Chapter 8
Jax
Mrs. Parsons' apartment looks like a tornado hit it, if tornadoes specifically targeted photo albums and threw them everywhere. She's sitting in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by decades of memories, crying quietly while Sarah tries to comfort her.
"She's been like this for an hour," Sarah tells us, exhausted. "Every time we pack something, she unpacks it. Says Uncle Harold needs his things organized a specific way."
Kendall immediately drops to her knees beside Mrs. Parsons, not caring about her nice slacks. "Mrs. Parsons, it's me. Kendall."
The elderly woman looks up, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, Kendall dear. Harold's going to be so angry. I can't find his reading glasses, and now they want to take Gertie away."
"Gertie's safe," Kendall says gently. "Remember? She's on vacation."
"No, no. She's at that awful place with the cages. Harold went to get her, but they wouldn't let him have her back." Mrs. Parsons clutches a photo of her late husband. "He loves that goat. Says she makes him laugh."
Sarah catches my eye and mouths ‘all morning’.
I pull out my phone and step into the hallway. This is probably the worst idea I've had in a long time, but seeing Mrs. Parsons so distressed, and Kendall trying so hard to comfort her...
"Declan? I need a favor. A big one."
"Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?" he says.
"Remember how animal control lost Gertie the other day?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, they're about to lose her again. Temporarily. For therapeutic purposes."
There's a long pause. "Jax, no."
"Just for a few hours. Mrs. Parsons needs to say goodbye properly."
"You're asking me to steal a goat. From animal control. For closure."
"Borrow. I'm asking you to borrow a goat."
"This violates at least six regulations not to mention several laws."
"Seven, actually. I counted."
Another pause. "Fine. I'll distract the animal control officer and borrow the goat."
"You're a good friend."
"I'm an enabler is what I am. There's a difference."
Twenty minutes later, I'm leading Gertie on a leash through the building's back entrance, wondering how my life has come to this. The goat seems pleased with the field trip, prancing along like she owns the place. Which, given her history here, she probably thinks she does.
"Is that—" Kendall starts when I appear in Mrs. Parsons' doorway with Gertie.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," I tell her.
Mrs. Parsons' face transforms completely. "Gertie! Oh, Harold, you found her!"
The goat immediately trots over and nuzzles the elderly woman's hand. Mrs. Parsons laughs—the first genuine happiness she's shown all morning.
"This is illegal," Kendall whispers to me.
"Probably."
"Definitely. You could lose your job."
"Probably."
"Why?"
I watch Mrs. Parsons showing Gertie all the photo albums, talking to the goat like she understands every word. "Because sometimes the rules aren't as important as doing what's right."
Kendall looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "You've changed."
"Maybe. Or maybe I finally figured out what actually matters." I look directly at her.
Sarah approaches us, tears in her eyes. "Thank you. This is... thank you."
"We need to Gertie-proof the apartment before she destroys anything," I say, noticing the goat eyeing a potted plant with obvious intent.
"I’m on it," Kendall says, moving the plant to a higher shelf.
We spend the next hour in controlled chaos.
Mrs. Parsons talks to Gertie about every photo, every memory.
The goat, surprisingly, stays relatively calm, occasionally bleating in what seems like agreement.
Sarah uses the distraction to pack essentials while Kendall and I create a barrier of furniture to keep Gertie from the more valuable items.
"She ate my arrest certification," I mutter as Gertie munches on a corner of paper I didn't move fast enough out of her reach.
"Technically, that's destruction of official documents," Kendall says, but she's smiling. "That's got to be at least three more violations."
"Add it to the list."
We work in comfortable rhythm, anticipating each other's moves. When Gertie heads for the kitchen, Kendall's already there with a handful of carrots for distraction. When Mrs. Parsons gets agitated about a missing album, I find it under the couch.
"You two make a good team," Sarah observes. "Like you've done this before."
"We've had practice," Kendall says, then catches herself. "I mean, with the goat. Earlier this week."
Sarah smiles knowingly. "Sure. The goat."
Mrs. Parsons suddenly stands, surprisingly steady. "Harold, remember our first apartment? That tiny place above the bakery?"
"That sounds nice," I whisper.
She looks right at me, and for a moment, her eyes are completely clear. "You're not Harold."
"No, ma'am. I'm Jax."
"Jax." She studies me. "You're the boy who broke Kendall's heart."
The room goes very still. Even Gertie stops chewing.
"Yes," I say quietly. "I am."
Mrs. Parsons nods slowly. "Harold broke my heart once too. We were young. He thought he knew better, thought he was protecting me by leaving." She reaches out and pats my hand. "Men always think leaving is noble. It's not. It's just stupid."
"Mrs. Parsons—" Kendall starts.
"But he came back," the elderly woman continues. "Took him three years, but he came back. Got down on his knees right in front of my mother and everyone at church and begged me to forgive him." She smiles at the memory. "I made him wait a week before I said yes."
"A week?" Sarah asks.
"Well, three days. But it felt like a week." Mrs. Parsons' clarity starts to fade again. "Harold? Where's Gertie going?"
The goat has discovered the bathroom and is now attempting to eat a towel. Kendall rushes to intervene while I help Mrs. Parsons back to her chair.
"Don't wait too long," she whispers to me. "Pride's a cold bedfellow."
"You're right," I tell her. "It is."
The afternoon wears on. We pack, we redirect Gertie; we listen to stories that jump between decades. Mrs. Parsons shows us her wedding album, narrating each photo to Gertie, who seems genuinely interested, though that might just be because the album binding looks edible.
"This was our first dance," Mrs. Parsons says, pointing to a black-and-white photo. "Harold stepped on my dress and tore the hem. I was so mad." She laughs. "Seems silly now"
“What seems silly?" Kendall asks, sitting beside her.
"Being mad about things that don't matter. Like torn dresses. Or broken promises." She looks at Kendall with another moment of clarity. "He came back to you, dear. That's what matters."
Kendall's eyes find mine across the room. There's something there—a question, maybe, or an answer to a question I haven't asked yet.
"I should take Gertie back," I say eventually, checking my phone. "Before someone notices she's gone."
"Gone from where?" Kendall asks with exaggerated innocence.
"Right. Gone from her vacation." I quickly correct myself.
We go through an elaborate goodbye ritual. Mrs. Parsons kisses Gertie's head, tells her to be good, and gives her Harold's old tie to remember them by. The goat accepts it solemnly, then tries to eat it.
"Be a good goat, Gertie," Mrs. Parsons says. "Harold will visit you soon."
I lead Gertie back through the building, Kendall walking with me. The hallway is empty, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.
"That was really kind," she says softly. "What you risked."
"It was worth it."
"Even if you get fired?"
"Even then."
"You broke at least ten regulations."
"Twelve, if we're being specific."
"You counted?"
"I like to be thorough in my rule-breaking. I am a criminal mastermind, you know?"
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest. "Officer By-the-Book, breaking twelve regulations for a goat."
"Not for the goat. For Mrs. Parsons." I pause. "For you."
We reach the back entrance, and I hand Gertie's leash to Declan, who's waiting with the animal control van.
"You owe me," he says. "So much. Like, your firstborn child much."
"Put it on my tab."
"The tab is full, dude. We need a second tab." He looks at Gertie, who has somehow acquired Mrs. Parsons' scarf in addition to the tie and is wearing both like fashion statements. "Is the goat wearing accessories?"
"She's fashion-forward." I tell him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm not explaining this to animal control." He drives off, muttering about goats and regulations and needing new friends.
"We should get back," Kendall says. "Help finish the packing."
But neither of us moves. We're standing in the narrow hallway by the back entrance, and suddenly I'm very aware of how close we are. The afternoon light catches the gold flecks in her eyes, and there's a smudge of dust on her cheek from moving boxes.
"You have..." I reach up, thumb brushing the dust away.
She doesn't move, doesn't breathe. "One of the rules," she says quietly.
"Which one?"
"About emotion overriding logic. You broke it today. Completely shattered it, actually."
"I did." I nod in agreement.
"For Mrs. Parsons."
"Yes."
"And for me."
"Especially for you."
She looks up at me, and there's something in her eyes I haven't seen in ten years. "That's dangerous. Choosing emotion over logic."
"Maybe. Or maybe logic's overrated."
"Says the cop who has the entire ordinance manual memorized."
"Said. Past tense." I step closer. "Things change."
"Do they?"
"I have."
The air between us shifts, thickens. She's close enough that I can smell her shampoo—still vanilla, after all this time. Her lips part slightly, and I know I should step back, maintain a professional distance, remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea.
"We should go back," she whispers, but doesn't move.
"We should."
"This is complicated."
"Very."
"There are a million reasons why—"
"Kendall."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
I pull her to me, or she pulls me—I'm not sure who moves first. But suddenly she's pressed against me, my hands in her hair, her fingers gripping my shirt, and we're kissing like the world's ending.
She tastes like coffee and bacon, and every good morning I've missed for ten years. The kiss is desperate, unapologetic, promising—a conversation without words. I back her against the wall, and she makes a sound that shorts circuits my brain entirely.
"God, I missed you," I breathe against her lips.
"Shut up and keep kissing me," she responds, pulling me back down.
Her hands slide under my shirt, nails scraping against my skin, and I forget how to think. I lift her slightly, pressing her more firmly against the wall, and she gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping—
My phone explodes with alerts. Not a call, but the emergency tone I set for emergencies.
"No," Kendall groans against my mouth. "Not now."
"Ignore it," I say, kissing down her throat.
But the alerts keep coming. Multiple notifications, the sound increasingly urgent.
"Jax," she says, though her hands are still under my shirt. "You should—"
"I should keep kissing you? You’re right."
"The phone—"
"Can wait."
But it can't. The emergency tone turns into an actual call from Captain Ramirez.
I answer, trying to sound like I haven't been making out in a hallway like a teenager. "Masterson."
"Building 3. Major vandalism. Someone smashed every ground-floor window and..." He pauses. "There's a message. You need to see this."
I put him on speaker so Kendall can hear. "What kind of message?"
"'QUIT NOW OR NEXT TIME IT GOES UP IN SMOKE.' Written in paint and smells like gasoline."
Kendall goes rigid against me. "Gasoline?"
"We've got units responding now. But Jax, this is escalating beyond property damage. This is a terroristic threat."
"I’ll be right there."
I hang up, and Kendall's already stepping away, switching into crisis mode. But I can see the fear underneath the professional facade.
"Fire," she whispers. "They're threatening fire."
"We won't let that happen."
"You can't promise that." She says, shaking her head.
"Watch me." I’m determined to end this for once and for all.
She looks at me, and there's so much in her expression—fear, determination, and something else. Something that looks like trust.
"Okay," she says. "Let's go."
We head for the car, both of us disheveled, and it’s obvious about what we were just doing. Mrs. Patterson is in the lobby and gives us a knowing look.
"Finally," she says. "About time you two figured it out."
"Mrs. Patterson—" Kendall starts.
"Oh, honey, the entire building's been placing bets. Gladys wins, by the way. She had 'passionate hallway encounter' for today."
"The Walking Ladies are betting on us?" Kendall asks, horrified.
"Everyone's betting on you. The pot's up to eight hundred dollars." She winks. "Better than reality TV."
We don't have time to process that. Building 3 needs us. But as I drive, breaking several traffic laws, I can still taste her on my lips, feel her hands on my skin.
"Jax?" Kendall says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"When this is over—the threats, the vandalism, all of it—we need to talk."
"I know."
"I mean really talk. About us. About what this means. About whether we should actually do this."
"I know."
"I'm scared."
"Of the threats?"
"Of us. Of trying again. Of getting hurt again." She takes a shaky breath. "Of how much I want to try, anyway."
I reach over and take her hand, intertwining our fingers. "Me too."
She squeezes once before letting go. "Okay. Let's go save my building."
The building looms before us, windows gaping like broken teeth, that threatening message sprawled across the brick like a promise of worse to come. Residents huddle in groups, some crying, all afraid.
Kendall squares her shoulders, ready to face this latest disaster. But I see her hand shake slightly as she reaches for the door handle.
"Hey," I say softly.
She looks at me.
"We've got this. Together."
She nods, takes a breath, and transforms into the competent property manager everyone needs right now. But just before she gets out, she leans over and kisses me quickly.
"For luck," she says.
Then she's gone, striding toward the chaos with her phone already out, calling what I assume would be restoration companies and insurance agents and security firms.
I watch her for a moment—this woman who makes me want to break all the rules—then follow.
Because that's what I do now. I follow where she leads.
Even if it means breaking every regulation in the book.