Chapter 3 Jack
THREE
JACK
I think I’m having an identity crisis.
There’s no other explanation for why I’m standing in my bathroom with kitchen scissors, a plastic mixing bowl, and a box of bleach that expired two months ago.
I stare at myself in the mirror; the mullet stares back.
I’ve been growing my hair out for six months now. It started as a joke. Elsie told me it made me look like a washed-up country singer, which only strengthened my resolve. Then Isla made a face one day, like she’d bitten into a lemon, and I pretended that didn’t affect me at all.
Anyway. Six months later, it’s . . . bad.
And now I’m hacking it away like a man possessed.
Clumps fall into the sink, uneven and sad. It’s a crime against hair but also freeing in a way. This is what people do when they’re spiraling, right? Chop bangs. Change their hair color. Move to Europe.
I don’t have bangs or a passport, so this is what I’ve got to work with.
My hands are a little shaky, mostly because today was long. I woke up before dawn to finish the brownstone job in Hartford, then drove home through rough traffic and a highway accident.
Wells was busy tonight. My other buddy, Reid, was babysitting. I swung by the Harbor Light, our local bar, for a drink, hoping maybe I’d distract myself with a hookup. I considered it, anyway. Considered letting somebody laugh at my jokes and drag me home to distract me for the night.
The idea never made it past the barstool.
Besides, there are approximately three single women between the ages of twenty-seven and forty in this county. Two of them have restraining orders against their exes, and the third is engaged to a dentist who collects swords.
Not the best talent pool.
Alas, I’m here alone, butchering my hair.
“Disaster,” I mutter. “Absolute disaster.”
I rip open the bleach bottle, squint at the instructions, and dump half the powder into the bowl. It puffs up like I summoned a demon. I cough, nearly choke, and mix it with the developer until it thickens.
There’s a warning on the side: Test on a small strand first.
Yeah, whatever.
I slather the mixture onto the top of my head. The smell hits me so hard my eyes water, and I stumble back into the towel rack. I grab the counter, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait for the fog in my skull to clear.
Once I’m fully coated in chemical doom, I wrap my head in plastic wrap.
God, I look ridiculous. I look like a grocery store rotisserie chicken.
I sit on the closed toilet, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. I want a cigarette so badly my body aches. I’m craving that sense of control.
But I quit smoking five years ago, and I’m not crawling back now.
After ten minutes of marinating, I pull out my phone.
I shouldn’t call my sister. I know this. She’ll mock me. She’ll tell our mother. She’ll blow this way overboard and act like I’m in crisis mode.
I do it anyway.
“What’s up, old man?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically. “Just calling to see what you’re doing.”
“Jack,” she says flatly. “What do you need?”
Why is it that no one in my life believes I’d call them for no reason, that I’d need a reason to call at all?
My sister, Mel, is still in college. She gets good grades without becoming unbearable about it and has always had a gift for ribbing me. We’ve been close forever. She’s funny, sharp, annoyingly perceptive, and one of my favorite people alive.
She is also, with great consistency, a pain in my ass.
I scrub a hand over my plastic-wrapped head. “If someone with brown hair wanted to go lighter—”
“Oh my God. Are you bleaching your hair?”
“Hypothetically.”
“Are you okay? Do you smell burnt toast? Did a woman destroy your life?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can you focus?”
“Describe the situation.”
“I cut my hair earlier.”
“Professionally?”
“. . . with kitchen scissors.”
She wheezes. “Is it even?”
“It’s hair shaped. Mostly.”
“Okay, what level of developer are you using?”
“What?”
She groans. “Text me a picture of the box.”
I snap a picture and send it.
She gasps. “Oh, Jack. Oh no. That is so not your color. That is not your undertone. That is not—what possessed you?”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” I say. “It’s still processing.”
“How long has it been on?”
“Ten minutes.”
“How long does the box say?”
“Not sure. I was gonna let it sit for like an hour.”
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Do not leave it on that long. You’ll fry your scalp. Set a timer for fifteen and rinse.”
“Fifteen from when?”
“Jack!” she screams.
I flinch and check the clock. “Okay, okay. I’ll rinse in . . . a few minutes.”
“You know what? Just FaceTime me. I need to see the damage in real time.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Nooo.”
“Jack,” she says sweetly. “If you don’t show me your head right now, I will text Mom, tell her you’re going through something, and need her to come visit.”
Our mom is loving but intense. The kind of woman who once drove three towns over because I sounded “sniffly” on the phone. She would absolutely show up and rearrange my entire house out of concern.
I make a strangled sound. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
I switch us over to FaceTime.
Mel gasps again. “You look like a baked potato. Oh, Jacky, did you lose a bet?”
“I’m just . . . stressed. Work. Life. People.”
“Name the people.”
“No.”
“Fine. Let me guess. One of your employees? Wells? Reid?”
“No.”
I’m not exactly in the habit of confiding in my sister.
Complaining, yes. That’s practically a shared hobby.
I can call her any day of the week to gripe about work, roast Wells for being emotionally constipated, or give her updates on whichever friend is currently making bad choices with confidence.
She doesn’t usually get the stuff that actually keeps me up at night. Maybe because she’s my little sister. Maybe because once I say a thing out loud to her, it starts sounding more real than I’m prepared to deal with.
“Is it Isla?”
I groan, immediately annoyed. “Good night.”
“Wait, Jacky, what if—”
I hang up. Then I stare at the ceiling for a second, feeling ridiculous and bleach-scented and very, very tired. When the timer dings, I rinse in the shower. The water turns cloudy.
I towel off and look in the mirror. My hair is still chestnut brown underneath, but on the top, it’s pale in some spots, orange in others, and patchy all over. A crime scene for cosmetologists everywhere.
I deserve this, don’t I?
I thought this would look good, somehow. A cool-tone blond guy with an earring is a step above mullet man with a tool belt, right? Besides, Isla likes blonds. She told me that once, when I said they looked prepubescent. She didn’t hesitate to set me straight.
Fuck. Control, I remind myself, is an illusion. I can’t conjure it with chemicals any more than I can conjure it with a hammer.
Accepting defeat for the evening, I drift into the living room.
My place isn’t much. It’s a two-bedroom with wide-plank floors and ceilings low enough that I’ve cracked my skull more than once.
The furniture is mismatched, mostly secondhand, and half the rooms still look temporary in a way I keep meaning to fix and never do.
It was cheap, close to work, and good enough to get me started. The house never really became home. Blue Willow did that part for me.
I flop onto the couch, legs sprawled, and grab the remote.
Nothing on TV looks good. Nothing sounds good. I need noise, though, so I land on an old Clint Eastwood movie where everyone communicates through grimaces, nods, and emotionally repressed violence.
Still, I can’t focus.
My head feels hazy. My stomach’s doing slow, unhappy rolls.
I want a cigarette. I want a stiff drink. I want . . . something.
Instead, I reach for my phone and start scrolling through my usual apps. Local news. UConn basketball scores. A dating app I still get notifications from, even though I haven’t swiped with any real conviction in ages.
For whatever self-destructive reason, I type Mirabelle Orchard into the search bar of Google. A list of articles pops up, most of them old. I click one from eight years ago, before everything went sideways, before Isla’s mother walked out on them.
There they are. The Winslows. A smiling family standing under a canopy of plum blossoms. Her dad is younger and livelier here. Her mom is freckled and smiling. And Isla—God—she looks so damn happy.
I zoom in.
Her hair was longer then, still pin straight. Her smile was easier, too. She didn’t know me yet. I came into town the next year and ruffled her feathers right away. Blue Willow’s mayor, Bobby, told me she could use some help with a run of storm-damaged fence posts.
When I showed up with a toolbox and a smart-ass attitude, she accused me of looking too pleased with myself before I’d even unloaded the truck. I said she looked pretty enough to forgive me for it. I don’t know how or why, but that worked on her.
I asked her on a date that same day. Friday night at the Harbor Light. Then, because I’m a dipshit, I stood her up. I wasn’t ready for commitment back then. I didn’t know her. I didn’t know what this town or the people in it would come to mean to me, either.
I fucked up big-time. I know that now.
When I showed up a week later to finish the job, she stared at me for a long second, then told me if I touched her fence again without asking, she’d have the sheriff run me out of town.
I’m still staring at the picture when her name flashes across my screen.
I jerk like I’ve been electrocuted. The phone flies out of my hand, bounces off my knee, and skitters under the coffee table. “Shit—shit—dammit—”
I dive for it, smack my forehead on the corner, and let out a low, strained groan. Finally, I snag the phone, roll onto my back, and blink through the pain pulsing behind my eye.
I accept the call. “Winslow?”
“Ew, why are you out of breath?”
I snort. “Why are you calling me?”
“You first.”
“I hit my head.”
“Oh my God,” she says, but not in a concerned way. More like she’s embarrassed on my behalf. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Totally fine.” I sit up and rub my forehead. “What’s up?”
A beat. Then another. I can hear wind on her end, the subtle whoosh of her moving around. “It’s just . . .” She clears her throat. “Your sister texted me.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor. “. . . Which sister?”
“Your only sister,” she says dryly. “Mel.”
“That little shit,” I mutter. “Meddling know-it-all.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“She said she was worried about you and wondered if I could drop by your house.” There’s an awkward pause. “I told her I was already out, so I’d call first in case you were just being a petulant older brother and worrying her for no reason.”
I run a hand down my face. “I’m good, Isla. Genuinely. Mel shouldn’t have texted you.”
“She’s in another state and panicked. She’s just being a good sister.”
“Still. She shouldn’t have called you.”
A full-on awkward and jittery silence stretches between us.
Then, quietly, “I would do it, you know.”
My brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Check on you,” she says. A small huff, then, “I . . . care about what happens to you.”
I blink. “Did you just gag?”
“Jack.”
“What? I know it must’ve been hard for you to admit basic human emotion.”
“I mean it.”
I know she does.
Isla ribs me because it’s how she breathes, but underneath all that bristle, she’s the most loyal, trustworthy, maddeningly big-hearted person in this entire town. She’s always cared about me, even when she pretends she’d trade me in for store-brand fertilizer.
We’ve always had something warm under the snark. A fondness neither of us ever names. I know she resents me for being flaky, but six years can do a lot to a person.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, because I can’t sit in that feeling too long without combusting. “I should be worried about you.”
“What? Why?”
“You’ve been way crankier than usual, which leads me to believe you’ve not been sleeping properly.”
“I’m just busy.”
“You’ve always been busy.” I rub the back of my neck. “Should I bribe Elsie or Winnie into spilling whatever it is you’re hiding?”
Winnie Marlow owns the wildflower farm and apiaries out west, land that hums with the same quiet magic as the other legacy properties in town. Honey that soothes aches and settles restless bodies.
She’s also one of Isla’s closest friends.
“I haven’t told them yet,” she snaps immediately. Then, softer, “Wait. Shit.”
“So, there is something to tell.” I stand and start pacing, because sitting suddenly feels like trying to swallow a brick. “You can tell me, you know.”
“Why,” she asks, exasperated, “out of everyone in the entire world, would I confide in the most annoying man I’ve ever known?”
“Because I’m good at keeping secrets. And you don’t have to impress me. You already care so little what I think.”
“Fuck, fine.” She lets out a huff. “Do you know a place called Luxe?”
Do I know it?
Do I fucking know it?
I bark out a laugh. “I spent my twenty-first birthday there sleeping on a broken velvet couch. I’ve installed shelving in their VIP room. I rewired that ridiculous crystal chandelier that flickers every time someone reheats a burrito in the back room. Yeah, I know it.”
Silence ensues. It’s long enough that something prickles at the base of my spine. My amusement melts into slow, creeping confusion.
“Why?” I ask. “You lose a shoe there or something? Did a manager stiff you on jam money? What?”
Another long beat of silence. “Jack,” she says quietly. “Think about it just a little harder.”
I do think about it. I think about the ugly curtains, the purple stage lights, and the glossy floors. The bouncers built like retired linebackers. The dancers who walk like they own the city.
My brain gnaws on the possibility, then refuses to swallow. “No,” I say. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Way . . . what?” I press, leaning forward. “You go there? You’re dating someone there?”
She groans. “Just say it, Jack.”
No fuckin’ way. “I’m not saying anything until you tell me in your own words first.”
“I hate you.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Now, tell me.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds vaguely like homicide. Then, “I work there.”
Every neuron in my skull lights up. “At Luxe,” I repeat slowly. “You . . . work there.”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?” I ask, knowing full well, needing her to say it anyway. “Because I know they hire bartenders. Hostesses. Stage managers. Someone’s gotta order the fog fluid. Could be anything, really. So maybe you’re—”
“I’m a dancer, Jack.”
The words hit like a glitter-coated hammer. “Holy shit.”
She sighs, deep and defensive. “Can you not do that thing where you get weird? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell anyone.”
“Okay, I won’t,” I say. “Totally chill. Un-weird. Very normal response. And you’ve been secretly moonlighting as a midnight ballerina for how long, exactly?”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Wait—”
The line goes dead.