Chapter 32
Jack
Thirty Nine Weeks
Iused to like my apartment.
It's small, organized, functional—with a commute that consists of just going downstairs undoubtedly being part of the appeal. And surprisingly, for being over the station, it's pretty quiet. I've always liked things that way.
You get so used to the everyday sounds of a household that you don't notice them until they're gone.
In my apartment, it's things like the ice maker, the rolling doors of the station garage, the hum of the ancient window-unit A/C.
Sounds that I'm adjusting to again. Sounds that are miserable and hollow compared to the ones I've been surrounded by the last eight months.
There's no humming, no record playing, no popping candle wicks. There's no one flipping through pages, periodically gasping or squealing in excitement. There's not an incredible, brilliant, stunning creature talking to herself all day long without noticing she's doing it.
There's none of that here, just peace and quiet, the way I've always liked it. I've never been so fucking miserable.
***
"What are you doing here?"
"Hi Granny, it's nice to see you, too," I mumble, stepping past her into the living room and flopping pathetically into one of the spectacularly ancient floral armchairs.
"Of course it's nice to see you, honey," she says. "I just meant, shouldn't you be at the station? Or with Abby? That girl is about ready to pop, I'm surprised you left her side even to come see your dear old Granny."
"That's part of why I'm here," I sigh miserably, throwing my arm over my face to block out the world. "She asked me to leave, Granny."
"For the day?"
"Permanently," I say. I recount the conversation, from the moment I said 'good morning' to the moment I walked out of the front door.
"Poor girl," Granny mutters, her rocking chair creaking with every movement.
"What about me?" I ask indignantly. "What about poor Jack?"
"You hush your whining right now, young man," she says sternly, peering over her glasses. "I know you're hurting, and I hate to see that. But she's about to be a mom, and that's overwhelming enough without all the other circumstances."
"I know that, Granny," I say, straightening up. "That's what hurts so much, so bad I feel like I can’t breathe. She's overwhelmed, and she's convinced she needs to handle everything on her own because Aaron isn't here. It kills me that she doesn't want to let m—anyone to help her."
"Oh, I don't think that's true one bit," she scoffs. "I think she desperately wants someone to help her. And probably feels guilty for it."
"Why would she feel guilty about that?"
"She's spent most of her life wanting help from one person. She never thought that'd change. That switch in your brain doesn't just turn off the second that person is gone," she says softly. "When your granddad died, accepting help from anyone else felt like an insult to his memory."
"I'm not saying it makes sense," she says loudly, stopping me from interrupting. "But grief doesn't make sense, my dear grandson. She's weathering one of the hardest storms a person can weather, and she's got a whirlwind of other feelings to sort through on top of that."
"So what do I do, Granny?” I say in a low voice.
“Be patient,” she says gently. “Fear always loses the battle.”
“Against what?” I ask.
“Love, sweet pea. You and your friends have loved each other for decades now,” she says. “That fear and guilt doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of history.”
“What if it does, though? What if she never talks to me again?”
“Oh, I highly doubt that will happen,” she scoffs. “Give her some time. And give yourself some, too. You always take on everyone’s problems, and I love that about you so much.”
Her voice wobbles, and I move my arm off my face so I can look at her. Her lower lip is trembling, hands grasping the arms of her wooden chair.
“But I hope you take time to set down everyone’s troubles for a while,” she says tearfully. “And stop ignoring yours.”
“I don’t have any troubles, Granny,” I say gruffly. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t start with me,” she says crossly, pointing a finger at me. “I know you better than anyone, Jack Robb, and I know that’s a load of hogwash. You don’t have to talk to me about it, but at least talk to yourself. I think you’ll be surprised at how much lighter everything feels when you do.”
Going home to my empty apartment that night felt like torture. Every night away from her feels like hell on earth. But I try to take Granny’s words to heart and reflect on my own shit. The pain of losing Aaron. The constant urge to make sure Abby’s okay. To make sure everyone’s okay, all the time.
Granny’s right. I’m no good to anyone else if I’m ignoring my own needs. Eventually I’m going to snap.
I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to be a ticking time bomb. I want to be a good friend, a good (future) fire chief, and someday a good…something else. To someone.
The truth of what I really want hits me like a freight train.
I want to be someone to a redhead that lights my world up, and the little girl I have a sneaking suspicion is going to do the exact same thing.