Chapter 8 Jack #2
“She couldn’t make up her mind.” My father’s voice had gone hard, the way it always did when the whiskey hit a certain level. “Kept him dangling. Maybe yes, maybe no. He spent his whole leave waiting for her to decide, and then he shipped out without an answer.”
“And then?”
“And then he died.” My father had looked at me then, really looked, with something almost like recognition. “Some people aren’t meant to be caught, Jack. Your brother learned that the hard way. Don’t make the same mistake.”
I’d gone home that night and written the letter in one sitting. No hesitation, no second-guessing. I was done waiting for Maggie to decide I was worth keeping.
And then she’d apologized. Out of nowhere, months after we’d been on the outs again, she’d shown up and said she was sorry. Not the half-hearted kind of sorry that came with explanations and justifications. Real sorry. The kind that cost something to say.
I hadn’t known what to do with it. Still didn’t, if I was being honest.
But Ed’s words kept circling back. People don’t lie with patterns.
I crumpled the letter into a ball. Held it for a moment, feeling the paper compress in my fist.
Then I threw it in the trash can by my desk.
This time, I didn’t fish it out.
The phone rang six times before she answered, slightly breathless, like she’d run to catch it.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Jack.” I could hear the smile in her voice, and something in my chest loosened that I hadn’t realized was tight. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Mostly. I was also thinking about how you owe me an opinion on that CIA thriller. I can’t decide if the third act is salvageable or if I should just put it out of its misery.”
“I vote misery, but it’s been a while since I read it.”
“Very helpful. Truly, your insight is invaluable.”
I smiled despite myself. This was new, the easy banter, the way we could talk about nothing and have it feel like something.
“I have news,” I said.
“Good news or bad news?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I took a breath. “The New York Times called today. They want me to come interview.”
Silence on the line. I could hear her breathing, the faint static of the connection, the sound of traffic from her street.
“Wow.” Her voice was different now. Softer. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s just an interview.”
“It’s the Times. You’ve wanted this forever.”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me.” A pause. “When do they want you there?”
“Sunday through Wednesday.”
Another silence. I waited, trying to read her reaction through the phone line, which was impossible. This was the part where the old Maggie would have pulled back. Found a reason to be busy. Started building walls I’d have to climb all over again.
“You should go,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Of course. This is huge. This is—” She laughed, and it sounded genuine. “The New York Times. I’m so proud of you.”
Proud. She was proud of me. I turned the word over in my mind, examining it from different angles. People had been proud of Danny. People had tolerated me. The distinction had felt important for most of my life.
“What about this weekend?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“We had plans.”
“Plans can change.” Her voice was firm, certain. “This is more important. We’ll do something when you get back. I’ll make dinner.”
“You’ll make dinner?”
“I’ll order dinner and put it on plates. Same thing.”
I laughed. Actually laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep and surprised me on its way out. “Maggie Shaw, domestic goddess.”
“Don’t push it.”
We talked for another twenty minutes—about the interview, about what I should wear, about whether New York pizza was actually better than Boston pizza (she said yes, I said heresy). By the time I hung up, the apartment didn’t feel quite so quiet anymore.
I looked at the trash can. The crumpled letter was still there, a ball of yellow paper among coffee-stained napkins and junk mail.
Three times. Three times in our year together, Maggie had let me get close and then pulled away. After New Year’s, I’d been certain the pattern would continue. That she’d surface eventually, all apologies and charm, and then disappear again the moment things got real.
But she wasn’t disappearing. She was making plans, was proud of me. And she was telling me to chase my dreams and promising to be there when I got back.
Either something had changed, or I was about to get my heart broken in a new and creative way.
I looked at the photograph of Danny on my bookshelf.
He was twenty-two in that picture, fresh out of basic training, grinning like he knew something the camera didn’t.
He’d been dead for sixteen years. Sometimes it felt like yesterday.
Sometimes it felt like a story that had happened to someone else.
“What do you think?” I asked him. “Am I being an idiot?”
Danny didn’t answer. He never did. But I thought, maybe, he would have told me to take the chance. Danny had never been afraid of anything—not Vietnam, not love, not the possibility of losing. He’d lived like someone who expected to win, right up until the day he didn’t.
I couldn’t be Danny. I’d spent my whole life learning that lesson. But maybe I didn’t have to be. Maybe I just had to be brave enough to try.
I left the letter in the trash and went to bed.