in this together | mohabbot
"I thought I'd have a kid by now." Robby turns the glass on the bar top, leaving a wet circle. "I mean, I'm forty-eight. Forty-eight, Jack. My grandpa had a wife and three kids and a dog, and I've got a two-bedroom condo and, what, a treadmill I don't use in one of those bedrooms?"
Jack takes a sip of his beer.
"And Heather." Robby shakes his head. "Heather was it, man. She was the one. I should have fought for her before she moved away. Should've… Done something." He rubs the back of his neck. "I kept thinking I had more time."
"And you— God, you had it. You had the whole thing! The marriage, the house. And then you lost Diane, and I can't even—" Robby exhales. "I can't even imagine, brother. I can't imagine going through that."
Jack's thumb moves along the label of his bottle. He peels a corner of it.
"But at least we've got each other, right?" Robby says. He knocks his glass against Jack's bottle. "At least you and I are in this together."
Jack lifts his beer and drinks.
They watch the Penguins game for a while, and when it lulls Robby flags the bartender over. Jack shakes his head.
"Come on, man," Robby says.
"You're getting old on me, Abbot."
Robby laughs. "Nah. Nah, you're still in the game." He leans back on his stool, tipping it onto its hind legs. "We both are. We've still got time. Plenty of time."
Jack doesn't say anything to that. He picks at the label again.
The Penguins score, and Robby whoops, and a few people at the bar turn and grin. Jack smiles too, just one side of his lips, and Robby loves that about him: you can count on Jack Abbot to be steady.
"It's the career, I think," Robby says. "It took everything. It took my twenties and my thirties and my marriage, or, well— You know. The one I should've had." He stares at his beer. "You ever feel that? That the job took the years you were supposed to spend building a life?"
Jack seems to consider this, cocking his head. "I don't know," he says. "I think I built a different one."
"Sure, sure." Robby waves his hand. "But I mean, at the end of the day, it's you and me, right? Holding down the fort. Getting through it."
"I, uh—" Jack turns his wrist over and checks his watch. "Oh. It's late."
"What, you got a curfew?" Robby grins. Jack's cheeks are flushed, and his eyes have that soft, glazed look he gets after a few beers. "You really are turning into a lightweight, jeez. You used to close this place down. Let me call you an Uber."
"No, I can—" Jack pulls his phone out and does something on it. "I'm good."
"Yeah." Jack sets his phone face down on the bar. "Yeah, I've got a ride."
They drift back into easier territory: the latest batch of residents, the current betting pool. Robby talks. Jack listens, nodding in the right places, and it occurs to Robby that Jack has been doing a lot of listening tonight and very little talking, but he doesn't press.
Eventually, the door opens, and Robby looks up because the air shifts, the chill entering and diffusing across the space. He registers the woman in the doorway and freezes.
He hasn't seen her since she finished her residency and started working as an attending at— Where is it? Presby? Mercy? He can't remember, frankly. Hasn't seen her since her last day.
Robby has seen Jack happy before. He's seen Jack satisfied after a good shift, amused at a joke, all sorts of things. But the expression on Jack's face right now is nearly dopey: the flush has crept up to his ears and his eyes have gone wide and bright.
Robby has seen this look exactly once before. Diane was stunning in white, walking down the aisle.
Samira crosses the bar toward them. Of course she's coming over, Robby thinks. She's never known how to leave well enough alone, has she?
She nods politely at Robby. Then she looks at Jack, and one eyebrow lifts.
"Sight for sore eyes," Jack says. His voice is warm, lower than Robby is used to hearing it.
Samira rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Come on, let's get you home."
Robby's mouth opens. He looks between them, at Jack's still-growing grin and the way she stands close enough that her hip is almost touching Jack's knee.
The sentence doesn't finish.
Samira's face goes blank. She angles herself slightly away, studying a point on the far wall, arms crossed over her coat. His words, she knows, aren't addressed to her. Not really.
Jack is already pushing back from the bar, reaching for his coat on the stool beside him. But he freezes and meets Robby's eyes.
And well, at least he has the decency to look guilty.
"I wanted to be here for you tonight," Jack says. "Be a good listener."
Robby stares at him. Jack holds the stare, and there's something infuriatingly patient in the way he refuses to look away.
Jack doesn't answer. He grabs his coat and stands, and his weight shifts wrong for a second on his prosthesis, the slight hitch in his balance that Robby learned to watch for years ago. Robby starts to stand, arm halfway out—
Samira is already there, her left hand on Jack's forearm. She knows exactly where to put her hand, and Jack leans into it without looking, his balance correcting itself around her grip.
And that's when Robby sees it.
A ring. Simple but beautiful, an impressive diamond catching the light from the TV above the bar, glinting, glowing.
The bar is noisy around them. The game, the people all fill the space with sound, but none of it reaches him.
"So much for 'in this together,'" Robby says. The scoff comes out louder than he means it to.
Jack shakes his head and sighs. "You said that," he says quietly. "Not me."
Robby stills. He rewinds the last two hours in his head: at least we've got each other, right? And Jack, lifting his beer. Jack, picking at the label. Jack's careful silence, Jack letting Robby hear what he wanted to hear. All those pauses that Robby filled with his own voice, his own story, and Jack just—
He thinks about asking more. When it started, whether it was going on when she was still a resident. What Diane would think, and that's a dick move, and he knows it. He thinks about all of it, and the questions are a lump in his throat.
Jack reaches over and knocks a fist against Robby's shoulder, gentle. "I love you, man. I do."
Robby nods. His jaw is tight. He can't look at Samira.
Samira and Jack turn toward the door. Jack has his coat over one arm, and Samira walks a half-step ahead, and Robby watches them go. He should look away. He doesn't.
They've made it maybe four feet before Jack stops.
"Is girls' night still going on?"
Samira laughs, and Robby watches her half-turn toward Jack. "Cassie had to go relieve her babysitter, but everyone else is there, yeah."
"I finally get to join girls' night?" Jack seems to stand up a bit straighter at the idea.
Samira shakes her head, but she's still smiling. She reaches for his hand. "Only if you actually let me take you home."
Jack laces his fingers through hers and tugs, pulling her back toward him. She goes, and he puts his arm around her shoulder, and she tucks herself against his side, a fluid, well-practiced motion.
"I'd let you take me anywhere," he says into her hair.
She says something back that Robby can't hear. Jack laughs and presses his mouth to the top of her head as they walk.
They push through the door together. The cold rushes in and out again, and then Robby is alone at the bar.
The Penguins are still playing. The bar erupts: they must have scored. Robby doesn't look up from his bottle.
