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Trouble in Paradise (Part Five)

summary: It starts with a proposition from a handsome stranger. You both are in need of a distraction to keep you occupied during a week-long tropical getaway, and a summer fling seems like the perfect solution, even as it becomes more and more apparent that your feelings run deeper than just casual sex. But when you discover the man you’ve been hooking up with is none other than Jack Abbot — your father’s best friend — and your father proposes a yearly trip with his family, your little distraction threatens to turn your already messy life upside down. What follows is ten years of the most chaotic, exhilarating, angst ridden vacations of your life.

pairing: dbf!jack abbot x reader

wc: 16.1k (63.8k total)

tags: abbot is reader's dad's best friend (but neither of them know that at first), distracting each other from their trauma and high-stress lives with some good old fashioned casual sex, problematic summer fling, girl dad/widowed jack abbot, marisol abbot is canon, smut + angst + mutual healing -> eventual happy ending.

warnings: discussions of suicide, age gap, mentions of his prosthetic, infidelity, public sex, hurt/comfort, alcoholic relapse, infidelity, angst with a happy ending (eventually), smut, original characters, no use of y/n, no betas.

chapter: 5/10

chapter summary: This year, you are determined to stay as far away from Jack Abbot as possible. Unfortunately, you find that to be much harder than you thought.

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YEAR FIVE

DAY ONE

For most people, Kauai is paradise on earth. Sandy white beaches ripped right off a post card, lush rainforests, picturesque lookouts, all perfectly crafted to create an escape for overworked nine-to-fivers from around the world.

For you, it is hell.

Because those sandy white beaches, the rainforests, the lookouts - the whole fucking island - has been tainted by a man you've spent three hundred forty-one days trying to forget. Jack Abbot has laid claim to this entire place. You can't even stare out the airplane window at it from above without thinking of him, as if he's planted a thousand foot flagpole in the rust red dirt.

Some days, when you were at your weakest, you wished that you'd gotten pregnant. Maybe a child would have shaped you into the kind of woman Jack could let himself have for more than just a casual fuck. You spent way too much money last fall on tests, developing a habit of stopping at the bodega every day after work to pick one up (accompanied by a chopped cheese to comfort you after).

You imagined breaking the news to Jack. Distorted reality a little bit so that you could picture him being thrilled, not spiraling as you knew deep down he would.

When your period eventually came a little behind schedule at the end of September, you knew that you had to end it. All of it. Thinking about Jack, living in a fantasy.

You had to accept the truth - to him, you were nothing but someone to be used and disposed of. A friend when he needed it, a warm body when it was convenient. Romance had been off the table from the day you met.

Getting over Jack Abbot turned out to be harder than passing the bar exam twice in two years. It was difficult to distract yourself without falling back into bad habits, but you were determined to move on, be a mature fucking adult.

In the past year, you have practically transformed. Gone from a high functioning Type B serotonin starved mess to a total machine. You worked out obsessively, automatically slipping on your running shoes whenever your mind wandered to a certain J name. Got a membership for the local Y, developed a pickle ball obsession. Met an only slightly evil older man who works in finance, who made you come a minimum of once a night when you slept over, and left a breakfast tray on the bed beside you when he slipped out at an ungodly hour to be a slave to capitalism.

When your plane departed from JFK at just before seven a.m. on June 1, your life was fine. But as it begins to descend onto the tarmac, you get the feeling that it's about to fall apart.

Again.

Lucy is the only reason you decided to go this year. Seventeen now, growing up at a speed that seems to be exponentially increasing with every day you go without seeing her. Every time you talk her, she reveals something that gives you whiplash. She failed her driver's test - she's had her license for two weeks. She got a boyfriend - they broke up. She pierced her eyebrow - it got infected and she had to have it surgically removed. You cannot afford to miss a week with her. Even if it means you have to endure seven days with he who shall not be named.

This time, at least you were smart enough to bring backup.

Malcolm is snoring in the seat beside you, a complimentary first-class eye mask tucked over his face. You barely had to convince him to come. The second the words I'll pay for it left your mouth he lit up like a Christmas tree. You spent the night before crashing at his place in LA to avoid having to take a red-eye with an early morning layover, although you're convinced that you got less sleep than you would have if you'd spent the night on a plane. It'll be good to get the opportunity to catch up with him, too, since he's only been able to visit New York a few times since you moved there.

This trip will be good. You can almost believe it.

You already have a game plan (kind of). You will not dress conservatively or tiptoe around him like last summer. This year, you will do whatever the fuck you want, and Jack will just have to live with it.

You prod Malcolm awake when the seatbelt sign lights up. He lifts the mask, and one hazel eye peers out at you.

"Jesus. Did you get any sleep?"

"A little," you lie. "Why, do I look terrible?"

He shakes his head. "No. Just a bit broody."

Already, you can feel yourself beginning to tense up, jaw tightening, fists curling at your sides. God, what you'd give for one of those little liquor bottles you used to hoard.

"Is it terrible that I'm a bit excited to meet him?" Malcolm asks with a guilty little grin. "I swear if he's not half as fit as you described him, I'm going to be very disappointed."

You hope for the opposite. If Jack arrives this year with a couple of prominent bald spots or a terrible toupee, it will be a bit easier for you to resist being drawn back into his orbit.

The flight attendant starts to pass down the aisle. You click your seatbelt on, bracing your hands against the armrests as the plane descends.

Jack has endured many difficult years. In fact, if he were to divide up his life into good years and bad ones, he's certain that most would fall into the latter category.

This year was a perfect shitstorm of epic proportions.

First, there was the move. Pennsylvania politics had been towing a line that made him wary for years now. In October, things escalated. An anti-abortion group posted a list of the names and addresses of providers in the state, and it was just Jack's luck that he happened to be one of the thirty doctors to get doxxed - a term he'd never even fucking heard of before. Had to have Javadi explain it to him one night she got called down to evaluate a potential psych case, peering down at her phone with a frown while their patient fought off the thorazine fog.

Thankfully, he was able to get Florence set up at his mother's before things got ugly. He found a new house by the end of the month, paid in cash to keep things moving quickly. Once the process was over - papers signed, furniture loaded in trucks, halls empty - the weight of it finally hit him.

He was saying goodbye to the house he and Marisol bought twenty years ago.

It was the last piece of his life that still looked like the one they had shared. With the exception of Florence's room - which had undergone many transformations by that point - he'd kept the home precisely as she designed it. Still refilled the vase on the table in the foyer with sunflowers once a week, a habit he'd developed to make her smile while she was alive, then kept up to make her absence a little less apparent when she wasn't.

If he let himself think about it for too long, he knew it would break him.

So, he didn't. He threw himself into the move, opted out of hiring help and lugged everything into his new place himself (with the help of Robby for a few of the heavier items). Painted his new bedroom navy blue. The paint had barely begun to dry before he realized what it was that had inspired him to choose that particular color.

I picture a lot of grey. Maybe navy. A nautical bathroom or two, perhaps.

It would have been easier to deny that you had subconsciously been the driving force behind his design choices if he didn't already have several bags from Home Goods sitting in the corner of the room full of oceanic decor.

His shoulders were already aching, and he was pretty sure he was long overdue for his back to flare up. He picked up a can of cream colored paint from the store and re-did the entire thing that same day anyway.

Jack had tried not to think of you since landing back in Pittsburgh. That had, of course, turned out to be impossible. He pictured you - sitting in the passenger seat of the rental car, staring numbly at the package of Plan B in your lap like you didn't even have the strength to open it - more often than he would have liked, and certainly more often than he could stand. He tried to recall exactly what you'd said about your cycle, calculating the likelihood that the medication had managed to fend off ovulation in time. He was fairly certain that it had. At any rate, if you found out that you were pregnant, you would tell him.

Wouldn't you?

He spent that fall waiting for a call, a text. Should have been relieved when, by December, he'd gotten none.

But he needed to be sure. That you were okay, that he hadn't broken you.

It was why Jack finally bit the bullet and downloaded Instagram. It took him an embarrassingly long time to learn how to navigate the app, especially since he was way too ashamed of the endeavor to ask Florence or even one of his more hip residents for help (he'd already given Ellis enough ammunition against him when he pronounced meme meemee a few years back). After two days on the app, he finally located Allan's account, and shortly after yours.

Which is how he found out about the boyfriend.

A subtle presence on your account, at first. A hand wrapped around a glass of wine in a photo of your dinner, an oversized coat on your shoulders, an arm curled around your waist in a mirror picture, the image cropped just above your smiling lips.

He shut off his phone and had to restrain himself from chucking it across the room.

He swore that night would be the last he spent agonizing over you. Turned out, he'd become a pretty good liar.

It was surprisingly easy to locate the man you were seeing. Jacob Adams. An analyst at Goldman Sachs. Graduated Syracuse in '08, which meant he was - Jesus - forty. He wasn't sure why that particular fact was so upsetting. He was ten years older than the man, having just turned fifty in August - another reason why stalking a twenty-five year old's social media should have felt prohibitively creepy.

Instead, he found himself unable to look away.

After he spent a third night off scrolling instead of sleeping and nearly missed the vein while doing a central line, he finally deleted the app, determined to be done with you.

You'd moved on. It was time he did the same.

Then, there was the anniversary incident.

April had been making thinly veiled comments since the move. How the closet had just enough space for the two of them. How she couldn't wait to use the spacious dining room for entertaining. How the spare bedroom would be a perfect nursery.

He couldn't look at April without recalling the way she'd looked that day in August, falling into his arms like she was on the verge of crumpling from sheer relief. The knowledge of what he'd been really been doing for the two hours she'd spent worried sick ate at him every second that he spent with her, and by their one year anniversary in January he could barely look at her, eyes drifting down to the wine stained table cloth of the restaurant Florence had helped him pick out every chance he got.

When she formally asked him if he wanted her to move in, he finally broke.

He told her everything. Well, almost everything. Revealing that identity of the woman he slept with last summer would have only made things worse for everyone.

He was prepared for tears, screaming, maybe a glass or two chucked at his head. Instead, when he finished, April looked up at him with a cool determination in her eye.

"We can get through this," she said quietly, pressing her hands over his.

And that was that.

Her things were organized in his closet a week later.

As a cherry on top, he'd been clocking out of a particularly grueling shift a few weeks ago when a cheerful young man in a suit thrust a mustard yellow envelope into his hands.

You've been served.

It was the kind of malpractice case he'd seen all too often in his twenty-year career, a patient who was too far gone to begin with, a family who just couldn't find it in them to accept that. But given everything that had happened in the past year, he wasn't able to handle it with the same detached grace that he carried into most of his work.

He'd bumbled the deposition, something made abundantly clear by the smiles that grew on the plaintiff's team's faces as the session dragged on. What should have been an open and shut case was no longer looking like it would end up settled out of court.

By the time Jack enters Pittsburgh International that cursed week in August, he has gone four days without sleeping. Before that, he'd barely been averaging three hours every other night for at least a month. When he told Robby he was considering staying behind during the annual trip, the man looked like he was going to have him forcibly barred from the ED for the next seven days.

"You deserve a vacation, brother," he'd told him, clapping him on the back.

Jack couldn't help agreeing with that. Being forced to be around you for the next seven days was exactly what he fucking deserved.

Your reunion with Jack is pushed back after a storm in Texas delays the Abbot's second flight. It feels a little like the universe is throwing you a bone, giving you an extra bit of time to prepare yourself to face him.

You take the opportunity to show Malcolm around the hotel. You're a bit tempted to take him to the lookout. After all, Jack did tell April about it, which just about destroyed the sacred status you had formerly ascribed to it. But you can't quite summon the courage to head down that path just yet.

After so many years of coming there, Malcolm's presence helps you to see the place through fresh eyes. You discover that the hotel has a spa - which would have come in handy any of the many times you were in desperate need of relaxation during your trips - and even a small tennis court tucked behind the main building. It's there that you discover a familiar figure spread out on the concrete, a joint pressed between his lips.

"Who is that juicy morsel?" Malcolm mutters.

"Max?" you call, curling your fingers around the chain link fence as you peer in.

Malcolm raises an eyebrow.

"That's the Max?" he asks, and you barely have time to answer before the boy in question is hopping onto his feet, a hand raised over his eyes as he squints at you.

He jogs over and wraps you in a hug that's a tad too sweaty for your liking before stepping back and glancing at Malcolm.

"Who's your friend?"

"Malcolm," he introduces himself, thrusting his hand at Max, "but you can call me Mal, or Colm, or anything you like really."

Colm? you mouth as he aggressively shakes Max's hand.

"Sick accent. You British?"

Malcolm blinks at him, then offers him a pinched smile. "No, Irish."

"Ah, shit. That was my next guess."

Max snatches a towel that's hanging over the fence and begins swiping at his face. As soon as he looks away, Malcolm whispers, "On account of his visual appeal, I'm going to pretend he didn't just say that."

You snort.

"So, you both here for the week then?"

"Yep."

"Sick. My uncle wants me to run this singles event in the hotel bar in a few days and I think I might be the only person there under thirty."

"Ooo, that could be fun," Malcolm remarks, biting into his bottom lip flirtatiously, although you're not sure Max notices.

"What about you?" Max asks, clasping his hands. "Lend me a hand?"

"I can help, but unfortunately I already have a man," you say with a grin.

"Two, in fact," Malcolm chimes in.

You shoot him a glare.

Max raises an eyebrow. "Who's the second?"

"Oooh, you haven't 'eard?" Malcolm widens his eyes dramatically. "It's pretty juicy."

"We are not talking about that because there is nothing to talk about."

"Isn't that what he said before he-"

Your elbow connects with his ribs.

Max glances between you. "You guys are so weird. I love it."

Your phone buzzes with a text from your dad letting you know that your family just landed. Thank God.

"I gotta go grab everyone from the airport, but text me about that singles thing!"

"Yes, and you know it might just be easier if you added the three of us to a group chat," Malcolm adds pointedly, casting you a pleading glance. "For planning, and stuff."

You roll your eyes. Max nods obliviously.

"Yeah, that'd be cool. Let me know what you guys get up to."

"Will do," Malcolm calls over his shoulder as you drag him to the parking lot.

By the time you get to the airport, your family is not speaking to each other. Apparently, during the five hour flight Lucy revealed that she's been giving stick 'n pokes for cash during her AP Stats class. She brushes past you without a greeting, and you feel so, so grateful that you decided to come.

The things you do for family.

Your dad's in the middle of helping you load their things into the minivan you rented when he freezes suddenly, craning his neck to stare down at his phone.

"Looks like the Abbots came in a few minutes behind us," he announces. "Think we have the room?"

Despite the enormous amount of luggage your sister decided to bring, there's an entire half of the trunk that's still empty, and you know there are enough seats. You grit your teeth.

"Sure."

Malcolm is leaning against the side of the car, texting. You glance down at his screen, and are entirely unsurprised to find Max's name a the top.

"Well, it looks like you're about to get your chance. We're picking up the Abbots as well."

This finally gets his attention. "Jesus."

"Yep." You mirror his pose, falling back against the sun-warmed metal with a sigh. "You ever heard of a chastity belt?"

"Is that like a strap? Did he let you-"

"No! Ew, no, no. It was like this thing people would sometimes force women to wear to keep them from having sex. Like that scene from Scary Movie?"

"The one with the electric fence on her vaj? How the hell did you sneak that through TSA? Can you get me one?"

You groan. "Malcolm, focus. I need you to be my chastity belt this week."

"What exactly does that entail?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"You need to keep me from having sex. Specifically, from having sex with you know who."

"I thought you said you were over him?"

"I am! I definitely, one hundred percent am."

Malcolm looks about as convinced as you feel.

"It's just..." You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. "When I'm around him, it's really hard for me to remember that."

His eyes soften, and you wrinkle your nose.

"Please do not pity me right now."

"I'm not. I'm pitying your poor vagina. It's gonna be a long week for her."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help cracking a smile.

The doors to the terminal slide open, and your lips drop.

Despite Lucy's screeching, and April's shouted greetings, it's Jack who your eyes are drawn to. A few steps behind the girls, a duffel bag hanging off of each of his shoulders, toting a pair of rolling suitcases. No Hawaiian shirt this time, although as he drops the bags onto the curb, you realize that it's not the only thing that's different about him.

He looks good. And also...not. He's leaner, his muscle tee - which you're certain is one of the same four or five he's brought with him for the past five years - hangs loose over his chest, the sleeves billowing slightly around his shoulders. There's also something else, something you can't quite put your finger on. A slightly manic energy festering behind his wide, too-alert eyes, unhinged and very much not Jack. The Jack that you know is all self restraint and control. This Jack doesn't even try to hide his wince as April and your mother exchange pleasantries.

You expect that he'll ignore you, just as he did last trip.

Instead, he stares right at you. In front of everyone, not even trying to disguise it. The manic energy dissolves momentarily, and he looks strangely relieved. Then, seconds later, his expression morphs, tension taking root in his brow.

"You cut your hair," he finally says in a voice that almost sounds pained.

You touch your fingertips to your ends, which you did recently chop just above your shoulder. "I did."

"It looks great!" April flashes you a grin that falls before it can reach her eyes.

Jack is still staring, and the prolonged eye contact is beginning to make you feel a bit uneasy. You force yourself to look away, returning April's smile.

"I needed a change."

You catch Jack's jaw twitch out of the corner of your eye. Malcolm takes the opportunity to cut in, introducing himself with an eagerness that is only slightly tampered down from the energy he displayed towards Max. You begin to regret the decision to bring him when he shakes Jack's hand and adds, "I've heard so much about you."

You tap your hip against his, and he quickly corrects. "All of you, of course. Little miss Lucy is quite the chatterbox."

Thankfully, the little miss is currently showing off one of her new tattoos to Florence and is too distracted to call him out on the lie.

It's going to be a long week.

You most definitely do not look broken. In fact, you look so good, Jack finds it almost painful. He can feel it in his chest with every one of your smiles, sharper than a scalpel's blade, cutting away at the scar tissue he's allowed to develop in the past year until he feels totally fucking raw, like no time has passed at all. Like he's back where he was a year ago, perched on the edge of the couch in his suite, too wired to sleep, staring at your door.

Jack watched you leave. He'd hoped to catch you heading to the cliffside that night, thinking that maybe after you had some time to process everything, you might be more willing to talk. But when he saw the suitcase trailing behind you, he understood that speaking to him was precisely what you were trying to avoid.

During the car ride, he finds it impossibly difficult to look at Allan, even more so than that first summer. It makes sense, he supposes, since last year's transgression was arguably so much worse. That time, he had been entirely aware that it was his best friend's daughter he was filling with his cum like a fucking animal. He can't contain his groan before it slips from his lips.

From the seat beside him, April gives his hand a firm squeeze. Less of an act of reassurance, he suspects, and more of a warning.

By dinner, you are certain there is something wrong with Jack. Not that you are paying attention to him, or anything. It's just that obvious. In the way he sits, arms folded over his chest, bent so that his elbows rest on his knees. In the plate of food that sits in front of him, untouched, until Florence whispers something in his ear and he blinks groggily before taking a few half-hearted bites. In the way that he reacts to everyone.

Jack has always been a snarky guy. Sarcastic, trading in dry humor and derision. Despite smart ass being his nickname for you, the title would fit him just as well. But tonight, Jack is - honestly - just an ass.

He won't speak to your father, offering clipped grunts in response instead whenever he asks him a question directly. To Koa, he's not much better. It is April, however, who seems to set him off the most.

After she suggests going out that night for karaoke to kick off the week, Jack groans not so subtly, tipping his head against the back of his chair like a pouty toddler. When she casts him a sharp glare, he explains, "We went there a few years ago. Total dive."

"I thought it was cute," Nani counters. "A little touristy, but fun."

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You still don't remember what went so wrong that night years ago, but you take a bit of pleasure in the discomfort scrawled across his face.

"I think it's a great idea!" you tell April.

Jack actually glares at you, eyes darkening with such intensity that it's as if the very atmosphere shifts. The longer that you stare, however, the more that you see. Dark circles hanging beneath his eyes, barely discernible in the dim light. The uncharacteristically gaunt curve of his cheeks, the stubble covering them that he normally would have shaved away.

What is going on with him? After last year, you thought you were the one who had earned the right to be a broody bitch this trip, but it looks like Jack is more than willing to fight you for that title.

Malcolm clears his throat. "I do a mean Madonna."

And it's settled.

Lucy begs you to let her and Florence tag along - revealing inadvertently that she has somehow managed to secure a fake ID - however, your desire for sisterly bonding has its limits. By the time Malcolm is ready to leave (somehow he takes an hour longer than you do), the girls have set up camp on the couch with a movie. You are ninety percent certain you know the reason behind the sudden switch up, and you make sure to hide your father's rum before you leave.

The karaoke bar is different than you remembered, or maybe the blackout you experienced that night warped more of your memories of the place than you thought. While the decor is stereotypical tiki atmosphere, with palm fronds and elaborate carvings covering the walls, it also has the distinctive energy of your typical shitty college bar. When you attempt to order you and Malcolm sodas, the bar tender looks at you like you spit in her face. There's a water jug at the corner of the counter, and you decide it's probably a safer bet to stick with that.

As you sip your water, you catch a grin overtake Malcolm's face. You follow his eyes to the center of the room, where Max is pressing through the crowds.

"I think we might need matching chastity belts," you joke.

"Oh sod off. Just because you decided to take a vow of abstinence for the next seven days doesn't mean the whole island has to keep their clams shut."

Max wraps you in a second, thankfully much less sweaty hug before doing the same for Malcolm, who practically glows when they part. As you listen to him babbling about potential karaoke songs, your stomach tightens suddenly, and you get the sense you're being watched.

When you turn around, you find Jack staring at you. Again. With that same dark gaze on his face, as if you'd snuffed out every bit of light and humor that once shone in his eyes.

How fucking dare he. Sit there, sipping his beer, glaring at you like a goddamn child after what he did. He was the one who had a girlfriend - who still has a girlfriend - so why the hell do you feel like the bad guy?

Malcolm pulls you over to get in line but you barely pay attention to his performance, only stumbling out of your trance when you hear the applause. Before you know it, there's a microphone in your hand.

And you know exactly what song you want to sing.

The first line of You Oughta Know appears on the screen at your back and Malcolm mutters a quiet, "Sweet Jesus."

You don't even have to look at the lyrics as you begin to sing. The track was at the top of your Spotify wrapped last year, which did not come as a surprise given you played it a minimum of ten times a day in the fall.

It's easy to look at your table and pretend that you aren't directing your performance at one person. Like every line, every word that scrapes at the back of your throat, isn't loaded with the rage that's been simmering quietly in your chest since last summer.

It feels a bit like catharsis. Like you might finally be getting him out of your system.

Jack is perfectly still through the entire thing. Doesn't sip his beer, doesn't even seem to blink for the three minutes that you spend on stage. His stoicism only adds fuel to your fire. You wonder what it will take to make him break.

Your eyes linger on him a half a second too long during the final chorus - and there it is. A slight widening of his eyes, parting of his lips. Almost fearful.

Because, you realize, you have all the power. If anyone were to find out what happened between you and Jack, he is the one who would bear the brunt of the blame, and he is the one who would face the most consequences. It's the last thing you would want, but he doesn't need to know that.

Let him think that you've become unhinged, let him agonize over what you might do. Let him see just how much he's broken you.

By the end of the song, your throat is raw, but you feel like you've won.

DAY TWO

Jack is acutely aware of the consequences of sleep deprivation, both from a medical perspective and a personal one. He knows that the longer that he goes without finding a way to turn his fucking mind off, the more shattered it will become. He will grow irritable, uncoordinated. He will be at greater risk for a coronary event or stroke - something he should be deeply concerned about given his age and high stress lifestyle. He will find it more difficult to focus, and will eventually begin to lose touch with reality.

He does not remember coming to the cliffside.

The tips of his sneakers are digging into the edge of the soft dirt at the edge, causing a bit to crumble beneath his weight. He jerks backward, landing squarely on his ass. Thankfully, the ground is damp and he absorbs the shock of the fall without too much pain.

Dissociation is not uncommon for Jack. It often goes hand in hand with his PTSD, and when things get bad he's never certain whether a trigger will thrust him into a flashback or leave him staring at the wall for an hour. Sometimes, at the end of a long shift, he will find himself on the roof without remembering the journey up there.

Usually, Robby or Dana will be the one to find him, help him snap out of it. Here, he's entirely fucking alone.

Not technically true, he realizes. April would have been there when he wandered out of bed like a damn zombie.

His hip is beginning to ache by the time he makes it back to the suite. He kicks off his muddy sneakers outside the door and pats his pockets for several minutes before he realizes doesn't have his key on him.

April opens the door when he knocks, half of her hair sitting on her shoulder in tight ringlets, the other half pinned up.

"Forgot my key."

His voice is painfully hoarse. He can't remember the last time he had any water.

"You go for a run?" she asks, her gaze dipping to the stains on his his sweats.

He grunts in response, hoping she'll leave it there, and she does. Gives his cheek a quick peck, and pads back into the bathroom without another word.

You have a recurring dream of Jack, despite your best efforts to forget him in your waking hours. It's nothing sexual (which you sometimes think you would prefer). You're laying on his chest, listening to the dull thud of his heart. He's stroking your back, whispering reassurances in your ear, calling you sweetheart. Sometimes, in the dream, you tell him that you love him, and he presses a small, delicate kiss to the top of your head.

When you wake, you can still feel the graze of his stubble against your skin.

You groan into your pillow before turning onto your back with a sigh.

Beside you, Malcolm groans in answer.

"Why are we up?"

"We're not," you grumble. "Go back to sleep."

You don't have to tell him twice - it's barely two seconds before you hear his breathing grow heavy again. You, however, can't seem to turn your brain off.

Last night was great. It was! You sang a kickass song, got a standing ovation from a group of boys at the bar who you're pretty sure were not old enough to be there, and made Jack Abbot miserable.

Maybe you feel a teeny, tiny bit guilty about that last part. Which is silly. You didn't even technically do anything, just shared some semi-obvious eye contact with the man you've been in love with for the past five years.

No - not love. The man you had an embarrassing, juvenile crush on, a crush that nearly wrecked your life. You thought that it was love the same way your thirteen year old self thought you would be married to Shawn Mendes by now. Pure wishful thinking, without a whole lot of reality to back it up.

Desperate to stop yourself from thinking any more about the subject, you decide to get dressed. You plan to go for a run, but as you begin to jog past the main building, you hear a thwack coming from the tennis courts.

You find Max hitting balls to no one, his serve surprisingly sharp, cutting over the net with intense precision.

"Need a partner?" you call to him.

In answer, he bounces a ball to you. You select a racket from a rack in the back corner of the court and cross to the opposite side.

Tennis is, unsurprisingly, much harder than pickleball, but you're a bit proud of yourself when you start to find your rhythm.

"Your friend's pretty cute," Max calls as he serves to you.

"Oh?" You grunt as you hit the ball back to him. "You're bi?"

Max shrugs as he darts forward a little to meet the ball. "I don't really like labels."

"You and Malcolm would probably be a pretty great fit, then."

"You think? I totally won't go there if it'll make things weird."

The ball skims your racket before bounding outside the lines. You curse.

"Believe me," you pant, wiping sweat from your brow. "I'm the last person who should be policing anyone about who they want to be with."

Max approaches the net, squinting at you. "Is this about that mystery guy?"

You nibble on your lip.

"How good are you at keeping secrets?"

"I dunno, pretty good, I guess? Rarely care enough to tell anybody."

"Okay, good." Your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek as you brace yourself. "So...you know Koa's friend? Jack?"

Max's eyes pop open. It's the most alert you've ever seen him.

"Oh shit. Holy shit. That dude? The doctor guy?" He shakes his head, staring incredulously at the fence behind you for a moment. "That explains it."

Your brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"Last year, remember that bad reaction you had to the molly?"

Unfortunately, you do, although you can't recall much else about it.

"I asked Jack to come make sure you weren't going to, like, die or anything, and when he saw you I thought he was going to rip my fucking head off. Most scared I've ever been in my life."

"Wait, what? Jack was there that night?"

"Yeah. Carried you back to your room all macho style. You didn't know?"

Images are thrust into your mind. The same images you've been replaying in your sleep for the past year.

You told Jack that you loved him, and he spent the night holding you. Despite the fact that you hadn't been speaking at the time, that you'd been trying to upset him for days before that.

What does that mean?

It happens again. Jack is sitting at the table, not sure how long he's been there. Conversation flows around him and he finds himself unable to trace its beginnings, identify what the others are laughing at. The only person who isn't smiling is Florence, who's sitting across from him, eyeing him warily.

"Still throbs when I run sometimes," that kid (Koa's nephew, he remembers - what the fuck is his name???) is saying, grinning at Jack as if he should be in on the joke.

Lucy frowns at him and waves her hands in front of his face. "Earth to Uncle Jack," she teases.

"Leave him alone," you mutter.

He tries to catch your eye. Isn't sure why he does it, isn't sure of much of anything at the moment. Guilt is budding in his chest, though he can't discern whether this is a generalized guilt lingering from last summer, or whether he did something specific to earn it in the past twenty-four hours.

Someone squeezes his hand, snapping him out of it. April gives him a tight smile.

"Jack's had a hectic few weeks," she explains. "Haven't you, hun?"

He grunts affirmatively. The edges of his vision have started to blur. When was the last time he slept? Not on the plane, he doesn't think. Maybe a few minutes during that double-

"Jack?"

He blinks at April, who's staring at him expectantly.

"What?"

"I think somebody could use another coffee," she says with a skittish little laugh. "I was just telling them a little about the situation."

"Jesus," he mutters, swiping a hand down his face. "Do we have to fucking talk about that?"

"You should have told us sooner, Jackie," your mother says between sips of her sangria. "We do have a lawyer in the family, after all."

"Oh my gosh, I forgot about that!" April says, brightening a little as she turns to you. "Do you think you could give him some help?"

"Oh, um." You press your lips together. "I mean, it's not really my practice area."

"Weren't you considering going into malpractice your first year?" your father prompts. "You spent the summer with that litigation firm, what was it, Strouss?"

"You really don't have to," April assures you. "But I think Jack would appreciate it, wouldn't you?"

Jack decides to blame it on the lack of sleep when he finally grunts out, "Sure. Why not?"

The door is propped open when you arrive at the Abbots' suite an hour later. You can spot Jack laying on the couch from the entrance, his body stiff as a fucking plank as he stares up at the ceiling fan. You drop your purse on the coffee table in lieu of a greeting and get nothing but silence in response.

"So, I guess you could start by telling me a little about the case. Just a general overview, no need for specifics."

Jack just sighs, settling a little deeper into the couch.

"You don't want my help - fine," you snap, raising your voice. "I've got nothing better to do. We'll just sit here long enough for everyone to think we had a nice, productive chat."

At this, Jack turns his head sharply and blinks at you.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I - sorry. What were you saying?"

Jesus. You don't want to be worried about him, but you can't help it. The man you've seen these past twenty-four hours is not the Jack you know (as much as you might hate that Jack sometimes).

"Are you okay?" you ask.

He shrugs, tilting his chin back up to the ceiling. "Great. Another day in paradise."

You snort. Since he's taking up the entire side of the couch, you sink onto the other half of the sectional, keeping a few cushions between you as a precaution. Without Malcolm there to act as your personal cock block, you are determined to keep your guard up.

"You still with that brand?" Jack asks as you pull out a pen and pad from your purse.

"Yep."

He nods slowly. "How's Poo? Still terrorizing the neighbors?"

"They moved out, actually."

He's curious about your life, you realize, trying to create an opening to inquire into the first year in a long time that's passed without him in it. You stare down at your legal pad, trying to ignore the ache that begins to spread across your chest at the realization.

You shouldn't miss him. Not after everything.

But then why does it still hurt so fucking much?

You clear your throat.

"Why don't you tell me about the patient?"

Jack's fingers are tapping against his chest restlessly, and you notice them pick up speed a little at the question.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Like I said, it's not really my practice area. But it's probably best to not give everyone a reason to wonder why we aren't speaking to each other."

"We're speaking now, aren't we?" he mutters.

So that's how it's going to be. You can feel a migraine beginning to throb in your temples as you toss your note pad onto the coffee table.

"I'm seeing someone."

You're not sure why you decide to reveal it then, but the reaction Jack gives you isn't the one that you expect.

"Hmm. That mean we can't talk?" He turns onto his side, bracing himself on his forearm as he cocks his head at you, brow furrowed in a way that feels mocking. "Or was that just supposed to hurt my feelings?"

"I - It wasn't supposed to do anything," you splutter, throwing up your hands. "I'm just making conversation."

"That's one way to go about it." Jack scoffs. "For the record, your shithead boyfriend doesn't threaten me."

"He is not a shithead. He's smart, and successful - he makes way more than me."

Jack snorts. "He's forty. You're a twenty-six year old associate."

"He-" You pause. "How do you know how old he is?"

His lips settle into a deep frown. "Lucky guess."

Now it's your turn to scoff. "You know, I was surprised to see April wasn't knocked up yet. From what I remember, you're not a big fan of condoms."

That startling darkness returns to his gaze.

"Keep your fucking voice down."

You roll your eyes. "Relax, old man. I saw her lounging at the pool on the way here. If there ever was a time for us to talk about it, it's now."

His jaw shifts, tightening a little as he presses his lips in a thin line.

"Or you can continue doing what you do best, saying absolutely fucking nothing."

Jack sighs and falls back onto his back.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything," you nearly scream at him. "Anything that lets me know what is going on inside that thick fucking skull of yours. Every time I think I understand what you're thinking, what you want, you do something that makes me feel like I'm going crazy. You held me in your arms, and fucked me, and called me sweetheart - and then you went home and did those same things to your fucking girlfriend. And you never even thought to check whether I was okay."

Your face feels hot, and tears are beginning to gather at the edge of your waterline, making your vision blur. You hug your knees to your chest and press your face into them so that Jack can't see you cry.

"I thought it's what you wanted," he finally says. His voice sounds strained, like the words take extra effort to get out. "You were the one who left without saying goodbye."

"Of course I did. You chose her."

Jack goes quiet then. It's the one point you know he can't refute. You wish you could take some pleasure in that. Instead, you feel cleaved open.

You sniff and wipe beneath your eyes.

"I still can't believe you told her about our spot," you mumble with a laugh that is entirely devoid of humor.

The couch shifts beneath you, and you glance up to find Jack has turned back to you, laying on his chest.

"What?"

"April. I know you told her about the clearing. She told me last summer."

"I-" He shuts his mouth, then scratches the back of his neck. "Shit. I don't remember telling her. I didn't mean it like that. I didn't...I didn't mean any of it like that."

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and that manic, over-excited look has re-entered his eyes. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp.

"Jack? Jesus."

You spring off of the couch and drop to his side. One of his hands claws at his chest. Oh God -

"Are you having a heart attack?"

He shakes his head. "Bag on the counter," he finally manages. "Klonopin."

You follow his directions, nearly tripping over yourself as you sprint into the kitchen to retrieve the medicine. You pop the lid for him and hold out a tablet, which he quickly pops into his mouth and swallows dry. When you begin to retract your hand, he squeezes it tightly, refusing to let go.

"Okay, okay," you say, sinking onto the couch beside his head. "I'm here."

You barely think it through before sliding the fingers of your free hand through his hair, stroking his head. He tenses a little at the contact, but gradually you see the strain dissolve from his face.

"I fucked up," he splutters. "This entire year, all I've done is fuck things up."

You shush him as you continue to run your fingers through his hair. His eyelids flutter.

"Is this about the case?"

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That definitely made the top three. I'll be lucky if the hospital lets me keep my parking spot when I get back."

"I'm sure you're overthinking it."

"That is my specialty."

"Both of ours, actually," you say with a chuckle. "Well, from what I remember one of the most important things in a malpractice suit is positioning, so it's important to consider the kind of story you want to tell. It's not just about having a cohesive, defensible narrative, it's about communicating it in a way that the jury can connect with...Jack? Are you even listen-"

His eyes are shut, and you can tell by the slow rise and fall of his chest that he is totally knocked out. There's a throw blanket hanging off the side of the couch, and you pull it over him, careful not to disturb his slumber. As you do, something tumbles out of his pocket.

A tiny black box.

It feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Spots gather in the corner of your vision as you slide it back into his pocket and quickly gather your things.

You nearly collide with April, who's opening up the door just as you step out.

"Sorry, I was just leaving," you offer, struggling to blink away the tears.

"No worries," she says with a breezy smile. "How did it go?"

"Um, good, I think. Is he-" You stop yourself, not quite sure how to say it."He seems off."

At this, April's smile takes on a sharp edge.

"He's fine."

"Are you sure? Has he been sleeping?"

She shrugs. "A little less, but with everything going on it makes sense."

"Yeah, but I mean, given his history-"

"History?"

Her brow is furrowed. Shit, does she not know? You expected that Jack would have at least told her the Sparks Notes version of his struggles. Isn't that the kind of thing you shared with the woman you planned to marry?

Your eyes start to sting again.

"I just really think you should talk to him about it," you say, and you slip past her before the tears can start to fall.

You let out a guttural scream as you slam your racket into the ball, sending it arcing over the fence. Max jogs to the gate to go fetch it, barely avoiding the path of the next ball you shoot into the metal.

"If you're going to keep doing that, we're going to have to find you a new way to release your rage," Malcolm calls from behind you.

He's spread out on the concrete in the back corner (the only spot that's safe from you), trying to coax his ivory skin to tan.

"I hate this," you groan. "I hate him!"

It's a lie. You know it, Malcolm knows it - hell, Max probably even knows it. It's what has made this whole thing so hard for you. Anger has always come easily to you. Every member of your family can attest to that. But with Jack, it always fizzles out before it can take root. You think about him showing up with April without warning, ignoring you, coldly passing you a handful of coffee stained napkins to wipe his cum off of your inner thighs. There's a flicker of fire, a brief, satisfying burn before it simmers into something more painful.

Because you see the bags beneath his eyes, the exhaustion. The way he looked at April that day in Poipu. The way he looked at you that first night on the cliff.

You cannot hate him, because you know him well enough to understand there's always more to the story, even if he won't tell you what it is. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

You try to re-kindle that fire as you prepare your next serve, but when you completely miss the ball, you toss the racket to the ground with a groan.

It's as if the second you stop moving, the weight of it finally hits you.

Jack is getting married. At some point during the next few days, he is going to whisk April away to a beautiful, candle lit dinner and get down on one knee and propose.

And you and Jack will officially be nothing to each other.

You will never fall asleep on his chest, in his bed. You will never go on dates, or bicker while cooking dinner. He will never call you sweetheart, or make you coffee, or run his fingers through your hair, or be anything to you but a family friend you see for a few days once a year.

God fucking damn it. You are over him. How many times do you have to think it for it to start feeling true?

You don't realize that you've started crying until the first broken sob falls from your lips. Malcolm rushes to you, catching you before your knees buckle.

"It's not fair," you sniff, pressing your face into the fabric of his T-shirt. "It's not fucking fair."

DAY THREE

Jack wakes to the pale blue skies of early morning. It takes him a few minutes to remember that he's not sprawled across a gurney in an empty room in the ED, the only place he's managed to get any sleep for the past month. Slowly, the memories return, plinking into his brain like pennies down a well.

He cranes his neck, hoping, stupidly, to find you sprawled across the other side of the couch. The absence of you feels almost tangible, like a chunk of flesh has been hewn from his chest. If he concentrates, he can conjure the precise feeling of your fingers in his hair, nails scraping gently along his scalp as you combed through his curls.

It's almost enough to put him to sleep again.

It's startling, the effect you still manage to have on him after so long. Even when you're pissed and sending him into a panicky spiral, he can't help but yield in your presence, his heart settling in a way even his strongest prescriptions haven't been able to force it to in months.

He squints at his watch in the dim dawn light of the suite. It is just after six a.m. He slept for more than twelve hours straight.

His stump aches from being crammed inside his prosthetic overnight, but other than that, he feels better than he has in a long time. He crosses the room to collect his forearm crutches from where he left them leaning against the wall before easing the prosthetic off his leg. The skin of his thigh is pink and slicked with sweat when he removes his sleeve, and he massages it gently.

The bedroom door clicks.

"Morning," April mouths through a yawn. "You make coffee?"

"Not yet."

She nods and slips into the bathroom. As he fills the filter with grounds, he hears the shower switch on.

Jack knows that April is only giving him the space that he needs right now. It is wrong of him to resent her a little for it.

"For the last time, I am not taking you to get a tattoo."

Lucy's lower lip puffs out. "But it could be a sister tattoo."

You lift the book you're reading higher, blocking out her face. She grumbles discontentedly before hopping back into the pool, which sends a bit of water sprinkling over your feet.

Malcolm is passed out on the lounge chair at your side, skin already beginning to flush red after only half an hour in the sun. You prod him with your flipflop.

"Oh Co-olm?" you call to him in a gentle, sing-song voice.

"Whadyewant," he mumbles into his forearms, which he's been using as a pillow.

"If you don't want to spend the rest of this trip cosplaying as a lobster, I'd suggest you re-apply your sunscreen."

He groans but sits up and allows you to spread a handful of lotion over his back.

"I'm worried about Jack," you confess as you rub it on his shoulders.

He didn't show for dinner last night, which you wrote off, thinking he was probably just catching up on sleep. But now the day is creeping steadily into the afternoon and you still haven't gotten any proof of life from him. You are certain that he is fine - at least, physically, there's no images of his body crumpled in a ditch flashing in your mind. However, you're fairly certain that mentally he's in a fairly equivalent state.

"I thought you hated him," Malcolm grumbles.

You sigh.

"Yeah, I know. And I know I said last summer that I wouldn't let myself get like this, but April's just so...wrong for him. She doesn't see how badly he's struggling right now, and it honestly seems like she might not even care. All she wants is for him to give her a baby when the last thing he needs right now is another person to depend on him."

Malcolm glances back at you, resting his chin on his shoulder. He's usually quick with a joke in a situation like this, a naughty comment always seeming to perch on the tip of his tongue, ready to fly out whenever things got too serious. But there's something heavy in his stare, almost like pity.

"You sound a lot like the other woman."

You feel your cheeks getting hot. "It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" The corners of his eyes crease. "He's a grown man, love. He can take care of himself. It's not your job to shoulder that burden."

"No, you don't understand. He - he's drowning. I can-"

"Fix him?" Malcolm purses his lips. "Babes. You know you're better than that."

It's humiliating, the state that you've managed to lower yourself to after barely forty-eight hours of being in Jack's presence. You had been so, so certain before you'd left that you wouldn't let yourself go down this road again. That Jack would never hurt you again.

"You're right," you finally say, offering him a weak smile. "No more Jack talk. Promise."

It turns out, you didn't mean that. Not one bit. Because you have to actively restrain yourself from bringing him up again, forcing your lips shut every time his name nearly slips from your mouth. By early evening, you're in need of a distraction, something physical to get you out of your head.

You decide to return to the tennis court. It seems that, like you, most of the other guests of the hotel are unaware of its existence because you find it completely empty. You decide to work on your serve to prepare for your next match with Max, channeling all of your focus into the swing of your arm and the path of the ball over the net.

"Up for a game?"

You trace the gravely voice to the gate, where Jack is leaning against the metal, squinting at you in the dying light.

Damn it. You regret letting Malcolm go off with Max for some "alone time" you're fairly certain is just going to end up being a makeout session in your bed, because without him there's no one to stop you from saying, "Your serve."

Jack slips inside and selects a racket before crossing to the opposite side of the court. His serve is lethal, catching you by surprise, and you curse.

"Damn. How did I not know you were so good at tennis?"

He shrugs. "A man's gotta have his secrets."

"You've definitely got enough of those," you say with a snort.

He stiffens. His second serve is less precise, and you're able to counter it with a laser to the right side of the court.

"I told her," he finally says.

Your grip on your racket loosens. "Jesus, Jack-"

"Not about you. Just that I was unfaithful last summer."

"Oh." You swallow, and raise your racket again. "Good for you."

Jack arches an eyebrow at you. "Seriously?"

"What else do you expect me to say? Do you need a pat on the back for having the balls to face your girlfriend?"

He shakes his head as you prepare your serve. "I see you're just as much of a brat as ever."

"I thought that's what you liked about me." You grunt as you hit the ball over the net. "The last time I called you on your shit I got laid."

He stumbles a little as he darts forward to meet the ball, causing his racket to miss it entirely. His face has turned beet red, and you're certain it's not just the physical exertion that has him so flustered.

"I need you to understand that this...it will not go there again."

He doesn't even look at you as he says it, as if the mere sight of you would be enough to unravel his resolve. You make your second serve. The ball hits the concrete a few inches from his foot, and he curses.

"Why did it go there last summer?" you ask as you fetch another ball, bouncing it against the concrete. "Can you even answer that? Do you even know?"

His Adam's apple bobs. "I know why it can't happen again. That's enough."

Anger flares in your chest. You cast your racket and the ball aside, and cross to the net.

"How many times does it have to happen before it stops being a mistake and starts being a sign?"

Jack's eyes snap up to you then, wide and strained with a desperate raw emotion you can't name, some tortured mix of fear and desire.

"You want me, Jack," you insist. "The sooner you learn to accept that, the easier both of our lives will be."

"It's not just about me." He swallows, running his fingers through his hair. "Florence...she needs a mother - or at the very least, a mother figure."

"And that can't be me?"

"You don't want kids."

"I never said that!"

Jack cocks his head pointedly.

"Okay, maybe I don't want to push one out myself yet," you amend. "But I love Florence. She's practically already my family. And I think you know that this isn't about her."

You are well aware that Jack is a man who operates from an occasionally misguided personal code. He doesn't know how to put himself first, to acknowledge that he is a living breathing human being with needs. It's a coping mechanism, you're sure, and a poor one at that. You can see the way he's been crumbling beneath that added weight all these years.

"You need to spend some time thinking about what you want," you finally say. "Not Florence, not April, not me - you. When you know what it is, come find me."

As you walk away, you can only hope that thing is you.

This time, Jack consciously chooses to wander to the pool, sinking onto a recliner before his legs give out beneath him. He feels weak, in so many ways, the strength required to keep himself in check in your presence sapping his energy until he can barely keep himself upright, arms falling limply at his sides as he sits.

The ring is still tucked deep inside the pocket of his sweats, where it's been since he boarded the plane a few days ago. He pulls it out now, and stares down at the stone at the center of the ornate, curling gold band.

He owes it to April, he knows. For all she's put up with in the year and a half they've been dating, for all that she's forgiven him for. Florence seems to like her - or at the very least, tolerate her. He can picture the wedding, the babies. Tiny, strawberry colored faces in carriers being toted around the PTMC, waiting in chairs for him in the mornings after his shifts. A second shot at the parenthood thing, one where he's not too overrun by grief to do it right.

He can see their entire life together. And yet, even in his imagination, he feels the disconnect. Like it is someone else's future he is watching play out, not his own.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Allan's standing on the opposite end of the pool, a pair of grocery bags hanging off of his arms. Jack offers him the most believable smile he can manage, hoping his friend can't see the strain behind it in the dim blue light emanating from the water.

"You gonna talk me out of it?"

Allan laughs. "Do you want me to?"

Jack only shrugs. As the seconds pass without a response, Allan's smile begins to droop. He walks around the edge of the pool and drops his bags at his feet.

"Jesus, brother. You look like you just got a letter from Uncle Sam."

Jack can't find it in him to laugh. A bit of paranoia nags at him, like the longer Allan sits with him, the more opportunities he will give him to see that it's his own fucking daughter that has him second re-thinking his entire future. He always did have a way of getting him to open up, ever since Jack was a pimply teenager at training camp decades ago. Allan was the one who took him under his wing, showed him the ropes, helped the adjustment become a bit more survivable. But Jack's not sure he can ask for advice on how to survive this.

"I think it will help," Jack finally says. "Finally get me back on track, even if it took me fifteen years to get there."

"Nobody expected you to revert back to business as usual after what happened."

Allan's gaze dips to Jack's leg, which he's started to jiggle restlessly. He's not sure if he's speaking about the amputation or Marisol, or all of it.

"All I know is I can't keep living like this," he mutters.

That, at least, is the truth. Jack knows that if he keeps on this path, it won't be long before he's due for another psych hold. He needs to find a way through. Maybe marrying April is the answer.

Or, maybe, the answer is you.

DAY FOUR

You find yourself wide awake when pale dawn light begins to filter through the blinds of your hotel room. Sleep came to you in snatches the night before, teasing you with a few brief stretches of slumber before you found yourself pulled out of it again, heart pounding stubbornly for no real reason at all.

Okay, maybe that wasn't totally true. The reason was clear as day, the same as it always was.

Jack fucking Abbot.

You still can't believe what you said the night before. Putting yourself out there like that, insisting that he wants you - it's the very thing you resolved not to do.

And yet, hope sparks in your chest. Maybe you gave him the push he needs to finally choose you. The butterflies you spent the past year snapping the wings off of are coming back to life, flooding your veins with a rush of dopamine that has you struggling to contain your smile.

Until you stumble across April, stretched across a yoga mat in the center of the green.

"Going for a run?" she asks as she leans forward in a deep lunge.

"Uh, yeah. You can tag along if you want."

You're relieved when she shakes her head.

"That's okay. My friend says yoga is way better for promoting fertility. Keeps your hormone levels nice and balanced."

The butterflies drop dead.

"So...you and Jack are trying?"

The word scrapes along the back of your throat, leaving it feeling raw.

"I'd say we're more in prep mode right now," she answers, rocking her hips to deepen her stretch. "Just trying to get ready."

"That's great. I'm sure Florence would love a little sister."

It's probably true, you realize. You'd meant what you said to Jack about not being totally against having kids of your own one day, but you wonder whether you will ever be able to give that to her. Are you willing to ask Jack to give up that future?

April changes her stance, switching to the other leg.

"Did you see Jack out and about last night?" she asks suddenly.

A guilty little lump forms in your throat. You swallow.

"Yeah. We played tennis for a bit."

Right before I dared him to break up with you.

Her eyes narrow the tiniest fraction, as if she can see the thought swirling in your mind.

"Is he doing okay?" you ask.

April's lips tilt up, technically a smile, but it doesn't feel like one.

"You are a very inquisitive person."

Shit. "I've just known him a long time."

She hums lightly as she sinks deeper into her lunge.

"Tell you what - if I find out there's something wrong with Jack, you'll be the first to know.

Her tone is more biting than you used to, the derision in it barely concealed beneath the honeyed texture of her voice.

It echoes in your mind as you begin to jog away.

April knows.

The thought haunts you the rest of the day, intruding into your brain as you help Max prep for the singles night. Normally, adorning the hotel bar with cheap, romance themed decor from the dollar store would have been the kind of mindless task that would put your over-active mind at ease. However, today, the task leaves your brain too much freedom to cook up scenarios that twist your stomach into dozens of tiny knots.

There is a non-negligible chance that her comments meant nothing. After all, if you knew your boyfriend fucked his best friend's daughter, would you decide to join him on a week long vacation with her family?

God. When you put it like that, you made it sound completely perverted.

And maybe it was. Another reason why you should just let sleeping dogs lie, bury your feelings for Jack in a shallow grave.

Unfortunately, those feelings have a tendency to claw their way out like the living dead.

As you sit on your bed later that night, watching as Malcolm roots through your suitcase for outfit options, it's Jack that you think of the moment he holds up that dress.

The one you bought online months ago and hadn't yet found the courage to wear out. After trying it on for the first time, you realized that the amount of skin exposed by the thin straps was truly astounding. Even wearing it in the comfort of your apartment made you feel like you were about to get a public nudity citation.

It's perfect.

The table feels oddly empty without you. Not that you've said much to Jack over meals for the past few days. His eyes wander over and over to the vacuum of space where you should be as if pulled there by the force of a black hole.

He didn't get a second of sleep the night before, spent the hours between midnight and dawn in agony, his heart unable to settle in his chest. Jack spent years thinking he was the kind of guy who knew what he wanted. At work he was clear, precise in what he demanded of his team. His taste had remained largely unchanged for most of his adult life, and he rarely second guessed his decisions. At least, when it came to everything but his personal life.

Now that you've forced him to think about it, one thing is clear: Jack has no fucking idea what he wants.

Every time he poses the question to himself, he automatically begins to consider what might be best for Florence, what April deserves, even what his therapist might approve of. He spends a lot of time thinking about what might be best for you. Maybe he didn't break you, but he could tell by the strain in your voice when you spoke that the wounds he'd left on you ran bone deep.

Jack wants you to be happy. It's the only thing he knows for certain. He doesn't want to see you the way you've looked the entire trip, as if bitterness is the only thing holding you together. He wants to see you smile, hear you laugh the way you did in those early days five years ago, back before everything went to shit.

He is not sure that he is the one who can give that to you.

So when Koa orders a third round of the whiskey they've been drinking, Jack downs his drink in one gulp.

"Jesus," Allan mutters, his voice low. "Trying out a bit of liquid courage?"

Jack shoots him a glare as he returns his empty glass to the table.

Bass thrums in the near distance. His eyes stray to the hotel bar behind the glass doors at the edge of the patio. The room is dark, lit only by a few brightly colored LEDs and what looks like a miniature disco ball.

"What's going on in there?" Jack asks, turning to Koa, who's digging into a plate of mahi mahi.

"Singles night. Max compared this place to an old folks home the last time he was here, so we figured we'd do something to attract young people."

"I think the hotel's fine the way it is," April cuts in. "It's sophisticated."

Nani begins to say something, but Jack is no longer listening. He is utterly, totally consumed.

Because, at the center of the bar, he spots you. Wearing a dress that clings to you like water, barely concealing even the points of your nipples beneath the near sheer grey fabric.

Through the glass, you lock eyes with him. The corners of your lips curve in a smug smile. Then you throw your hands above your head and dance, falling into the same rhythm as the others crowding the room. Every sway of your hips sends a rush of warmth to his core.

The nod you give him is subtle. Barely a twitch of your chin, but he catches the way your eyes shift pointedly from him to the hallway sprouting off from the bar before you turn and slip through the crowds.

Jack mutters an excuse about using the restroom before slipping inside.

As he presses through the crowds into the hallway, nerves stir in Jack's stomach. It's something he hasn't felt in a long time, and the intoxicating rush of anticipation mingles with the liquor in his veins.

At the end of the hall, the door to one of the single occupancy restrooms opens just a crack, and he spots the flash of your eyes in the dim orange light emanating from within. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, ensuring no one in your party is following, before following you in.

You're leaning back against the sink, balancing your weight on the edge so that your legs dangle off of it a little, hands braced at your back. You swing your legs, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

"Hi."

"Hi," he grunts.

Instinctively, his hands find the lock at his back and he clicks it into place. At the sound, you arch an eyebrow.

"Have you thought about what I said?"

"I have."

"And?"

"I'm still thinking."

You sigh petulantly.

"This doesn't have to be so difficult, you know."

Jack steps back against the door as you hop off the sink and step closer to him, inching into his space until your hips are practically touching his own, your lips a whisper away from his neck.

"What do you want, Jack?" you murmur. "How do you want me?"

The heady surge of lust your words conjure is completely overpowering, momentarily stunning him into silence. Then, he turns his head, angling his chin so that his stubble traces over the soft skin of your cheek. Your eyes flutter at the contact and your head falls forward, sending your hair tumbling over your face. He sweeps your curls behind your ears, then places his thumb beneath your chin.

"I want you to look at me. Think you can do that?"

You've barely nodded before his hands are on your hips, spinning you around so that your stomach is pressed into the sink. You gasp, and he savors the sound, then the way your lips part in the mirror in front of you as he begins to trail his lips down your neck, pinching the delicate skin between his teeth with just enough force to make you moan.

He feels starved, and with every bit of contact between your bodies his hunger only grows.

Why has he spent so goddamn long fighting this?

His crotch grinds into your ass as he sucks on your neck, stopping every few seconds to watch you in the mirror. With every catch of your breath, flutter of your eyes, part of your lips, his arousal builds until the swell of his erection is painful, straining against his jeans. When he shifts his hips back to ease some of the pressure, you give a pathetic little whine, and he realizes you've been enjoying the friction just as much as he was.

"You really wanna do this?" he asks.

It's an out, and one he hopes to God you don't take.

You nod quickly, a desperate plea in your eyes as you hold his gaze. He snaps open his wallet and removes the emergency rubber he's been keeping there for the past year. You bite down on your lip as he tears the wrapper open with his teeth and slides the condom over his cock, the bit of pre-cum oozing from the tip allowing it to glide on easily.

"Oh fuck," you groan as he slides into you, and your head falls, causing your hair to spill over your face again.

He gathers it in one hand, tugging it back until you're forced to look yourself in the eye. You moan a little and he tightens his grip, pulling your hair just enough to make you press your lips together to keep quiet.

Slowly, he begins to stretch you. You're already so fucking wet, leaking onto him so much that he can feel a little trickle onto his thighs as he moves. Every snap of his hips against yours echoes in the small space.

God, how he loves the way you lose yourself as he rams into you, the way you seem to lose the ability to speak, words dissolving into small moans as you hold his gaze. He can see you're close by the distant, glazed over look that enters your eyes, and he increases his speed, clutching one hand to your chest, the other braced against the sink as he fucks you into the counter.

Finally, you arc back into him with a pleased sigh, and he feels you throb around him. The blissed out expression on your face sends him over the edge and he shudders against you, giving a final few pumps as he cums with a low groan.

Jack leans into you, panting into your neck. He peppers you with kisses, tasting the salt in your sweat slicked skin.

This was not a mistake, he thinks as he starts to come down. You were right. This moment, all of the moments you've shared that no one else knows about, they are not as simple as pure lust. The thing between you has always been more than sex. If anything, that is the just the simplest aspect of your relationship to understand, a language both of you can speak without having to dive into the murkiness that lies beneath it.

Your hand squeezes his. He lifts his head. The mirror is fogged from your breath, but he can see the pain scrawled in your brow.

"You're going to leave me again, aren't you?" you murmur.

It's not really a question, he can sense by the finality in your voice, but something you've already accepted, come to terms with. It breaks his fucking heart.

"I need time," he manages. "Time to figure my shit out."

You nod, but you don't meet his gaze again.

He slides out of you, and you shudder at his absence.

The clean up is quick, efficient. You smooth out the wrinkles in your dress, and comb some of the wildness out of your hair. Jack watches for a moment, hand on the knob.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

You nod. "Okay."

There's no sarcasm in your voice, no anger or derision. It's unsettling. But as much as Jack wants to give you the reassurance you need, he knows that he can't promise anything. Not yet.

He barely has one foot out the door before April's voice rings in his ears.

"Hey!" she calls from the end of the hall, eyes lighting up. "I was just looking for you."

Jack tugs the door shut behind him, praying you have the good sense to wait a few minutes to follow him out.

"You okay?"

Her eyes trace over his face. He nods.

"Just some bad shellfish," he says with a grimace.

He slides an arm behind her back and guides her down the hall before she can catch his lie.

DAY FIVE

You don't sleep much better that night, tossing and turning so much that at some point Malcolm kicks you out of bed and you're forced to set up camp on the couch instead. At some point you must doze off, because you wake to bright sunlight streaming into the room. The time on your phone reads just after ten a.m. The suite is entirely empty - even Malcolm abandoned you, but at least he had the good sense to text to let you know to meet everyone for breakfast.

When you arrive, Nani's eyes immediately fall on you, widening a little.

"Oh."

You follow her gaze to your chest. It's difficult for you to see, but you angle your chin just enough to make out the beginnings of a trail of hickeys leading up to your neck.

"Holy shit," Lucy cries. "You slut!"

You wince. "They're mosquito bites," you mumble as you pour yourself a glass of juice.

"I thought you were seeing someone back home?" your mother arching a thin eyebrow at you.

"I - I am. They're bug bites, I swear. I've been getting eaten alive all trip."

"Point me in the direction of those bugs," Lucy whispers to Florence, who snickers.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jack watching you. His eyes trail down your chest, lingering on the marks. The corner of his mouth curls ever so slightly.

Bastard. He's actually enjoying this. You tug your shirt up higher and pick at a piece of toast.

As soon as you head back in your hotel room to change into your swimsuit, Malcolm tugs you into your bedroom and shuts the door behind you.

"What the hell happened last night?" he whispers. "Most importantly, when did that happen? I thought you were with us all evening."

You hop onto the bed and wrap your arms around your knees. Malcolm joins you, practically bounding onto the mattress with excitement.

"It was in the bathroom of the bar. I don't know how it happened, I was just feeling so good, and then I saw Jack and I just...couldn't help myself I guess." You bite your lip. "We had sex in the bar bathroom."

"Jesus. I'm a shitty chastity blanket."

"Belt," you correct him. "And no, you aren't. It's my fault. I don't know why I keep doing this."

You fall back onto the mattress with a sigh.

What had happened to the girl you were a year ago - the one who dreamt of making love, who was sappy and hopeful and romantic. Where had the version of yourself who told Jack he needed to make a choice gone for those fifteen minutes last night?

You still have no idea what you are to Jack. Maybe it's something like the madonna whore complex. He needs you to be the woman who feeds his darkest desires, while April gets to be the one he makes his wife, the mother of his children. Maybe now that he's seen you covered in mud, cumming on his fingers, he can't see you as anything else.

"I feel so fucking crazy," you groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

You feel Malcolm give your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"It hurts me to see you like this again," he says quietly.

You turn onto your side, facing him. His eyes are pinched and soft. It makes you feel even more pathetic.

"Jack did seem different last night," you protest. "I think - I mean, it seems like he's finally ready. Or at least ready to talk about the possibility of us."

Malcolm winces.

"Babes, you know I'm your ride or die, but I don't think I can support you in this. Do you really want to be right back where you are a year from now?"

Your stomach curdles at the question. He's right. Of fucking course he's right. Maybe the way you kept returning to Jack wasn't a sign that you were meant to be together like you thought it was. Maybe it was just a bad fucking habit, one neither of you had the strength to break.

You have to know for sure.

Meet me at our spot.

It's the first time your name has appeared on Jack's phone in a year.

He tells April he's heading to the gym, and hopes to God it's the last lie he'll ever tell her. You're pacing the cliffside when he arrives, still in the same shorts and oversized T-shirt you wore to breakfast, but somehow you look even more beautiful than you did the night before. Your fingers are curled in your hair, combing it back anxiously. When you notice him, your hand falls, and a single delicate ringlet tumbles onto your cheek.

"Okay," you begin, inhaling deeply. Your palms flutter anxiously at your sides. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to talk, and you have to promise to listen. You will not speak, or touch me, or look at me until I say what I need to say."

"You don't want me to look at you?"

"Jack," you whine, and he raises his hands in surrender.

"Fine."

He turns away from you, folding his hands behind his back as he gazes out at the setting sun hovering above the sea in the distance.

"I want you," you finally say. "I've wanted you for a long fucking time. Maybe this entire time, I don't know. But right now..."

You inhale sharply, and air hisses against your teeth.

"You're not good for me anymore."

Jack's chest tightens at the words.

"I can't spend my whole life wondering what you're thinking. If you want to be with me, I need you to say it out loud, and I need you to fucking mean it. Not just when we're alone, and your hands are sliding beneath my clothes. Always."

He can't swallow the lump in his throat, can't force down the waves of panic and guilt and pain wreaking havoc on his senses.

He catches your figure moving closer to him out of the corner of his eye, and then you're standing in front of him, inches from his face.

Slowly, you press a kiss to his cheek.

Then you walk away, disappearing into the trees.

It feels like a fucking goodbye.

DAY SIX

You are determined to spend the next day as far away from Jack as possible. So when Max offers to take you and Malcolm sailing in the bay, you accept his offer.

The three of you sprawl across the deck, sun tan lotion coating you and Max's limbs, sunscreen coating Malcolm's. The boys split a joint, passing it between them. You watch the smoke curl in the air above your heads.

It's nice to see Malcolm like this. Drunk on love, barely suppressing giggles at Max's shitty, shitty jokes. It's nice to know that romance can be so simple, that it doesn't have to hurt so much.

You wish that you knew which way Jack is leaning, but when it comes to you, he is impossible to read and you don't have the energy to try.

You feel empty, completely emotionally spent. Jack had once been a man who gave more to you than he took, but that isn't true anymore, and you have nothing left to give.

Max guides the boat back to the marina in the early evening. You follow a few steps behind them as they meander down the beach back to the hotel, for once perfectly content to be a third wheel.

Suddenly, Malcolm stops dead, causing you to ram your forehead into his back.

"Oh my God," he mutters.

You follow his gaze up the cliffs lining the beach to a sight that's all too familiar.

The clearing. Your spot. And standing at the edge, Jack.

Who is not alone.

April is leaping up and down, shouting something over and over and over.

Yes!

Jack is holding something in his hands. Even from a distance, you know exactly what it is.

You don't think about what the others will say, don't think about your family standing with Koa a bit further down the beach, gazing up at him.

You don't think about anything.

You just run.

Jack doesn't know how it happened. He headed to the cliffside that night, having made his decision. It hadn't even felt like a choice, really. More like an inevitability.

He was always going to choose you.

The ring was in his pocket, as it had been the entire trip. His fingers idly played with the lid, flipping it open and shut while he waited for you. When he got home, he'd pick out something new just for you. Something more simple, less flashy. He has a feeling that would be more your taste.

There was a lot to do. Florence, he suspects, would not be entirely surprised by the revelation. Telling Allan and Darby would not be easy, and getting them on board would be even harder, but he would figure it out. Your family was important to you, and if he wanted a life with you, he knew he would have to find a way to make it work.

A tree branch snapped, and he turned around, expecting to see you.

He was wrong.

April was standing at the edge of the clearing, hands clasped over her mouth. Staring down at the ring, peeking out of the open box in his hands.

She gave a thrilled squeal.

And then she was bounding over to him, shouting yes at the top of her lungs, and down below on beach he heard shouts of congratulations from Allan and Koa, who were walking the shore with the others, and you. You stared up at him for a moment before slipping away.

The rest of the night moves quickly. Jack blinks and he is being dragged into the hotel bar, and Koa is ordering champagne on the house, and there is a glass being pressed into his hand.

He drinks. It's all he can think to do.

You're there, he suddenly notices. He's not sure how long you've been standing at the edge of their little party, a few feet away from Nani and your mother who are flanking April, admiring the ring.

There's a champagne flute in your hands, half drunk.

"You're drinking?" he hisses.

You shrug, taking a long sip. "I can handle it in moderation."

"Can you?"

Your gaze cuts deep.

"I handled you."

Then your friend's at your side, tugging gently at your arm. You shove him away, and snatch one of the bottles before wondering off to God knows where. Your friend watches you go, then levels Jack with a chilling glare.

"She's been sober for three fucking years, you prick," the boy mutters.

Jack's mouth falls open, but he can barely string a thought together, much less a sentence.

What the fuck has he done?

DAY SEVEN

The sheets stick to you as you sit up in bed, fumbling for your phone. It's not on the bedside table, nor beneath the bed. Eventually, you spot it poking out of your shorts, discarded on the floor a few feet away.

The stranger at your side is unfamiliar.

The pounding in your head, however, you know all too well.

You dress before he can wake and stumble out of the room.

Tears flood your eyes as you wander back to your family's unit. You're not sure who you're more angry with: Jack, for proposing to someone else in your spot, or yourself, for allowing yourself to fall off the wagon because of a boy.

A surge of nausea hits you suddenly, and you vomit into a nearby planter.

You're surprised to find your entire family is awake, gathered in the living room when you return. Not just your family, you realize, Koa and Nani are there too, sitting with your parents. And in the corner of the room, folded against the wall, is Jack.

What the fuck?

Malcolm spots you first. "Thank fucking Christ."

You are smothered by a hug before you can get a word out.

"Where were you?" your mother demands once Malcolm releases you.

"Does it matter?"

Your voice is hoarse, and you wince.

"Yes, it fucking matters," your father snaps.

His arms are folded over his chest, and there's a darkness to his gaze that you haven't seen in years. It's all too familiar, the kind of thing you'd once spent every second of your interactions with your parents watching for. It is the last fucking thing you need right now.

"Jesus, I'm twenty-six years old. I don't need to tell you every little thing that I do."

Your mother's lip quivers. "Why didn't you tell us you were sober?"

You can feel Malcolm stiffen at your side. Shit.

"Like you make it so easy to tell you things," you mutter.

"God forbid we expect you to act like a goddamn adult."

The words are spat in your face. Your father towers over you, his chest heaving. It's a bit refreshing to see him like this. A reminder that you didn't make it all up.

"Allan."

Jack's got a hand on your father's shoulder. He meets your eyes for a single, agonizing second before you look away.

Your father storms out of the room, and it's not long before your mother follows. Florence and Lucy are absent from the scene, which you're grateful for. Koa and Nani slip out quietly with Max, and Malcolm follows them out, lingering in the doorway to speak to him.

You and Jack are left alone.

Neither of you speaks for a long, agonizing moment. Then, you hear Jack's breath catch.

You look up, and spot him staring down at your thighs. A small splatter of cum is crusted on the skin below your shorts.

"Un-fucking believable," he mutters.

"Don't."

He scoffs. "For someone who talked such a big game about this being something real, you sure moved on fast."

"Yeah?" You step closer, butting up against his chest. "What do you call what you did?"

"That's not-" His mouth snaps shut. "If you'd stop being so fucking immature about this-"

"No," you growl. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to weaponize my age against me. You knew exactly how old I was when you fucked me."

His eyes widen.

You push past him, storming down the hall to your room. Tears blur your vision, and you miss the figure standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching the entire thing.

"I knew it."

The words knock the wind out of Jack.

April's eyes practically glow as she faces him from the hall.

"It was her, wasn't it?"

He clenches his fists, steeling himself for the conversation he's been putting off for far too fucking long.

"Can we please discuss this outside?"

She scoffs. "Why? Don't want anyone to find out about your perverted little game?"

His ears strain against the silence of the suite as he tries to pick out the creak of a door, the patter of footsteps, anything that would signal that they've got an audience.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," he finally says. "I didn't want to hurt you."

She laughs, a pained, humorless little squeak.

"It's a little late for that."

"Can we please go somewhere and talk about this?" Jack presses.

April is still for a moment. Then she shakes her head.

"I've wasted far too much time on you."

With that, she leaves him alone.

Jack collapses onto the sofa before his legs begin to shake.

Malcolm holds you for a second longer before stepping away.

"You sure you'll be okay?"

You nod, squeezing the handle of the suitcase sitting at your side.

"I think I just need some space. From everyone," you add.

And one person in particular.

Malcolm nods, and you know he understands exactly what you mean.

You weren't mad when he revealed that Max had asked him to spend another week with him up at his family's place in Princeville. It gave you an excuse to switch to a regular flight to New York. You would rather spend a few hours melting in the Fort Worth airport than spend any more time with your family in LA right now.

"Text me when you land, okay?"

You nod. He gives your cheek a quick peck and turns back to the terminal gates, where Max's car is waiting. You spot him in the driver's seat through the window, and he gives you a wave.

As you begin to head towards the security checkpoint, you spot a familiar.

Jack is standing in the check in line for Southwest, speaking to the woman at the counter while Florence types away on her phone at his side.

Despite everything that happened this week, you expect yourself to feel a twinge of desire at the sight of him. Instead, you feel nothing.

Jack Abbot isn't just a habit you can't break, he is an addiction, and today was your rock fucking bottom.

It's time you finally sobered up.

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