Likes: Quiet places, motorcycles, plants, cold beers, cherry pies, the smell of bonfire smoke, long baths, historical novels, old movies, 80s dad rock, vera lynn, the sound of rain on glass
Dislikes: Cilantro, being the centre of attention, running, change, sales people trying talking to him at the store, getting trapped in small talk, hospitals
Sadie adjusted the brim of her sleeve, grinning at Jack’s awkwardness. It was like he was trying to be the anti-gardener, all stiff and uncomfortable, but she was here for it. “Well, I’m definitely not, like, a master gardener or anything. I’ve killed at least three succulents in the past month, so, uh, let’s say I’m more ‘enthusiastically attempting’ than ‘certified professional,’ but I know the basics.” Honesty was the best policy after all...something she may have skipped over in her interview.
She took a step closer to the plot he was gesturing at, squatting down to inspect. “Tilling is just turning over the soil to loosen it up, right? So the plants can breathe and stuff. And direct sowing, I think that’s just when you put the seeds straight into the ground or am I wrong?” She looked up at him with a half-smirk, clearly amused by the weird dynamic. Sadie had a green thumb—kinda. She’d kept a few plants alive for a solid six months and was actually pretty good with houseplants. "I might not be able to recite Latin names of every flower, but I can definitely make dirt look pretty and get a few things to grow," she added, glancing at Jack with a teasing look.
"You've killed thr- how- no, y'know what? Never mind. I don't wanna know." A wrinkle had appeared between his eyebrows, the very thought of being able to kill off maybe the easiest plants to care for nearly enough to give him a headache all on its own. It was his own fault, he'd insisted that experience didn't matter and he wanted to stick to that. At least with somebody green he could teach them using his methods and not get stressed over any pre-existing habits.
Well, that was something at least. He nodded. She didn't need to be an encyclopaedia. Just semi-competent and not a total inconvenience. "Good. Well. We're gonna till this area and get it ready for the next few months. I got some box plants in the truck for these beds, but we're gonna sow a few things directly around the edges for next season." He gave her a sideways glance. "You ever use a rotovator before?"
It had been less the promise of lunch and more that Jack had no idea how to politely decline such a bizarre event, especially when he wasn't sure if it might result in an upset client, however he felt it was unwise to voice this. Clearly upsetting Madisyn wouldn't have been an issue, she obviously knew nothing about this, if only past him had known.
He shrugged, ducking down behind the menu again and mumbling, “Lunch is lunch. Doesn't need to be fancy.” Though he couldn't imagine Miss Connor slumming at a burger joint. She'd stick out like... well, like he did here.
A curiosity he neither needed nor wanted gnawed at him. After a minute or so of scanning the list of food before him and not taking anything in, he gave up and put it down. “If you've tried and she's not interested then why are you asking around? Sounds like a lost cause. Don't you have other people you can work with?”
Grace observed him carefully, Jack’s discomfort only becoming more evident despite her efforts to relax him. She’d never run into a situation where she’d been unable to charm her way through it, so she found him intriguing to say the least. “I suppose you’re right. I’m typically surrounded by those who find it quite imperative that I wine and dine prospective clients and business partners,” she replied, a hint of an amused smile touching her lips. “I grew up in a world where everything about appearances matter.”
At his question, she paused, choosing her words carefully. “It’s not as simple as a failed business venture.” Her gaze turned shrewd, studying him carefully once again. For some reason, Jack felt like a safe person to be at least somewhat honest with. “Reputations were harmed – hers and my family’s alike – and I’m quite determined that together we could repair the damage.”
And then, there was the matter of Ash. “I’ve also stumbled upon… my estranged sis–sibling,” Grace stumbled over her words slightly as she caught herself before misgendering her sibling. The last conversation she’d had with Ash had been a lot to take in but Grace had learned something new about them and was making an effort. She wasn’t sure Ash would ever believe the effort from her, but it needed to be done nevertheless. “I’ve decided to remain in town a bit longer. And while I’ve other clients I’m still working with, it’s quite important to me not to give up on Madisyn just yet.”
Keeping up with appearances sounded a lot like the fancier version of bullshit and his nose wrinkled slightly in response. He'd never understood why people thought it was necessary for business. Shouldn't the work and skill speak for itself? That was what reputation should be built on. Not... whatever the hell this was. Two different worlds, he supposed. Grace probably understood him as little as he understood her.
Ah. An ulterior motive. Jack didn't have much experience with those. He preferred when people were straightforward about things. It was simpler. Less convoluted. At the mention of an estranged sibling his mouth fell open in a surprised 'o'. Of all the things he might've expected from lunch, it wasn't that. He wasn't sure which piece of information to react to first.
“Oh. Wow. You've, um, you've had a pretty eventful time lately, huh?” An estranged sibling. Ruined repurations. Were the two related? It wasn't any of his business, but he couldn't help asking, “What exactly happened to cause all that?”
at a coffee cart in the park with anyone! ( open )
Theo accepted the steaming cup of coffee from the barista with a murmured thanks, then turned his attention to the person who’d commented on the cold. His grin was immediate, teasing. “Oh, it’s definitely winter’s opening act. You can tell because everyone’s still pretending they don’t need gloves. Including me.” He raised the paper cup like a shield, his fingers already pink from the chill. “But come January, we’ll all be bundled up like mummies, questioning every life choice that brought us to Illinois.” He paused, his grin softening into a curious tilt of his head. “You must be better prepared than me, though. What’s your secret? Layers? Thermal socks? Some ancient ritual you’d be willing to share? I'm not a creature of the cold. I'm meant to migrate South, like birds do.”
Jack can't help but mutter under his breath as he comes through the door, cursing the cold and Jack Frost, and any other sinister, frozen little entity that might be responsible for the way his nose feels like it's become one big icicle in the time it's taken to walk over to the shop.
He glances up and it takes a moment to register that it's Theo speaking to him, and that his own complaints have indeed been voiced aloud. “Oh, uh- well, you know. Gardening. Being outside kinda comes with the territory. You get used to being prepared. We had pretty shitty winters in Vermont too, I guess I'm just used to it.” It helps, he thinks, that his default wardrobe is mostly made up of thick plaid regardless of the season. Layers have always been Jack's friends. Extra armour, his mother used to tease. “You gotta get yourself some decent gloves, man. Frostbite's no joke.”
Leaving his manager’s office, CJ thought he was doing a pretty good job of looking miserable, like the verbal lashing he had just received regarding some missing equipment had affected him. Truly, he didn’t get what the big deal was — it was just a few dumbbells, and they looked sick in the little elf hats he made for them, sitting on his and Seb’s fireplace — but if he looked too unbothered, he’d probably get fired. Being on his second strike was bad enough.
Still, he denied, denied, denied having anything to do with the uncounted weights, claiming he saw ‘some dude’ suspiciously hanging around the area a few weeks ago. Technically not a lie, as CJ was some dude, and he caught a glance of himself in the floor length mirrors as he bagged them up. Still, it was his ‘mission’ to catch the culprit, and in an effort to look like he was doing his job, tapped the first person he came across on the gym floor, gesturing to the empty studio room that held classes. "Don't be scared. I just need you to come with me for a minute."
🎶 ‘You can concern yourself with bigger things, you catch a pearl and ride the dragon's wings...’ 🎶 The tinny sounds of Asia float quietly through Jack's earbuds as he dislodges them, a slightly alarmed look on his face and his out of tune humming cut off. The gym has always been a solitary activity for him. He has a routine that he follows rigidly, half because it works and half because it means he can get in and out as quickly as possible without having to acknowledge or be acknowledged by anyone, so when a younger guy taps him and it's not to ask if he can use the equipment an alarm bell sounds in his head.
His anxiety skyrockets. He gapes at the kid stupidly for a moment, then his brain kicks back into gear. “Wha- did I do something?” He asks, stumbling over the words as though his tongue has suddenly grown two sizes and no longer fits in his mouth.
Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel serves as a reminder of this as he passes the sign out of town. 'You are now leaving Blue Harbor. Come again soon!' The words barely even register. Every mile added to the odometer is another mile put between him and his fear, unravelling his guilt and leaving it roadside to rot.
At least that's what he tells himself.
Outside twilight merges the gloom of the sky with the blur of trees as they pass and the world becomes a bleak tunnel through which he travels with no light waiting at the end. He ignores the buzzing of his phone. He ignores the quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. With every minute that passes by he tells himself that this is necessary. He tells himself that it's okay. That it will help.
It isn't. It doesn't.
It won't.
DECEMBER, 2022.
Two days after the funeral Jack sits amidst the destruction that used to be the kitchen, blood seeping through the formerly white cloth wrapped around his hand as a makeshift bandage. Sunlight glitters from the sharp edges of broken glass scattering countertops and one of the cabinet doors hangs off its hinges revealing a sad set of empty shelves, the plates which they used to hold now strewn across the floor in jagged shards. He's not sure what made him do it. It's all a blur now. All he knows it that one moment he was standing there, looking numbly at the collection of lasagnes and various other foiled dishes delivered by well-meaning neighbours, and the next he was moving, shoving them all off the edge in a wave of fury and pain, breaking, kicking, destroying, until there was nothing left to throw.
Grace had hated lasagne.
Now, in the aftermath of that thought, he leans back against the counter empty as the cabinet. He thinks he should care more, maybe want to kick himself for doing it. He's going to have to clean it all up, and how will he return the empty dishes to their owners when they're in pieces? But he can't. He can't bring himself to care. He can't bring himself to feel anything anymore. Since the moment he watched the coffin sink into the ground, since he stood over it to toss the first handful of earth into the grave, there's been nothing left inside of him. It's like he's been set adrift.
The house is too quiet. Too empty. No one comes to check on him.
His stare is blank as he lifts the bottle of whiskey to his lips with his good hand. If her voice isn't there to fill the silence, then he'll drink until the empty feeling goes. There's no one there to stop him. After all, what does it matter what Grace did or didn't like anymore? She's not here.
AUGUST, 1997.
"Whatcha doing?"
Jack startles, dropping the wrench with a loud clang against the garage floor. He hadn't noticed the shadow falling over him, too absorbed with what he was doing, and for a moment he stares at its owner with his mouth slightly agape, like a fish.
He's seen the girl only once before; an hour ago, out on next door's front lawn, hanging around on the low wall, listening to a Walkman while movers hauled boxes out from a van and carted them up the driveway into the house. It's been a noisy affair. An older couple—to whom he assumes the house now belongs—have been darting in and out all morning, trying to coordinate what goes where. An aura of stress radiates from the vicinity, but the girl in front of him seems unbothered by the mayhem.
His tongue appears to have tied itself in a knot, words refusing to come out, but that doesn't seem to bother her either. When he says nothing, she keeps talking.
"I saw you looking at me earlier, in the window. I guess we're neighbours now, huh? That's pretty cool. I didn't know if there would be any other kids on the street."
Embarrassment warms his face at the realisation that she'd noticed him. He thought he'd gotten away with it, watching the proceedings from the kitchen at breakfast. But she doesn't seem to be bothered by his spying. If anything, she looks intrigued. She steps further into the garage to see what he's doing and without the sunlight bouncing from it, her hair turns from shining gold to an ashy blonde. It's pulled back in a haphazard ponytail and dotted with little plastic butterfly clips. In their later years, Jack will be forced to admit that he was enamoured with Grace from that moment, and she'll tease him for his oh-so-eloquent reply.
"Uh…"
His lack of conversational skills don't seem to matter, though. The motorcycle has caught her attention, distracting her from any awkward stuttering. It sits half dismantled in front of it, parts scattered across the floor alongside various tools. Jack's supposed to be waiting for his dad to come out and help him, but the old man was waylaid by a phone call from his sister about thirty minutes ago and it'll be at least another hour before Aunt Lucy runs out of things to say, so he's taken it upon himself to get started on fixing the clutch. Or at least trying to fix the clutch. He's pretty sure he can do it himself. Maybe.
"Whoa, is this yours? Is it a bike? Are you fixing it? Cool! My mom would never let me do anything like this, she doesn't like mess. She already gets way too mad about my sewing, she says I leave too much stuff around the house, but I think houses look better that way, you know? It's weird if a place is too neat. Hey, what's that?"
Jack blinks, then looks down at the part laying by his knee.
"A pressure plate?"
"What's it for?"
"Um… it holds the clutch in place. Sort of."
"Cool. You'll have to show me what that is at some point. I'm Grace by the way. What's your name?"
She sticks out her hand expectantly, a wide smile in place, and Jack only feels slightly dazzled as he wipes off his smudged fingers on his shirt and reaches out to shake it. He's never met anyone like her before—a sentiment that will be repeated over and over for the next twenty five years.
MARCH, 2024.
The yard is dead. No new spring blooms poke their head out of the ground to greet the world, no freshly turned dirt adorns the flower beds along the edge. The door hinges on the shed have rusted shut from disuse and something with claws has dug holes all over the previously well-kept lawn. Jack doesn't even look at anymore, but his mom peers out the kitchen window at it with a worried crease in her brow as he drinks his coffee at the table. That crease has been there a lot lately, a featured act in every appearance at his front door. He knows she's working up to saying something, but he doesn't know what. That seems to be the vibe with all of the people in his life lately; the hesitance, the hovering. Like he's some sort of china doll that will break if they move too suddenly around him.
He wishes they wouldn't. His surroundings are filled with enough reminders of his grief as it is. The very walls of the house hold the ghost of Grace's laugh, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, the lingering image of her saying good morning from the kitchen doorway. It's been two years and the numbness is still there, cloying and all-encompassing, and when he's alone it threatens to swallow him whole.
"Oh, honey," his mom says, brushing the hair out of his eyes with that painfully concerned look on her face. "I don't think staying in this house is good for you, you need to be able to move."
She's right. He knows she's right. But he's not quite ready to admit that just yet, so he shrugs her off and sips his coffee, and wishes he could add something a little stronger to it without having her tut over his shoulder. Under the table, he reaches a foot out like he would have done back in the day, to bump it against Grace's, a quiet confirmation of solidarity. It meets nothing but empty air.
Whoever says that grief gets easier over time is a goddamn liar.
THE MOMENTS IN BETWEEN
The moments in between are a golden confetti of laughter, magic, and heartbreak. Grace is by and large the strangest person Jack's ever met. She's also the kindest, and the funniest, and the most beautiful. He doesn't know what to expect after their meeting in the garage, but the life that follows is more perfect than anything he could've dreamt up by himself.
He remembers the way she rested her head on his shoulder the first day of high school, the strawberry scent of her shampoo tickling his nose as the pair of them listened to her Walkman together on the bus. He remembers the day she got into college and the pride mingled with that horrible ache, the knowledge that she was leaving weighing heavy on his shoulders, only lifted when she asked him to go with her. He remembers the taste of rum on her lips the first night that she kissed him, they were nineteen and the muffled sounds of the Halloween party in their apartment threatened to burst through the bedroom door as she called him an idiot and asked why he hadn't made a move yet, wasn't it obvious they were supposed to be together?
He remembers the fear and the excitement. The way waking up with her every day felt like the start of some new kind of adventure. How she made him laugh so hard it felt like his ribs would crack and the warmth of her cradled in his arms after a bad day, when all she needed was a hug. Her hand in his as they made their vows and their loved ones cheered in celebration.
He remembers the blood tests coming back and the doctor saying 'I'm afraid I have some bad news', and the painful static that'd filled his head moments later. The tears on her cheeks, her hand squeezing his so hard she left nail indents in his skin, and his own promise that 'we'll get through this, everything will be alright.'
And he remembers that promise breaking, every piece of confetti left lying wrinkled and faded on the ground, the rain spattering his shoulders as mourners swathed in black surrounded him.
He remembers every. single. bit.
NOVEMBER, 2024.
So it goes like this: Jack, tired of his parents' fretting, tired of the pitying looks from his friends, neighbours and clients, and tired of the way his bedroom walls feel like they're closing in on him every night, finally bites the bullet and takes his mom's advise. The house in Burlington is stowed away in boxes piece by piece, shoved into the back of his truck, and hauled out to the town his grandfather grew up in, the only parts of which Jack remembers being the impossibly giant trees and an old fashioned candy store on a street corner. That turns out to be a blessing.
He doesn't expect much from it, but when he arrives on the doorstep of his new house he finds that he can almost breathe for the first time in two years. There are no ghosts lingering in the walls and he hears no long-dead laughter, and though that absence makes him reach for the beer it doesn't make him want to sink into oblivion quite so deeply as he has been.
The yard is large and full of potential. Again, there is a lack of ghosts. He did not spend mornings sitting out on the porch with Grace here, or warm afternoons out planting the weirdest seeds they could find at the nursery out in the flower beds. It's a place of his own untouched by the past and his fingers itch to do something with it, a familiar feeling gone foreign, now revived.
Routine settles in. Though the traces of Grace that haunt him in Vermont are non-existent here, habit has him setting out two mugs of coffee in the morning. One he drinks and one goes cold, but somehow it helps. Like it's a reminder that though he's left Vermont behind, he hasn't left Grace entirely, and the guilty feeling in his chest unwinds. He accepts it as part of his day and moves on to check his emails. Working is surprisingly busy in this town. It's good. It keeps his mind busy.
And though he is content with his own company, swearing to himself that he's fine alone, he attends a grief support group so that his parents won't worry so much. It feels like a waste of his time and listening to the grief of others makes him uncomfortable, but it becomes as ever-present in his week as the coffee. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he finds himself surrounded by neighbours who want to talk to him. There's something in the air in Forest Lake, maybe it's catching. There are dinner parties and nights at the pub, and somewhere along the way the most beautiful man he's ever seen looks back at Jack and turns his stomach over with his smile.
Rory Anderson is like coming up for air after drowning. There are very few people in this world that Jack feels totally, utterly comfortable around, and Grace was always the only one he felt knew him truly, but it seems as though Rory might too. Despite this, Jack tells himself it's not serious. It's not serious and they'll both get bored soon, probably, and move on. This spark he feels between them, the one that threatens to ignite and burn, that's all it is. A spark. Easily dampened. Nothing to worry about.
But with Rory comes Annie, and the two of him welcome them into their inner circle like he's supposed to be there. Their company is like a warm blanket engulfing him on a rainy day. Comforting, so much so that he doesn't ever want to move. The longer he spends around them the more he finds himself smiling, something he thought he'd forgotten how to do. And then he finds himself planning ahead, which… what? When did the future come into play? There isn't supposed to be a future, not without…
But he pushes those thoughts away and ignores the squirming, guilty feeling in his gut that tells him he's committing the ultimate act of betrayal. He'll deal with that later. Always later.
The world brightens. The air becomes easier to breathe. He looks forward to waking up again. The warmth of somebody else in his bed is no longer a distant memory and laughter stops feeling like it belongs in another life altogether. The yard isn't dead. Nothing in his kitchen is broken. There is no graveyard dirt under his fingernails.
And then, one morning, he comes downstairs and unthinkingly he pulls out only a single mug for coffee. Just the one. It's not until an hour later when he comes back for a refill that he realises.
He forgot.
And it all comes crashing down.
PRESENT DAY
Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. It is swamped by an endless sea of guilt, mourning, and self-loathing. The single coffee cup sits abandoned on his kitchen counter as Blue Harbor fades into a distant dot in his rear-view mirror and the buzz of his phone is drowned out by thrum of the engine. Ahead, Burlington awaits like a looming ghost, calling him home. Running is easier than falling. If he doesn't fall, he can't get hurt.
➥ location: blue harbor community hospital gardens
➥ timestamp: late september
➥ status: closed starter for @sadiechen
Gardening has always been a somewhat solitary experience for Jack with few exceptions—namely his grandfather, who'd been the one to kick off the obsession in the first place, and Grace, who had injected herself thoroughly into every piece of his life that Jack had never thought to question it. The isolation of it has never been a problem.
Until now.
Another shadow falls across the stone pathway beside his and he holds back a sigh. Sadie Chen isn't exactly the type of person he'd pictured as an assistant, but she'd been by far the most enthusiastic interviewee and, honestly, he'd just wanted the interviews to be over with., so he'd put aside his reservations given her the job. Whether it was a good idea remains to be seen.
See, the issue isn't her, per se. It's actually the same one that so often injects itself into his business: he doesn't know how to talk to people. And if it weren't for the way his shoulder has started to twinge when he lifts something heavy, or the fact that his client list has started to border on unmanageable, then he wouldn't have to.
“Okay, so, uh...” He begins, then trails off frowning. Teaching's never much been his thing. He'd been dragging his feet about hiring someone to help out even though he knew it was the sensible option. This was precisely why. “I guess we can start over here.” Trudging over to one of the walls he hasn't yet had a chance to work on, he indicates a rather neglected little plot. “How much do you know about tilling and direct sowing?”
Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly as she listened to Jack speak. It was evident he didn’t really know Madisyn all that well at all, which was understandable, but she had to hold back a laugh. She’d already tried to talk to that girl and it had gone absolutely nowhere. Jack was clearly out of his depth, and frankly, she couldn’t exactly blame him. The entire situation was a right mess – one she hadn’t intended to draw anyone else into. Still desperate times. Grace lowered her gaze from Jack to menu again before closing it, having decided on her entree.
“It’s not quite as simple as ‘just talking’ to Madisyn, although I have tried that,” she conceded, reaching for her glass of water and taking a contemplative sip. Grace inhaled slowly, steadying herself from getting upset at how childish Madisyn was being. “I’ll figure something out, I suppose.” With a final sigh, Grace nodded to herself and then glanced back at Jack, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much with my little ask. Frankly, I was surprised you agreed to meet with me. Though, I suppose the promise of a fancy lunch would tempt most.”
It had been less the promise of lunch and more that Jack had no idea how to politely decline such a bizarre event, especially when he wasn't sure if it might result in an upset client, however he felt it was unwise to voice this. Clearly upsetting Madisyn wouldn't have been an issue, she obviously knew nothing about this, if only past him had known.
He shrugged, ducking down behind the menu again and mumbling, “Lunch is lunch. Doesn't need to be fancy.” Though he couldn't imagine Miss Connor slumming at a burger joint. She'd stick out like... well, like he did here.
A curiosity he neither needed nor wanted gnawed at him. After a minute or so of scanning the list of food before him and not taking anything in, he gave up and put it down. “If you've tried and she's not interested then why are you asking around? Sounds like a lost cause. Don't you have other people you can work with?”
“You’d think people would bring their pets in if they knew you were coming ‘round,” Elijah said, sparing no more than a snort for the lack of common sense. Other than the pesky dog, though, he had to admit that the gig didn’t sound half bad on the surface. There was a moment where he allowed himself to ponder what he would’ve been up to had music not fallen into his lap — perhaps he would’ve done something physical, like Jack, he thought — but it passed, all washed away, with another swig of his drink. “You enjoy it, though? Maybe, uh — besides that bit? I guess that’s what matters.”
He couldn’t control the way his lips twitched into a smile at Jack’s low, impressed whistle. There were often times where acknowledgement of his craft came hand in hand with recognition, and recognition was a hell of a messy — admittedly unwanted, at points — can of worms to crack open, but he knew that wasn’t what was happening here. Hoped, anyway; he really didn’t want to re-evaluate the lens in which he viewed their acquaintanceship, figuring out that he may have known who he was after all. Thankfully, his suspicious, or lack thereof, only got confirmed by his next line of questioning. So, he didn’t know. Thank God. “Oh, yeah. Well, I mean, Chicago’s got a pretty strong music scene. Lots of people tend to trickle over, I suppose — actually, that’s what my parents did,” he shared, “Um — rock, though, mainly. I’d say that’s my specialty, but, y’know, I try not to limit myself too much by genre these days.”
“You'd think,” Jack agreed with a sigh. People tended to be thoughtless like that. He was just the gardener, blending into the leaves and the roots like any other accessory in their yard. Complaining was futile. Most of the time he preferred it that way anyway. “Yeah, it's- I've always liked working outside. I like plants. Been doing it since I was a kid, figured I might as well use it.” Any other job would've driven him crazy, he was sure of it.
“That makes sense. Still, pretty quiet place for a rocker, eh?” He smiled. Elijah didn't strike him as the kind of guy who spent wild nights out on the town, destroying hotel rooms and breaking guitars, a stereotypical rockstar cliche, but maybe that's what he meant by not letting genre limit him. Or maybe growing up in Blue Harbor just didn't allow for that sort of crap. “You've always been here, then? Or are you one of those guys who jumped around for a while with like tours and shit?”
Closed: Jack Lynch (@jacklynchh) – Food, drinks, and a fire.
Frank leaned back in his chair, watching the flames dance in the fire pit. The evening air was crisp, and the stars twinkled overhead. He’d invited Jack over for dinner and drinks while his family was out of town. "How'd you like the roasted veggies?” Frank chuckled, proud of his progress. “Thanks to you! I never thought I’d enjoy digging in the dirt so much." He took a sip of his drink, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the friendship blooming between them.
As they settled into easy conversation, Frank couldn’t help but notice the way Jack seemed to hold back at times. He admired Jack’s quiet strength but wondered if there was more beneath the surface. “Hey, Jack,” Frank began, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been meaning to ask… how are you doing? I know you don’t talk about it much, but I want you to know I’m here if you ever want to share.”
Brilliant orange sparks danced in the air, there one moment and gone the next, swallowed by the darkness. Jack's gaze was fixed on the fire, eyes glazed over just slightly. Odd, wasn't it, how he'd fled Burlington to be alone, and yet he'd found so many kindred spirits nestled between the trees of Forest Lake, waiting? Friends had been the last thing he'd expected moving here. He'd never been much good at making them on his own, Grace had always been the initiator when it came to others, but somehow he'd managed. It was this thought that had pulled him into his own head, guilt-ridden thoughts swallowing his attention span.
Frank's voice snapped him out of his daze. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah. They're great.” A weak smile forced its way onto his face. God, he was terrible company tonight, he chided himself, and after Frank had gone to all this effort. He sat up straighter and tried to push away all distractions. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though he'd slipped it by his friend. His words were coming out stilted and noncommittal. He knew the other man could tell something was up.
Then came the dreaded question. Silence hung between them for a few seconds as Jack struggled to summon up a lie. It did not come out convincing. “I'm doing just fine. Good food, good company, nothing to complain about.” But the faux cheer was all too obvious. “Could use a few more of those eggplant things though, you're gonna need to give me the recipe for 'em.” He didn't mean to brush Frank off. Really, it was kind of the man to ask and he knew his goal wasn't to make Jack squirm with discomfort, but being asked only made it harder to pretend. And pretending was all Jack had been doing of late. He tried to deflect. “What about you, man? This a sharing circle? Something on your mind?”
Elijah realized perhaps a bit too late that he’d gone about asking his innocuous question in the wrong way, what with Jack tensing almost immediately at his side. He felt bad, a tinge of regret in his system, because he could only assume what he thought he was going to ask initially — they were bound together by an almost unspeakable topic, after all — but it passed quickly as he allowed the inkling of curiosity to leave him entirely. It’s none of my business, he thought. And it wasn’t like he was ever going to ask, really, anyway. He may have been inherently nosy, but he knew better than that.
“Yard work,” he repeated, not out of judgement or anything of the sort, but he was rather impressed instead. He didn’t want to make any unnecessary claims, but it seemed as though it quite suited him on a surface level. “That sounds ... a bit taxing, physically, I can’t lie — but peaceful. Is it peaceful?” he asked, taking a swig out of the bottle between his hands. When the question was flipped towards him, he continued, “I'm, uh — a producer. Music producer. Among other things, y’know, within that field. I’ve got my own studio here.” He chuckled, finding an odd — and unexpected — amount of similarities between his music and Jack’s gardening. “It’s kind of funny, I ... grew up here, sort of, so I should’ve known better, but I didn’t really expect a big turnout of musicians either. Seems like we both fit a niche.”
“Peaceful? Um. Yeah, I guess so. Sometimes. Depends on where I'm working. One of my clients has a really energetic dog that likes to get involved by digging... usually in the beds I've just planted. Makes life a little harder.” Therapeutic was a better word to describe it, though he kept that thought to himself. It strayed too close to exactly what they'd been dancing around. “Keeps me fit at least.”
An absentminded finger ran the rim of his glass and his eyebrows rose. Jack let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. It made sense. He looked like a musician, as much as one could, at least in Jack's estimation. Admittedly, he hadn't met many musicians in his life. Unless you counted his cousin Darryl, who played the banjo of all things. A quiet chuckle left him. “Yeah, this town's full of surprises. I didn't know it had all that much of a music scene.” Then again, it wasn't like he ever went out. Under a rock was his permanent residence. “What, uh, what kind of music do you make?”
RORY: Shellfish, kiwi, gravel. Got it
RORY: How considerate of you :)
RORY: Well, Jack, you haven't exactly inspired confidence about your pumpkins in the past, now have you
A laugh threatens to escape at the concerned look on Annie's face and when she scolds her dad, Jack has to press his lips together tightly, trying not to betray his amusement. It's a very serious job, after all, and she's a very serious gardener. The obvious mischief on Rory's face doesn't help one bit. "You tell him, kid."
The laughter softens some, though, when their gazes meet again. Something about the way Rory looks at him makes Jack feel seen, as though his very soul is bared under a spotlight, spilling all his secrets to be seen and the strange part is that it doesn't make Jack want to run and hide. He swallows hard and grips the fork in his hand a little harder, as though it might tether him to reality more firmly. Like he might float away if Rory keeps looking at him like that. It's almost embarrassing, how pleased he is by the attention—something he's historically not been a very comfortable recipient of—but he can't help the little satisfaction that creeps into his smile as a blush colours the other man's skin.
Jack gives the roots an exaggerated look of appraisal for Annie's benefit and nods. "Pretty good. But you could take a few pointers from Annie, she's clearly the top student here." Laughter lurks behind his gaze, threatening to emerge. He leans back on his heels and nudges Rory's side playfully. "She actually pays attention, for one."
“Hm,” Rory shakes his head and presses his lips tightly together from smiling too much — Annie’s started picking up on Jack’s teasing nature as of late, he’s noticed, and looking too fond of this part of the other man might only encourage her further. “Maybe I should just watch you both from the porch, then. Really soak in what’s happening,” he raises an eyebrow at Jack, gaze flicking down to the curve of his neck for only a second before it meets Jack’s eyes again. “I’m a visual learner, you know.”
“That’s not fair,” Annie tells Rory matter-of-factly, crossing her arms over her chest, hand fork and all. “I think you just want me and Jack to do all the work.”
Rory’s eyes widen exaggeratedly at his daughter, all faux-innocence. “I’m just being practical, monkey,” he tells her seriously. “I’ll slow you both down.”
Annie glances at Jack, eyes narrowed, before she looks back at Rory. “I don’t know what practical means,” she tells him, and Rory has to exhale a little sharply to keep himself from laughing. “But I don’t like the sound of it!”
He glances over at Jack, a smirk twitching at his lips. He’s joking, of course. He can’t think of a better way to spend his time than with Jack and Annie — doesn’t think there’s any way this couldn’t be enjoyable, despite his, ah, gardening shortcomings in the past. Here, he has a close-up to Jack’s expressions as he works, the way his entire demeanor relaxes and changes and thrives, a sight so endearing Rory thinks someone would have to force him away before he stopped indulging in it, frankly. Here, he can take note of Annie’s triumphant and excited smiles, Jack’s quiet, near-tampered excitement — right, so he’s not too keen on weeding some flower beds. He is keen on witnessing these two as they do, though. Quite a bit, and as a unit.
And he supposes he’d do far more for far less, if Jack enjoys it.
“Right, fine,” he sighs exaggeratedly, glancing back at Annie. “I’ll stick around, then. But I can’t promise I’ll get any better.” He shoots Jack a teasing look, fond glint in his eye. “What’s next, then?”
Rory raises an eyebrow at Jack’s challenging look, shifting beside Annie as he settles his hand fork into the soil with an exaggerated seriousness. “Alright, monkey, looks like I’ll need your expert guidance here, then,” he says, casting a sidelong glance at Jack, letting a small smirk play over his face. He digs down, a bit too theatrically, as Annie leans over with her hands on her knees, scrutinizing his every move with a tiny, furrowed brow.
“No, no, like Jack showed us,” she chimes in, poking a gloved finger at the earth. “You gotta go deeper into the soil, dad. Or it’ll come back, like he said!”
Rory stifles a laugh, nodding gravely as if she’s just given the most critical piece of advice. He digs in again, a little more forcefully this time, moving the roots up with a bit of flair before glancing back at Jack with a look that’s equal parts mischief and admiration. He forgets himself for a second, words caught in his throat, wrapped up in that rare lightness in the other man’s eyes. There’s a soft warmth spreading through his chest again, and it’s almost starting to feel familiar, with how often it happens by just looking at Jack.
It should be far more alarming than it is, how much he doesn’t mind it.
He clears his throat stupidly, feeling his cheeks pink when Annie pokes at the side of his face, as if testing whether or not Rory’s still in working order. He levels her with a playful glare, which only makes her giggle, before turning and meeting Jack’s gaze again, more alert this time. “Well, what d’you think?” he asks of Jack, holding up the weed like a prized catch. “Did I do good, boss?”
A laugh threatens to escape at the concerned look on Annie's face and when she scolds her dad, Jack has to press his lips together tightly, trying not to betray his amusement. It's a very serious job, after all, and she's a very serious gardener. The obvious mischief on Rory's face doesn't help one bit. "You tell him, kid."
The laughter softens some, though, when their gazes meet again. Something about the way Rory looks at him makes Jack feel seen, as though his very soul is bared under a spotlight, spilling all his secrets to be seen and the strange part is that it doesn't make Jack want to run and hide. He swallows hard and grips the fork in his hand a little harder, as though it might tether him to reality more firmly. Like he might float away if Rory keeps looking at him like that. It's almost embarrassing, how pleased he is by the attention—something he's historically not been a very comfortable recipient of—but he can't help the little satisfaction that creeps into his smile as a blush colours the other man's skin.
Jack gives the roots an exaggerated look of appraisal for Annie's benefit and nods. "Pretty good. But you could take a few pointers from Annie, she's clearly the top student here." Laughter lurks behind his gaze, threatening to emerge. He leans back on his heels and nudges Rory's side playfully. "She actually pays attention, for one."
RORY: Maybe? The offer does expire, you know
RORY: Can only do that to my knees so often
RORY: Oh, keep it. I'm sure I've been wearing some of yours this week too
RORY: Pumpkin patch next town over. Come along to that, too, if you'd like. Surely you know more about picking pumpkins than we do
JACK: well you're underestimating just how much i hate gravel.
JACK: you can use my gardening mat :)
JACK: sure, sounds like fun. i won't even kick up a fuss about how you didn't want to use MY pumpkins.
CLOSED STARTER for @jacklynchh !!
WHERE: bright sparks community center garden
Daniel adjusted the collar of his coat against the chill in the air as he walked into Bright Sparks’ community garden early that morning. The center was organizing a trunk or treat event and Jia, of course, had taken the lead in planning. She’d forgotten some papers the last time she was at the center and like the dutiful older brother that he was, he was stopping by to pick them up real quickly before meeting her for breakfast. A few raised beds caught his eye, the soil freshly turned, and neat rows of flowers just beginning to bloom. He rounded a corner and was surprised to spot someone else, a man he didn’t recognize, kneeling by a bed of lavender with his hands carefully tending to the plants. Daniel cleared his throat softly, not wanting to startle the man, and offered a polite note when he looked up. “Morning,” he greeted with a polite smile, stopping a few steps away. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up this early. Do you, uh, work here or just happen to have a green thumb?” he joked.
He must've looked like a deer caught in headlights with the way he froze in place. Just as the stranger had said himself, the last thing Jack had expected at this time of the morning was to run into anybody else. "Uh. Morning." A slightly sheepish expression came over him and he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling caught. See, the thing was, this wasn't technically work per se. Nobody had actually asked him to tend the garden.
Jack drove past the community centre almost every day. And every day he'd noticed the empty beds out front and the slightly overgrown space behind it. At first he'd just assumed they'd been left to be prepped for the winter, but then they'd stayed untouched. One day, a few weeks prior, he'd given in and finally gone inside to ask about it. As far as he could gather, nobody was looking after the garden and they hadn't yet come up with any plans for it. The thought troubled him.
Initially he'd planned to leave it alone. Sure it was a shame no one was doing anything with it, but what could he do? Volunteering would be the first thought, however when he considered it his skin crawled with anxiety. All those new faces, new names to learn, people who asked questions. He couldn't bring himself to do it. And then one morning he hadn't been able to sleep. The empty garden kept coming back to him. Before he knew it, he was down at the centre at first light weeding the flower beds. That was all he'd do, he told himself, just to make sure when they did get around to doing something with them they would be in ship shape. But the beds had looked so forlorn, freshly turned over with nothing inside, and next to such a lively building it just seemed wrong. A few herperanthas couldn't hurt, right? And a couple of autumn cyclamen? They were easy enough to take out if someone wanted to switch it up. That was it. That was all he'd do.
...But the path was uneven. That was a safety hazard. He should fix that really, so nobody tripped. And it could use a border. Just so it was easily visible, right?
It had spiralled from there.
Three weeks in a row he'd come now. Finding odd bits and bobs that needed doing... it was possible he had a problem. He got to his feet, abandoning the lavender he'd been pruning. Was he in trouble? Had somebody noticed what he'd been doing and sent this guy? Christ. "Um, I was just- I-" He stuttered nervously. "I'm just cleaning it up a little, is all."
Tom. He was fairly certain that was the usual guy's name. Unless Foster was losing his mind, that was definitely the name of the man who showed up every Tuesday... Or was it? Had he been calling the man by the wrong name all this time? Yet another sign that Foster was perpetually an asshole?
But talk of a discussion jogged his memory, reminding him that he was testing out a new supplier today. "Fuck- new guy, right? Gardener..." He trailed off, like the man might supply his name. "We spoke on the phone. Sorry, my head's, like, fucked."
"Uh, yeah. That's me. Jack Lynch." He shrugged, trying not to feel too annoyed that he'd lugged the stuff all the way down to the restaurant just to be forgotten. Everyone had bad days, right? The dude was probably busy with other stuff. But the twinge in his shoulder wasn't so forgiving.
He indicated to the box, figuring the quicker he could get out of there the better. "You wanted greens, right? I think I got 'em all... except the arugula." The caterpillars that had broken into the greenhouse could be thanked for that particular failing. "It was pretty beat, but I got some pretty good Swiss Chard here."
