Ruined what was sure to be the best night of my life, in fact. What happened with Emily in that closet—it felt like it was always meant to happen somehow. Like the pieces of my life slotted into place the moment my mouth touched hers. All I wanted was more. Still want more.
I can’t get her off my mind. I want to spend every second of the day with her. I want to make up for every day of every year I spent fighting with her instead of loving her. Lately, it’s been seeming like she feels the same way too. I can feel it in her touch. I can see it in her smile. Hear it in the way she says my name.
Which means it’s time to tell her about my writing career. And I’m dreading it. Everything seems so hopeful between us right now, and I don’t want to mess it up. But keeping it from her and pursuing a relationship only to tell her the truth later down the line—that would mess it up. I’m not willing to hurt her like that. And this unfortunately means that until I can find a time to tell her, I can’t kiss her again.
“But listen, I’m confident your dad will come out of this mood and then be his normal self again,” Mom says, like this isn’t his normal self. Like this isn’t part of the patterns that make up who he is as a person. She’s right, though, he’ll finish his book and then lavish her with affection and attention and fun things and it’ll last for just long enough for her to believe that he truly loves her, and then he’ll rip his tenderness away as quickly as he gave it—and make her feel like his retreat is her fault. He used to do it to me too before I learned how to outsmart him.
Now I never give him pieces of myself. I have zero hope for us. It’s a weird thing to let yourself grieve your parent who is still living, but I’ve done it—do it regularly, actually. The only reason I go around their house now is because I love my mom and can’t let her weather him alone. I’m afraid he’s slowly crushing her spirit more and more each day. Which is part of why I don’t plan to ever come out from behind my pen name. If I do, I know for a fact my dad won’t welcome me in their house anymore.
Mom finishes off her coffee and sets it aside just as the bell above the door chimes. I look up, hoping to find Emily. When I realize it’s not her, my face falls before I can catch it. And of course, my mom notices and a puzzled look pulls her brows together. I don’t get much time to consider what she might think, because the two women I’ve come to understand as the matrons of the town barrel through the doorway.
“Move your ass, Harriet!” barks Mabel, coming in second. “I want to get a juice before next year.”
“I am not, and no part of me belongs to, a donkey, Mabel, so don’t refer to me as that.”
Mabel comes up beside her. “Well, I have another name in mind for you, but I don’t think you’d like that one much better.”
Harriet looks unimpressed. “I think you’d be a lot happier person if you’d use that Bible I gave you last Christmas.”
“I use it,” says Mabel indignantly. “It stabilizes my wobbly chair in the dining room.”
Harriet’s eyes widen in horror. “Don’t you tell me that you have the Lord’s holy words wedged under your rickety old chair!”
“Nothing rickety about it. My papaw made those back in the day and it’s an honor for that book to be used in such a way!” She frowns when Harriet takes one big step away. “What are you doing now, you old kook?”
“Getting far enough away from you so the lightning won’t touch me when it strikes you down!”
“Now listen—”
“Nice to see you two in good spirits today,” I say, interjecting before things escalate further. My mom looks like she’s thoroughly enjoying the show, but I’d rather nip it in the bud before an old-lady brawl takes place in front of us.
“Jack,” says Harriet. “Always nice to see—wait, who’s this sitting with you?” She and Mabel approach the table.
“Mabel, Harriet, this is my mom, Diana.”
My mom usually has anxiety meeting new people, but Mabel doesn’t give her a chance to retreat into herself. “Diana,” says Mabel, reverently. “Now that is a beautiful name you don’t hear much anymore. And look at your eyes, Lord, you and Jack are matching. They’re exactly the same color as my favorite bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
My mom laughs and then shocks the hell out of me when she says, “Do you know I love to add a splash of it now and then to my hot tea at night. I sleep like a baby.”
Mom keeps alcohol at home? She must keep it hidden if she does. Probably keeps a lot of herself hidden just like I do.
Mabel pats my mom on the shoulder. “A woman after my own heart. Welcome to Rome, Kentucky, Diana. We love your son. Now, come visit me anytime you’ve got a hankering for some Jack Daniel’s and a splash of hot tea.” Mabel winks and a minute later, they’re over at the counter ordering their Hot Bean juice to go.
“They seem nice,” my mom says, then casts a yearning look out the window at the town. “Before I had you, I wanted to live in a small town.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Oh…well. You know. Your dad really liked Evansville, so I thought it would be a nice place to live too.” She turns a fake smile back to me. “I’m glad you get to live here. I never thought you seemed happy in Evansville with Zoe.”
“I wasn’t happy there. Or with her.”
The bell above the door chimes again, and this time when I look up I find Emily walking in wearing a crisp white T-shirt tucked into faded high-waisted jeans with a brown braided belt. Her hair is in that damn clip and the memory of removing it from her hair slams into my stomach. Emily immediately approaches our table and I stand so quickly my thighs bump into it, making it wobble.
“Hi,” I say with this massive humiliating smile.
Luckily, she mirrors it back to me as she eyes my checkered white-and-green crochet knit polo. I have it open over a white tank top with gray twill trousers. There’s a necklace with sunflower beads around my neck. “Hi.”
After a beat, my mom leans forward. “Hi.”
“Oh, sorry, Emily, this is my mom, Diana. Mom, this is my…Emily.”
My mom stands so they can shake hands, and then my mom grins at me. “I didn’t know you had an Emily. It’s nice to meet you.”
Super, Mom.
Emily laughs. Actually laughs. “It’s nice to meet you too. What he was going to say but quickly changed his mind was, ‘This is my nemesis, Emily.’?” Amusement marks her face. “Your son and I have a bit of history.”
There wasn’t even a small part of me that was going to say nemesis.
“Well, you’ve got to sit down with us and tell me all about it, then,” my mom says, her eyes lighting up in a way I never saw from her when I introduced her to Zoe. Then again, she was standing next to my dad when the introductions happened—and when he’s around, she tends to hang back and let him do all the talking. It’s so good to see her like this.
Emily looks at me with an unsure expression—her golden brows pinched together. “I don’t want to intrude.”
And even though we’re not alone, I still tell her the truth. “You can intrude on me anytime you want.”