The call comes five minutes or so after she sees the picture. The young man’s wearing Jack’s jersey and a backward snapback, and he’s evidently getting in a taxi post-Falcs game, Jack by his side. The photo is blurry enough it takes her a minute or two to recognize the man, but then, she’s sure of it: that’s Eric Bittle, the rising star in the fashion world.
She tries not to sigh as she picks up the call.
And then, guilt hits — Jack sounds just a bit shameful, which he never should, not with her. “Jack, darling.”
She smiles. They know each other too well. They all think Jack got it all from his father, but Alicia knows it was only ever the looks and the earnestness for hockey. “I’ve seen.”
A silence. “I wanted to tell you before, I swear. We thought— we thought we had more time. Sorry.”
“You know how it goes,” she reminds him. “If it’s not inside—”
“It’s public, yeah. I, euh, sorry. I wanted to wait and be sure he's— well.”
She bites on her lower lip. It’s serious, then. It’s serious, and it’s with a model. History repeats itself. History had been ugly for her.
“His name’s Eric. We’ve been— seeing each other for two months now. Just a couple of dates,” he adds, trying to downplay it all.
“I know who he is,” she lets out, and he must have heard it too, because another silence fills the line.
She sits down, crosses her legs. Sighs. “Jack. I’m happy for you. I truly am. But you might want to reconsider dating… one of us.”
“Maman… He’s not like that.”
That’s a lie. Alicia knows what the industry does to people. It breaks them down to sew them back up in tighter clothes. It leaves people bitter, too competitive for their own good, and starved for something more. Nothing Jack needs. Not Jack’s type to begin with.
“If he’s not like that, then he’s naive, and you can do better.”
That’s the second category of models she encountered out there. The Marilyn Monroe type. The ones who get famous easily. The ones whose only defence is blind optimism. Those are eaten up by the wolves.
“Maman—” Jack protests. “He’s not like that either, okay? He's— he’s been through some shit. You know how it is. He’s seen it all. And he’s stronger for it. He’s the nicest person I know. And clever. And funny. And when he smiles— it lights up the whole fucking room— I lo— I like him, okay? I really do.”
He’s getting breathless, and it makes her pause. Jack’s never gotten breathless before, certainly not talking about someone he’s dating. Her eyes are still on her laptop, scrolling that one twitter thread. Everyone there seems to rejoice — there might have been rumours, but most people agree they’re a good fit. She’d be an idiot to blindly agree with twitter, though.
And then, she lands on another picture. Must have been taken in a pub, late last night, after the game. It’s Jack and Eric, sitting in a booth. Eric’s probably just said something funny, because he’s beaming, careless, head thrown back. And Jack— Jack is looking at him like he can’t get enough. There’s a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, one of those private smiles that only the best jokes can earn. Or the best people.
Eric Bittle’s smile doesn’t light up the whole room, but it sure does Jack’s eyes.
Alicia’s shoulders sag with relief. This time, when she speaks, it’s with ease. “Jack, Jack— I believe you. I’m so very happy for the both of you. You’ll bring him around soon, right?”
“Euh— I’d like to, but… I need to ask him first.”
She smiles. “Good. And good thing your father still lives in 1995. I hear him coming in— you can break the news to him.”
“All right. Merci, maman.”
“Thank you for telling us, sweetie. Je t'aime.”
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