Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Madison
He opened the door before I'd finished knocking.
He looked like the night had happened to him.
Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from hours of sitting in the same position, the hollowness around the eyes of someone who had been running on adrenaline and was now just running on nothing.
He looked at me, and something in his face did a complicated, hopeful thing that he immediately tried to shove back into the dark.
"She just fell asleep," he said, his voice sandpaper. "Ten minutes ago. Like it was nothing." He gave a short, humorless exhale. "I tried calling you back but you were probably already on the road. Sorry for waking you. You didn't have to—"
"I'm coming in," I said.
He stepped back and let me in.
The house had that specific 4:00 AM quality—too quiet, too still, where every creak of a floorboard sounded like a gunshot.
I went to the kitchen, found the kettle, and filled it without asking.
Jack sat down at the table, put his elbows on it, and buried his face in his hands. He stayed like that, motionless.
I got two mugs. Found the tea. Waited for the kettle.
"Are you okay?" I said.
"Yeah." He lifted his head, his palms leaving red marks on his forehead. "I'm fine. I just need a minute."
I gave him the look I used on patients who tried to tell me their pain was a three when their vitals said it was an eight.
"I'm fine," he said again.
The kettle reached a screaming boil and clicked off. I poured the water over the tea bags, set a mug in front of him, and sat down across the table with mine. The steam rose between us, a small, white veil.
"You don't look okay," I said.
"I am." He wrapped both hands around the mug, leaning into the heat of it as if he were trying to thaw out. "It's just been a long night. She's settled now, the crisis is over, and—"
"Jack."
He stopped.
"Don't do that," I said. "Stop doing the thing where you compress everything down into nothing and say you're fine.
You're not fine. You've been sitting in a dark room for hours with a five year old calling for her dead mother and you called me at three in the morning because you didn't know what else to do, and none of that is okay. You're allowed to say that out loud."
Silence.
He looked at me for a moment—not the careful look, not the controlled one. Just surprised. Like I'd broken through something he hadn't known was there.
Then he looked down at the mug.
I waited.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said at last. His voice was so low it barely cleared the rim of the mug.
It was the sound of a confession that had been rotting behind a closed door for weeks.
"Some days I think I do. I get through the day and she eats her cereal and goes to school and does her homework and I think—okay. Maybe I can do this."
He turned the mug in a slow, mechanical rotation, eyes fixed on the movement.
"And then a night like tonight happens and I just—" He stopped and shook his head.
"I don't know what I'm doing, Maddie. I don't know if I'm doing any of it right.
I don't know what she needs half the time, I don't know if I'm saying the right things or if I'm making it worse or—"
"You're not making it worse."
"You don't know that." He looked up then, and the doubt in his eyes was almost painful to look at.
"I do, actually." I held his gaze. "I've watched you with her. You're not making it worse."
He looked at the table, his knuckles white against the ceramic of the mug.
. "I'm scared," he said. "I can't… I can't fuck this up.
She's all I've got left of Cassie and I can't—" His voice did something at the end of that, just briefly, before he got hold of it. "I can't be the thing that fails her."
The kitchen was very, very quiet.
I thought about what I knew of him. The man who'd flown in the same night he got the call.
Who'd sorted housing and a job inside two weeks.
Who'd stood in a supermarket aisle with a school lunch list on his phone looking like he'd fight anyone who questioned whether he was going to figure it out.
Who'd sat in a dark room for three hours holding a child who was calling for someone he couldn't be, and held on anyway.
"You called me," I said, trying to keep my voice steady for both of us. "When you needed to, you called someone. You reached out. That's not a man who's going to fail her. That’s a man who’s doing whatever it takes."
He didn't say anything, but I saw his jaw set, a familiar line of tension.
"The scared part," I added softly, "that’s the part that means you’re doing it right. The ones who don't care aren't scared."
He looked up at me. His eyes were red at the edges, the lines in his face deeper than usual.
His face had the stripped-down quality of someone who had nothing left to manage himself with.
And I was sitting across the table from him at four in the morning, still in my coat, with my tea going cold, and I was so… God, I was just completely, hopelessly—
I looked at my mug, focusing on the dark surface of the liquid.
"She's going to have more nights like this," I said. "That's just the truth of it. Grief doesn't have a schedule. But she has you, and you're going to sit in the dark with her every time, because that's what you do." I paused. "You don't have to know what you're doing. You just have to stay."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"You sound like you've been waiting to say that," he said. His voice was a low rasp, and for a second, I wasn't sure if he was talking about tonight or a lifetime ago.
"Maybe I have been."
He didn't look away, and for a second, the exhaustion in the room seemed to shift into something… sharper.
"I keep thinking about what you said," he began, his voice barely a murmur. "At the door. That night after the first dinner." He turned his attention back to his mug, tracing the rim with a thumb. "That you were glad I was back."
The kitchen was very still.
The kitchen felt smaller then, the walls closing in until there was nothing left but the two of us and the steam rising from our tea. I looked at him, at the weariness etched into his face, and at the way he’d just laid that memory out on the table between us without any armor.
"I meant it," I said.
He didn't say anything. So I kept going, because it was four in the morning and I was tired and the careful distance had been very hard to maintain for a very long time.
"I was convinced I'd never see you again," I said. "I’d spent years believing you were just... gone. Out there somewhere at the edge of the world, or maybe past it. I’d made my peace with the fact that that was how it ended."
I hesitated for a moment, but then continued. What else was there to do? "And then there you were. In that lobby. And with everything—Cassie, Lily, all of it—" I stopped, the next word catching in my throat. "I was glad. Which is stupid. I know it's stupid. But I was."
He didn't move. He sat so still he could have been carved from the same wood as the table, his eyes fixed on me with a terrifying intensity.
"I just needed to say that out loud," I added. "Just once."
"Maddie," he said. "I—"
"Not that I've forgotten," I said. "What happened. I haven't forgotten a second of it."
He closed his mouth, the words he’d been about to offer dying behind his teeth.
I ran a hand through my hair. What was I doing?
It was four in the morning, Jack had just had the worst night of his life, and I was sitting here unspooling things that had been packed away for twelve years.
I was treating his kitchen like a confessional, picking at old scabs as if this were somehow the time or the place for it.
"Sorry," I said. "This isn't—not tonight." I looked away, my heart doing a slow, painful thud against my ribs. "Maybe not ever."
The silence that followed felt… different. Not bad. Just… different. We'd said more than we'd planned to and were now sitting with it.
Jack nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the table as if he were memorizing the grain of the wood. "Maybe I shouldn't... call you like this. Again. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you into—"
"I'm glad you called," I said. I didn't let him finish the apology. I didn't let him retreat back into that self-imposed exile where he thinks he has to handle the world with nothing but a toolbox and a steady jaw.
He met my eyes.
I didn't say anything else. There was more there, right at the surface, and I could feel it wanting to come out. But I was done. I was hollowed out for one night.
I pushed back from the table and stood. I found my coat and he stood too, following me to the door. In the hallway we stopped.
He was close. Close enough that I was aware of the warmth of him, of the specific way he was looking at me—not asking, not pushing, just looking, the way he'd always looked when he was trying to memorize something.
I put my hand on his arm. Just for a second. Just that.
"Get some sleep," I said.
"Yeah," he said, his voice thick.
I went.