Chapter 11
Jack
The whiskey burned going down. I signaled for another.
The bar was dim and mostly empty—the kind of place where people came to drink alone without anyone asking questions.
No music. No sports on the television. Just amber bottles behind the counter and a bartender who had stopped making small talk an hour ago.
He’d taken one look at my face when I walked in and decided silence was the smarter option.
I kept replaying it.
The kiss. Her mouth under mine—warm, soft, achingly familiar. The way she had melted into me for that one perfect moment.
Then the push.
I drained my glass. The bartender refilled it without being asked. We’d developed a silent understanding, him and me.
The stool beside me scraped against the floor.
“Hey man.” Simon Tucker settled onto the seat, flagged down the bartender with two fingers. “Didn’t have enough glasses at the gala?”
“Apparently not.”
He ordered bourbon. Neat. Simon and I had known each other long enough that showing up at the same bar didn’t require explanation. We moved in the same circles. Drank at the same places.
“You look sad for someone who just acquired California Times,” he said, accepting his glass from the bartender. “And I saw you with her, I thought tonight was supposed to be a victory lap.”
I turned my glass slowly on the bar top. Watched the whiskey catch the dim light and hold it. “It was supposed to be a lot of things.”
Simon was quiet for a moment. He knew about Pauline.
We met in final year college right after my fall out with Pauline.
Had watched me chase her back then with all the subtlety of a freight train.
He’d been there when I tried to move on after she disappeared—and watched me fail spectacularly at both.
He didn’t need me to spell it out now.
“What happened?” he asked.
I took a long drink. Let the burn settle in my chest before I answered. Buying myself time. Trying to figure out how to put it into words that didn’t make me sound completely pathetic.
“We had a moment tonight,” I said finally. “For about five seconds I thought—” I stopped. Shook my head. “Finally. After seven years of nothing, I thought finally.”
“You got your hopes up for nothing?” Simon’s lips twitched in a sardonic smile.
I could still feel it—the flat of her palms against my chest. “She told me it was over. That nothing I did would change that.”
“That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s one word for it.”
We drank in silence for a moment. The bartender drifted to the other end of the counter, giving us space. Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping briefly across the window before disappearing into the dark.
“How’s the custody case?” I asked, because I needed to talk about something else. Anything else. My own situation was a wound I kept pressing on, and I needed to stop before I bled out all over this bar. “The fake wife situation?”
Something shifted in Simon’s expression. I recognized because I’d seen it in my own mirror often enough. That particular mix of confusion and resignation.
“Hannah’s good with Suzy,” he said.
I glanced at him. “Yeah?”
“I was determined to dislike her.” He stared at his glass. “From the start. Told myself she was just a means to an end. A contract that would help me get my daughter back. Nothing more.”
He paused, when he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “Now it appears my daughter isn’t the only one who’s fallen for her.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. I knew that feeling—the slow horrifying realization that somewhere along the way, the thing you’d been telling yourself didn’t matter had become the only thing that did.
“The marriage was supposed to be simple,” Simon said quietly.
“Except now I watch her with Suzy and I can’t breathe.
” He shook his head slowly. “She holds her when she has nightmares and doesn’t complain when Suzy kicks her in her sleep—and I stand in the doorway like some lovesick idiot, watching them together, and I think—this.
This is what I didn’t know I was missing.
This is what all those empty rooms in my house were waiting for. ”
“You tell her?”
“No.” He took another drink. “I’m a coward.”
“Join the club.” I raised my glass. “We should get jackets made. Matching ones. ‘Emotionally Unavailable Men Who Can’t Use Their Words.’”
“Too long. Won’t fit on the back.”
“We’ll abbreviate.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “At least I have an excuse. My situation is genuinely complicated—contracts, custody, a child caught in the middle. Yours is just sad.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m serious, Specter.” He turned to face me fully, elbow on the bar. “You’ve been chasing this woman since college. You bought her entire company. You’re one dramatic gesture away from a restraining order.”
“It’s not stalking if you own the building.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what a stalker would say.” He shook his head. “I’m saying this as your friend. Maybe it’s time to accept that some things aren’t meant to be. Cut your losses. Move on. Find someone who actually wants to be found.”
“You giving up on Hannah?”
He paused. His jaw tightened. “No.”
“Then don’t tell me to give up on Pauline.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Two men caught in the same trap, both too stubborn to admit we’d walked into it willingly. Too proud to chew off our own legs to escape. Too far gone to even want to.
“We’re pathetic,” Simon said finally.
“Completely.” I clinked my glass against his. “To hopeless men with too much money and not enough sense.”
“To wanting things we can’t have.”
“To being idiots about it.”
We drank.
The gym at six in the morning was supposed to clear my head.
It wasn’t working.
The place was mostly empty—just a few early risers scattered across the floor, earbuds in, faces blank, lost in their own private battles.
Morning light was starting to filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, that soft California gold that photographers chased and tourists photographed.
Outside, palm trees swayed under the gentle breeze.
Beautiful. Peaceful. I wanted to put my fist through something.
I loaded another plate onto the bar. Then another. The metal groaned under the weight.
“That’s too much.”
Michael’s voice came from behind me. I didn’t turn around.
“I can handle it.”
“You’re going to tear something.” He moved closer. I could feel him standing there, radiating that particular brand of calm concern that made me want to lift even heavier. “And then Claudette will kill me for not stopping you, and I’ll be dead, and she’ll be sad, and it’ll be your fault.”
“Then spot me.”
He moved into my peripheral vision but didn’t position himself to help. Just stood there with his arms crossed, watching me like I was an accident about to happen.
“You going to stand there or help?” I asked.
“Depends.” He tilted his head. “You going to tell me why you’re trying to bench press a truck at six in the morning?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
We stared at each other. Somewhere across the gym, weights clanked. A woman on the treadmill increased her speed, ponytail bouncing. The morning sun climbed higher, painting gold stripes across the polished floor.
I gripped the bar anyway. Lifted.
My arms shook. My chest burned. My body screamed at me that this was stupid, reckless, that I was going to hurt myself and deserve it—
Three reps. That’s all I managed before Michael grabbed the bar and helped me rack it. The sound echoed through the gym like a gunshot.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“No.” I sat up, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my face. “Care to have a competition? Like old times?”
“Absolutely not.” He started stripping plates off the bar, ignoring my challenge. “I’m not miserable in love like you. I don’t need to beat myself half to death just to feel something.”
“Good for you.”
“It is good for me, actually.” He set a plate down and turned to face me, and there it was—that expression. The one he got whenever he was about to talk about my sister. I braced myself. “Claudette made breakfast this morning. Pancakes. From scratch.”
“Michael.” I warned.
“She was wearing my shirt.” His voice went soft—like he was describing a religious experience. “Standing at the stove, humming some song. I came downstairs and she turned around and smiled at me and said, ‘Good morning, husband.”
My jaw tightened. “Don’t talk about my sister like that.”
“Like what? Like she’s perfect?” His grin spread wide, shameless. “Because she is. She leaves notes in my gym bag now. Little ones. ‘Have a good workout. I love you. Come home soon.’ With little hearts on them.”
“I will end you. Right here. They’ll never find the body.”
“You can barely lift that bar, Specter.” He tossed me a towel. “Come on. Squats. You can hate yourself while doing something that won’t land you in the ER. And then you can tell me what actually happened with Pauline, because she’s the only one who can get you this worked up.”
I caught the towel and wiped my face. “I’m not telling you shit,”
“Damn. That bad?” He grinned. “So grateful I no longer relate to relationship disasters.”
My fists clenched around the towel, straining against the urge to punch him.
I’d tried to get out of our monthly family dinner. Invented meetings. Claimed exhaustion. Lied creatively. Claudette had texted: If I have to suffer through this, so do you. No excuses.
So here I was.
The dining room hadn’t changed since I was a child. Same long mahogany table. Crystal chandelier. Same paintings of ancestors staring down with vague disapproval.
My father sat at the head, sharp-eyed at sixty-two. My mother to his right, elegant and watchful. Claudette and Michael across from me, radiating newlywed happiness like it was their job.
The first course passed without incident. Business talk. Market updates. The usual.
Then my father set down his fork.
Here we go.
“Jack,” he said. “I want to discuss something.”
“My unmarried situation?”
“Your unmarried situation.” He didn’t even blink at my tone. “You’re thirty-three. No prospects. No serious relationships. You haven’t brought a woman to a family event in years.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to continue the Specter legacy?”
Across the table, Claudette suddenly found her wine glass fascinating. Michael developed an intense interest in his salad.
Cowards. Both of them.
“I’ll be honest,” my father continued. “There was a time I wondered if perhaps you and Michael—”
I choked on my wine. Michael made a strangled sound.
“Gross,” we said at the exact same time.
Claudette burst out laughing—full, bright, delighted, her whole face lighting up like she’d been waiting years for this moment. She pressed her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Richard,” my mother said, her tone warning.
“What? They spent all their time together. Those weekends at the beach house. A father notices things.”
“That’s—no. Never. Absolutely not. Hell no.”Michael said like he couldn’t find the exact words.
“I’m simply saying it crossed my mind.” My father shrugged, unbothered by the chaos he’d caused. “Clearly I was wrong. So what is the explanation?”
Claudette’s laughter had faded into something more dangerous. I recognized that glint in her eye. The one that meant she was about to make my life significantly worse.
“Actually,” she said, far too casually, “there is someone.”
“Claudette.” I shot her a warning look.
She ignored it completely. “There’s a woman Jack’s been in love with for years. He just can’t seem to win her over.”
My mother leaned forward, interest sharpening. “Someone? Jack, what’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Her name is Pauline,” Claudette continued, because apparently sisterly loyalty meant nothing to her. “Yes, she’s the Pauline you know. Jack’s been pining for her since college. He bought an entire company just to be near her.”
“That’s not why I bought it.”
“It’s exactly why you bought it.”
My father’s hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Solid. When I looked at him, he was almost smiling.
“A challenge,” he said. “Good. The Specter men don’t go for easy conquests.”
“Father—”
“Let me tell you how I won your mother.”
I suppressed a groan. I’d heard this story a thousand times.
The borrowed car. The forty-five minutes on her doorstep.
The drive to the coast. The speech about not being good enough but wanting to spend his life trying anyway.
It was romantic, I supposed, if you hadn’t been forced to listen to it at every family gathering for three decades.
“She turned me down six times,” my father was saying. “Six. But I knew she was the one, so I kept trying. Persistence, Jack. That’s what it takes.”
“Richard,” my mother murmured, but she was smiling. That soft, private smile she only wore when he told this story.
I glared at Claudette across the table.
“Don’t glare at my wife like that,” Michael said. I turned my attention on him.
“Don’t glare at my husband like that,” Claudette chirped.
“I’m never coming to dinner again,” I said. “Ever.”
My father clapped my shoulder again. “Step up your game, son. Specter men don’t give up.”
I looked around the table. My father, offering advice I hadn’t asked for. My mother, watching me with that knowing look. Claudette, smug and unrepentant. Michael, trying not to laugh.
My family. Who needed enemies when I had them.
My mind wandered to her. What was she doing at this moment? Having dinner probably. Or working. Or doing whatever she did when she wasn’t pushing me away.
She could get excited about a story. She could light up for her career. She just couldn’t do any of that for me.
Maybe she never would.