Bad Luck Charm [24] - Bucket
(Dr. Jack Abbot x Neighbor!Reader)
Chapter Summary: Jack visits his wife's grave to find some closure. You come to your own conclusion while talking with his mother.
Word Count: 8.1k
Tags/Warnings: neighbor!reader, f!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, age gap (reader doesn’t have a specific age, but the age gap will be thematized), no use of Y/N, no use of any specific physical descriptions for reader, reader has the worst luck ever, reader needs therapy, reader is a people pleaser, awkward!reader, slow burn, grief, loss, jack’s late wife has a nickname, self deprecation, self doubt, insecurity, guilt, misunderstandings, angst, mention of death, hurt
English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar mistakes or typos.
A/N: hey hey hey... let me tell you something.... this is the last downward spiral while their official relationship status is single. trust me guys!
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Jack watches the flowers being lowered onto the white stone slab with a knot in the back of his throat and pressure building up behind his eyes. Light rain saturates the air and soaks his clothes but he doesn’t care. His hand tightens around the singular stem of his own flower, short nails digging into his palm.
The pain doesn't even come close to the one he feels in his heart when his eyes travel across the carved stone, tracing the letters and syllables of his wife’s name. His breath catches in his lungs when he reads the beloved nickname engraved underneath, much more familiar than anything else she had ever been called by.
Skipper.
The memory of this one word reaches so deep, it threatens to unravel the last bits of composure Jack can muster. Thousands of pictures play across his mind, reminding him of times long past, treasured moments and the worst pain he has ever felt in his life.
He wishes the darkest times wouldn't overshadow all the rest of his memories. That they hadn’t been the last thing he got to have with his wife. But how could he possibly think of anything else than her tragic death that left him broken and alone in a world that had so little light to begin with?
Skipper had been his beacon from the moment he had first seen her and she had never stopped burning brightly, only growing stronger and guiding him back to her no matter how far the shadows stretched around him.
But then she had left him to his own devices and Jack had scrambled, helplessly stranded in an abyss. And there had been no lighthouse to lead him back, there hadn’t even been a flimsy rope ladder to help him climb out of the hole. There had only been nothingness and a searing pain that forced Jack further and further away from even the slightest glow.
Grief had consumed Jack to such a degree that he didn't know how to function any longer. His entire life had been built around his person, his wife. And the moment she was gone, everything else went with it.
Only two things remained. His work and death.
Two constants that were intertwined inexplicably.
Saving lives hadn’t been the comfort other’s had promised. Jack had been reminded over and over again of his wife’s fate whenever he lost a patient. And with every person saved, the spear piercing his soul had embedded itself even deeper. The evidence that he was capable of keeping people alive, and the reality that he hadn't been able to do the same for Skipper never truly stopped being earth shattering.
But in the end, it had been the woman he had lost–who had ripped his heart to shreds by leaving him so suddenly–that made him go on.
Jack had always prided himself in knowing his wife inside out. The idea of disappointing her, even in death, had never been an option. So eventually, he had turned things around, had grabbed ahold of outstretched hands that dragged him out of the pit he couldn’t escape from alone, and had tried to see the world how Skipper would have done.
She would have wanted for him to find a rhythm in this new life of his. She would have wanted him to fight for every patient as if their life saved would bring her back to him. She would have wanted him to accept help.
And he had obeyed what he knew she wanted.
Only one thing he never followed up on.
Finding love again.
He hadn’t wanted to. Had told himself that she couldn’t possibly expect that of him. It had never been a an option for Jack, not when there only ever should have been one person deserving of his devotion. And not after their story ended so painfully for him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t visit last time,” Jack’s mother disrupts the quiet, head held high instead of looking at the grave. “I know I made a promise to you that I would accompany Jack whenever he comes to visit you, but life doesn’t always happen the way we want it to, you know? I am not getting any younger and you know how hard it is to get an appointment for an ophthalmologist. So, don’t blame me. I am here today. No need to nag.”
Jack doesn't interrupt the conversation that he is allowed to listen into. He just stares ahead, a headache pounding behind his eyes and his heart clenching while his mother talks to a grave as if it answers her.
The first time she had talked to his father’s grave as if he had simply laid down on a picnic blanket instead of sleeping in a coffin Jack had feared she had gone insane. He never would have assumed his mother would be someone that talked to the dead. But Jack had soon realized that it was simply her way of coping with the loss. Having a small chat, catching the deceased up on her life as if they had simply not seen each other in a while. It had brought her comfort and peace.
When she had continued this custom while visiting Skipper’s grave with him, it had been a small solace. Prove how cherished his wife had been by his family. A legacy she would have been proud of.
“I brought you flowers. I suppose I don’t need to tell you how to best take care of them,” his mother continues, then falters and clears her throat. “I…I miss you. I hope you’ve been well. Don’t wait for me yet, I don’t intend to see you again so soon. But one day.”
Her clipped parting words are resolute, yet when his mother turns away from the wet stone and faces him again, he notices the white-knuckle-grip on the handle of her umbrella. Exhaling as if a burden has fallen from her shoulders, she straightens up and raises her chin even higher like a proud aristocrat, ever painting the picture of a strong woman.
“Very well. I will leave you to it now, son. I will see you at home.”
He barely nods in acknowledgment, unmoving when she clasps his wrist with her cold hand and squeezes tightly, as if wanting to transfer a little comfort and warmth into his body. He hears his mother walk away through the rows and rows of buried people and Jack waits for a long time, long after she is gone, before he takes a step closer to what remains of Skipper.
Swallowing past the knot in his throat, he slowly bends down and sets the single white flower next to the bouquet his mother left. Pain explodes in his skull, his headache protesting against the movement, but Jack ignores it.
He had never adopted the same coping mechanism his mother used. He had kept his mouth shut and hoped his thoughts alone were enough to be heard, or that letters to the dead would convey everything he couldn't say out loud. But now, standing in front of his wife’s grave once more, a pressure builds inside his chest, unspoken words trying to claw their way outside.
Because the gravity of what he has to admit can’t be contained by his mind or some flimsy paper alone this time.
Taking a deep breath, Jack closes his eyes, both trying to conjure a picture of his wife and gather the courage to voice his thoughts out loud.
He finally starts off quietly, almost humming the words into the wind.
“Happy anniversary.”
Then, “I miss you.” Everyday, he wants to add but stops himself, realizing it would be a lie. Guilt slashes through his body as cruel punishment for slowly letting go of the one person he swore to never forget.
“I love you,” he chokes out, trying to absolve his misgivings.
At last, “Forgive me. Please.”
It tumbles out in a hasty sob that has Jack clutching his hand over his mouth.
His throat works hard to keep any tortured sounds at bay and he lifts his eyes to the endlessly gray skies, wanting to disappear into the vast blanket of clouds.
It takes a few seconds for him to find his composure again. Then he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants and shakes his head in disbelief at himself.
“I don’t know why I chose today of all days to come and confess my feelings for someone else to you.” A rueful smile edges across his lips. “That makes me a shit husband, doesn’t it? This was our day. This is our day. You made me the happiest man alive back then when you finally let me marry you. I never thought that would change–that anything could ever take that away from me. But then you left me and I blamed you because you knew I couldn’t navigate this life on my own.”
Jack looks down at the blossom laying beneath the engraved date of the worst day in his life. His shame reaches deep into every last crevice of his being, but the smallest of cracks start to form. A delicate relief slithering its way up his consciousness with every secret he offers to the rain.
“I realize now how stupid I’ve been. I was never alone to begin with. And you wouldn’t have left me if you hadn’t known that. You always did see things more clearly than I did. You knew I had people that i could lean and rely on even when I couldn’t see past the loss. But…now I’ve met someone new and it’s different. I don’t know what you would think of this, of her, of my feelings for her. I can’t ask you for your opinion or your permission. I can only rely on some words from the past, but I can’t be sure if you truly meant them. And I know you’re not…here anymore and perhaps I’m being irrational by wanting to tell you first before making a final decision. But I don’t know what else to do. You knew me the best, you always had an answer for everything. I wouldn’t be so torn if you were here, because I always trusted your judgment.”
Jack bites his lower lip, pondering where he wants to go from here. It’s not like he expects his wife to answer and he has never believe in celestial signs either. But what he wouldn't give for something like that right now.
“I’m…sure you would like her. Honestly, she is too young for an old guy like me. She always finds herself in all kinds of chaotic or dangerous situations. At this point I will have to arrange my own grave next to you sooner than later, because she will manage to give me heart attack any day now. And if you hadn’t turned my hair gray already, it would be sprouting like crazy, now that I spend so much time with her.” Jack chuckles when he remembers the most prominent encounters and he had the honor of experiencing with you so far. The memories flooding his mind ease the ache in his chest a little, a small, genuine smile creeping onto his face.
“I wish you two could’ve met. Is that a weird thing to say to my dead wife about the woman I like? Most likely. But I really mean it. She is so different but sometimes I feel like I see glimpses of you from when we were both still young. I miss those times. How could I not? There was you and me and the entire world ready to be conquered,” Jack remembers. “When I lost you, there was nothing left–no ambition to built something or see anything new. Just nothing, just work and coping and finding a way through this mess without you. Maybe that’s what’s changed. Now there is this person that not only makes me want to explore and live, but experience things with again. I want to give her whatever she wants, whatever she needs for as long as she will let me. “I know I’m the beggar in this relationship. She could have so much better, someone younger, someone more fit for her. But selfishly, I want her to choose me for at least a little while, you know?”
Jack sighs deeply, dragging a hand across his brow, his conscience battling with itself. His integrity–his loyalty–argues that what he is doing is wrong, that he is being disrespectful by even divulging about you to his dead wife. Proving that he wouldn’t follow his supposedly eternal vow to be with Skipper until the very end, even when death separates them from uniting.
But a rational voice, one that sounds vaguely like what Jack remembers of his wife’s, keeps pushing back, urging him to take the leap and go for it. Find happiness wherever he can get it, with whoever will be able to provide it for him.
Doubt and fear have Jack frozen, the internal war raging on ferociously leaving him in shambles.
“This is crazy, isn’t it? I don’t know if I’m trying to excuse letting you go by imagining that you’re telling me to move on, or if you really would say that. It’s been so long since I last spoke to you, I can barely remember it. Am I putting words in your mouth? Am I trying to justify my actions by conjuring you giving me your permission? What if I’m mischaracterizing you now that you can’t correct me anymore? What if I can’t remember you?”
His heart breaks a little more at the idea of having lost the very essence of his wife. The reality of forgetting even her mannerisms and doubting his ability to know her decisions without having to ask her about them hits hard, like a wrecking ball to the ribs. If he were to turn around now, he is sure to find his heart crushed and battered on the ground. A pathetic mess impossible to clean up.
“I just know this hurts. But it will probably hurt just as much to give her up, now that I’m so entangled with her. She might be the only person that could ease this pain,” Jack admits hoarsely. A wave of surrender washes over him and a profound determination resurfaces that has his bones feel like lead all of a sudden.
“So, the only thing I can do, is to ask for your forgiveness again,” he chokes out, a single tear tumbling from his eye before he can force it away. “I’m sorry if this feels like a betrayal to you and our vows. And I’m sorry that I can’t only find happiness in fading memories of you and us. If I’m not doing you justice I will gladly accept punishment for my actions when the time comes, and I will know why I will be struck down.”
Jack stays there in front of his wife’s grave for a long time, quietly mourning, silently asking for her understanding all while his heart is torn between feeling relief at the closure this conversation brings and the doom looming over his head by closing a chapter on the very same day it had opened years ago.
You stare at the yellow note stuck to Jack’s door with a mix of concern and sadness. Your pulse drums in your ears so deafeningly that all your other senses barely function simultaneously.
Bucket.
A simple word written in black ink stares back at you and upends your life in a second, making you second-guess and think of the worst immediately.
You and Jack had decided on your safe word a few months ago, a while after the debacle that had thrown you in an existential crisis and had created so much strain on the relationship that had barely moved past an acquaintanceship back then.
You had felt awkward bringing the topic up in person, so only after getting Jack’s number did you decide to urge him more or less jokingly to finally come up with one. He had been almost reluctant at that point, claiming there wouldn’t be a need to pick one anymore. Not after your friendship had blossomed and he decided there wouldn’t be anything to hide from each other and he wouldn’t ever shout at you again.
It had made you feel warm and cozy–the insinuation that he felt comfortable enough to no longer feel the need to run away from you or shut you out. But you hadn’t been naive, despite the wishful thinking that Jack fully trusted you to handle him even at his worst.
A sliver of doubt had held on, had driven you to insist on choosing a word, just in case. Just so if there ever would come a time when either of you felt helpless, you would have a failsafe. And secretly you needed the matter resolved so you wouldn’t spiral over the possible repeat of that fateful day.
Eventually Jack had given in, which led to the next obstacle. Picking a word.
Ever the indecisive person, you had told Jack to come up with one. Yet with every option he pitched, you found a reason of it not fitting. He didn’t take it serious enough, he chose a word too commonly used for other reasons, his pick was already an insider between you and your best friend that would shift your entire perspective of the word.
In the end, after hours of Jack pitching words and you rejecting them for one reason or the other, Jack had nearly blown a fuse and just texted BUCKET because it had been an item that caught his eye in that very moment.
There had not been any reason for you to deem the word unsuitable, so finally you decided on it and stuck with it, much to Jack’s delight.
To him, the afternoon of seeking a word had been more or less a waste of time, even after assuring you that as long as you ended up happy, he would gladly contemplate safe words forever. He had made it clear however that there wouldn't be a use for it anyway.
But now this little square note is staring back at you, an almost mockingly happy color assaulting your eyes.
Your stomach has already dropped down to your knees, now thoughts are swirling around in your head as if a tornado is wreaking havoc inside and taking everything with it.
What was the reason for Jack signaling you to stay away? Had you done something wrong? Did he decide he needed space from you because now that his mother was around, he thought you hanging onto his coattails was annoying and embarrassing? Or did something else happen entirely and he didn’t feel comfortable with you witnessing it?
Self doubt mars your insides like a hungry little beast and you slowly back away. For a moment you wonder what it must be like to disregard this protective seal Jack had erected. To just go for it, knock on that door anyway and give him a lecture on not having a reason to shut you out because you will have him and every one of his moods just as they are.
Instead of taking a few steps towards him, your feet shuffle backwards instead. The boundary rings clear as a whistle. There is not a chance in hell that you will ignore it, no matter how worried you might be, no matter how much this will hurt for the time being.
You had been the one to propose a safe word for whichever situation might need one. And even after Jack had so profusely insisted to not having any more use for it, you couldn’t blame him now that he found one after all.
This shouldn't sting. This should reassure you and not haunt you. Jack did put up a barrier, sure, but it’s most likely for your own safety and not because he was banning you forever. Right?
Swallowing the bitter taste on your tongue, you turn to walk back up to your own apartment. Not even three steps down the hall the elevator arrives with its telltale ding. A familiar figure steps out a moment later and your eyes widen in horror.
Before you can flee into the stairwell, Jack’s mother has already fixed her bright eyes on you. You are trapped like a little fly in the web of a spider with no way of escaping. And being fully aware of it, you don’t even try to weasel yourself out of this encounter. You just freeze and wait for the inevitable.
“Oh, how good to see you again. How is your wrist doing?”
You manage a friendly smile, nodding in greeting and waving your injured arm as proof of its state not having changed in the last few days. “Sadly still in a cast but it doesn’t hurt, so that’s a plus.” Stopping a few paces away, Mrs. Abbot studies you for a handful of seconds, then she cocks her head and smiles.
“What brings you down here. Did you need help with something?” “Uh…yeah. I…well it’s silly, really. I can’t open this damn jar and I came to ask–” “My son?”
Perplexed your mouth remains open until you nod slowly. “I mean, you can certainly give it a try if you want to. I don’t–I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t be able to help. I know you offered first. I just…well I kinda just thought if I can’t open it then you wouldn’t either, which is stupid because I am handicapped and you aren’t, so I don’t know why I thought of Jack first. That’s everyday misogyny. I’m sorry. You can try and open it.”
With big eyes you hold out the pickle jar in your hands like an offering to the gods. Instead of taking it, Mrs. Abbot lets out a chuckle and shakes her head.
“My, my. There is no need to be so nervous. I won’t bite. Now come on in and I’ll help you, Jack isn’t home yet.”
She nods her head, walking past you towards the door but you don’t follow, feet stuck in place and brows drawn together in hesitation. A small, nondescript noise leaves your throat and alerts Jack’s mother of your reluctance. Inquisitive eyes trail over you and you follow the implied expectation to answer an unspoken question.
“I don’t know if I should. I mean…the note. I don’t know if you know, but I know that this note means Jack doesn’t want to see me right now.” You can’t tell what the neutral expression on Mrs. Abbots face means, so you just let her scrutinize you silently until she hums. “Like I said, he isn’t home. And I invited you, so no need to worry. Come now.”
You weigh the options, deciding that declining the request would be much more awkward and uncomfortable than to follow her inside. While the other woman walks off into the kitchen, you skulk about by the door, feeling like an intruder in Jack’s home.
Most of the time he ended up at your place. Seeing his domain without him being here now, has your tummy in a twist.
The apartment is clean and in comparison to your more or less organized chaos Jack lives in a simple space, clean lines and minimalistic designs. You feel like a stain on a white dress standing there, especially with the memory of the safe word still haunting you. You shouldn’t be here, no matter his mother’s insistence.
“Come here, would you? Don’t make an old lady like me walk back over there.” Her voice startles you into motion without a second thought and you quickly make your way to the kitchen where Mrs. Abbot waits with a teaspoon in hand. She gives you a small smile, then stretches her hand out for you to offer the pickle jar.
“Let me have a go at it.” You watch her maneuver the handle of the spoon underneath the lid and with a practiced movement, the metal gets jammed just the right way to break the seal with a dull click. “There we go,” she comments satisfied, opening the jar a moment later as proof of her ability. She hands you the pickles back and you take them gratefully. “Thank you so much. You just saved my day.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. This is nothing. You know, when my husband was still alive he would always open jars and cans for me, but since his passing I had to become much more independent, now that I live all alone. This I can do in my sleep, dear.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” you quietly mutter, feeling a pinprick sensation of a déjà vu. The last time you had offered condolences to an Abbot had ended far less pleasantly than you had hoped and with the overall vibes of today, you fear a similar result taking shape.
Carefully, you watch for Mrs. Abbot to be displeased by your generic words, but she just shrugs lightly. “Thank you. It’s been a few years and though I miss him dearly, I have adapted to this new life of mine. At first I was afraid I would get lonely and wither away without him by my side. But I’ve always been great at adapting and my girlfriends made sure I wouldn’t end up a wreck. Now I have to admit, I wouldn’t like to trade my life again. Once you find your place and find peace, it’s hard to imagine it changing again.”
You nod, technically understanding what she means but not being able to relate to her in any case. More often than not you fear there will never be a time and place you find yourself truly belonging at, but the hope and craving for it is something you hold onto with a deathly grip nonetheless.
“Still, I like to reminisce about the life I had before my husband died. After all, he was by my side for most of it.”
You remain silent, not sure what to say. Small talk had never been your strong suit, every possible reply vanishing from your mind the second a chance to help move a conversation along arose. You would love nothing more than to take your pickles back up to your apartment and inevitably wonder about Jack and the safe word, but you don’t. Both to be polite and because you can sense an underlying notion behind Mrs. Abbot telling you all of this.
It’s not uncommon for people to talk to you about anything and everything, given that you act as a great listener as long as you don’t get cued to open your mouth. So this isn’t anything new per se. But coupled with the keen look that has yet to lift of your person, you can’t help but assume that the ball has yet to drop, and the context for Jack’s mother talking about her dead husband is vital.
You wreck your brain, trying to remember if you might have missed a subtle clue, but come up empty in your panic. Your silence lasts so long, that eventually she either loses patience or has found her answer in something else you’ve subconsciously done.
“You must wonder why I’m telling you this,” Mrs. Abbot sighs. “Well, apart from me being old enough to justify talking the younger generations ear off, I actually have my reasons. You could say, I’m testing you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up on your forehead, dread collecting in the pit of your stomach. “Testing me? On what?” “I was hoping to find out how you felt about Jack. Or rather Jack and his wife.”
The words don’t register immediately in your brain, so you remain frozen and mute for a little while. When you at last find enough wits you open your mouth and eyes wide in abject horror.
“Wh– H-how does that work? I mean–” “You do know that Jack was married before, right? And that his wife died a few years ago.” You only manage to nod, nerves shooting through your body like live wires. This was not the direction you had predicted the conversation to go. Oh, how you wished you would’ve just decided to eat something other than pickles today.
“Maybe I should’ve breached the topic a little differently. More direct? I apologize. Come sit down with me. Let’s have a chat.”
Your body moves on autopilot, taking a seat on Jack’s couch besides the woman. The jar of pickles is clutched tightly in your uninjured hand, as if it’s the only thing that will be able to keep you rooted into reality and from dipping into dissociation.
“I was just trying to gauge how you felt about Jack being a widower. I assumed at your age the possibility of you having dealt with such things in your previous relationships was rather small. And instead of asking outright I tried baiting you by talking about my own experience with it. I suppose I failed in reading your reaction, so let us talk openly, what do you think?” “Alright,” you agree feebly, swallowing hard in hopes of making the dry scratching in the back of your throat disappear.
“I’m not trying to make this hard on you, dear. I’m actually trying to protect both you and my son.” “How so?” you ask gently without accusation, simply genuine curiosity. You’re not sure that you have grasped what exactly she is getting at yet. “It’s quite obvious that you guys like each other,” she begins and has you on high alert, ready to deny it immediately. She doesn’t let you get a word in, though.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and dissuade you from doing whatever you two want. That’s not really any of my business. You’re both adults. Nevertheless I am worried. For my son, because I don’t want him to invest in someone that might not even be aware of what they are getting themselves into. But more so for you.”
Surprised you open and close your mouth, like a fish on land, looking at Mrs. Abbot curiously. “I don’t know who you are yet, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Jack might be my son, but I am not going to sit here and defend him at every turn if he doesn’t deserve it. I want to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. There is an obvious age difference between you two and I presume that difference exists just as much in life experience. I don’t think my son would ever willingly cause anyone else discomfort or harm, but when the heart butts in, the brain sometimes doesn’t get to make sensical decisions. So my question is, are you sure you want to be with Jack? Or do you only entertain him because you feel pressured or like you can’t reject him because he is a man–someone older, who lives a floor below you, who you can’t escape from so easily?”
Stunned into silence once again, you try to sort between the countless emotions swirling around in your mind. You aren’t sure if you should feel offended on Jack’s behalf or feel gratitude and pride that his mother cares so much about a strangers well-being that she would even forsake any familial bias.
After a few moments you huff out a small laugh. “I– Honestly, thank you for asking. But Jack isn’t forcing me into anything and I’m sure he would back off the second I’d ask him to. Which I don’t want. But it’s not like that. We’re not…together or anything.”
You can see Mrs. Abbot’s shoulders relax a fraction at your admission and she nods pleased.
“Alright. But just in case, you ever feel differently, you can contact me and I will help you out. Of course, I must hope I raised my son correctly and that he wouldn’t do something so stupid as to coerce a girl into anything, but you never know. Just to be safe,” she remarks and hands you a little slip of paper with a phone number neatly written in the middle.
You gingerly fold it with awkwardly pressed together lips, then push it into the pocket of your pants, not wanting to refuse her.
“Now, let me ask you another thing. I’m glad Jack seems to have told you about his marriage already. It wouldn’t do any good to keep it a secret if you two want to make things work.” She folds her hands in her lap and you blink owlishly at her, worrying if Mrs. Abbot might be hard of hearing, or if you had mumbled too much. You seem to remember articulating very clearly that there was nothing going on between you and Jack, yet your rebuttal must have flown completely over her head.
You don’t find the time to correct her right away unfortunately, because her next questions throws you for yet another loop.
“But are you aware what that means? What the loss of a spouse entails?”
Hesitantly you nod, despite doubt appearing at her ominous questions. You were so sure your brain had provided you with every possible scenario in one of your many overthinking sessions. Whether it had been one that had you end up giggling like a lovesick fool at the silly fantasy of you and Jack venturing into forbidden territory, or the times that had you barricade yourself in your bedroom, pondering how pathetic a human being could be. All the fronts had been covered, not wanting to let any possibility slip through the cracks and create chaos if they ever caught up with you in the future.
“I tried to hint at it back in the kitchen. Just because Jack’s wife isn’t alive anymore, doesn't mean she isn’t here any longer. She was a massive part of his life, they pretty much grew up together. Jack is the person he is today not in the least because of Skipper. And there will remain traces of her and their love forever. My son won’t be able to erase her and he shouldn’t be asked to do so either. So, I don’t want you to think Jack will be a blank slate and that he doesn’t have baggage.”
Shaking your head quickly, you rush to clarify. “No, no. I-I have no intention of asking that and I have zero say in it, to begin with! I don’t know much about Jack and his wife or their life together and I won’t pry. If Jack ever wants to talk about it, I’ll listen. If not, then I don’t mind either. But I know he had a life before me and I have no right to any of it or asking him to leave it behind. I can only imagine that what they had was beautiful and a once in a lifetime thing. I am under no illusion that I could ever offer him anything remotely like it.”
“Despite not even knowing what their relationship looked like?” the woman asks, head tilted slightly. You smile sorrowfully. “I don’t really have much to offer. And I don’t think Jack would want much from me anyway.”
Despite your claim, you remember Jack telling you the exact opposite not too long ago. Still, uncertainty overthrows the memory. He had said those things to make you feel better. It hadn’t been in a romantic way. He cherished you as a friend, sure, but nothing else, otherwise he would have acted on it already.
If Jack truly wanted you, he wouldn’t have any reason to delay asking you out. He is the literal full package with a successful career, an amazing personality and ranking god-damn high on the attractiveness scale.
There is not a single doubt in your mind that he is a man that takes what he wants. And very clearly you aren’t it. Not that this comes as a surprise to you.
“Why do you think that? Does he not show his care for you enough?” “He does. I’m just not sure if it’s real. I mean, I know he cares about me, but I don’t believe he would want a relationship with me. The moment this…safety blanket would come off and there would be real lines drawn in the sand or labels put on, he wouldn’t want it. Not with me. Maybe he does have a… crush on me or something. But a crush is just fantasy wrapped in the smallest threads of reality.”
Your honesty hangs between you for a beat, simmering in the air and burning itself into your soul. Thinking about this was one thing but saying it out loud, admitting it to someone else reinforces it on an entirely different level.
Resignation carves itself a place inside of you and you hum quietly at the realization.
“And what about you?” Mrs. Abbot asks gently, her hand landing on your upper arm in a comforting gesture. You look away when her piercing eyes catch yours and her pity is clear as day. “It doesn’t really matter what I feel or what I want. A one sided infatuation doesn’t help anyone. But I am content with our friendship. If that’s all I get, I’ll gladly take it.”
You put on a brave smile, ignoring the way your heart clenches painfully beneath your ribs, and try to come up with a reason to go back to your own apartment. Before you can think of a lie, Jack’s mother sighs loudly.
“Well, this is tragic. Whoever is at fault for you thinking so lowly of yourself should be ashamed. But don’t give up yet, sweetie. I’ll make sure to talk to my son and set his head straight. I am most certain this isn’t as much of a lost cause as you think.” You almost visibly cringe at the offer. The mere image of Jack finding out you like him a little more than you should via a third party has a shiver run down your spine. The prospect of not being able to control the situation, nor defend or justify yourself is dreadful to say the least.
And still, you aren’t sure if it’s not better this way. If you’re far away from Jack and his reaction to it. Would it spare you from the embarrassment of possibly, most likely, getting rejected? Somewhat. But you would feel it even if you were on the other side of the earth.
Not to mention the aftermath of it. Running into each other in the hallway, sharing an elevator ride? You should better start looking for a new place somewhere else.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s better to just…let it be,” you mumble, tracing your finger along the edge of your pickle jar. Mrs. Abbot waves you off and clicks her tongue. “Oh dear, don’t be afraid. I won’t tell him about our conversation. I will just nudge him in the right direction. The rest he will have to do himself.”
Your hopes aren’t lifting as much as you would like, but you try to muster a grateful smile anyway.
“Also, don’t be disheartened if he takes a while. Today is his and Skipper’s wedding anniversary. He might not want to talk much when he comes home. But I’ll find the right moment to give him a push, yeah?”
The world gets pretty much ripped from underneath you, your breath lost as if someone just sucker punched you with maximum power.
Of course, of all the days you once again found yourself in front of Jack’s apartment, it had to be yet another important date for him and his wife.
Maybe you should get a stamp card. Or go gamble with your reversed luck. Or maybe you should just go home, eat your pickles and forget today ever happened.
Jack arrives back home with his mind in shambles.
Not the same way he had felt so many times before, whenever he returned from a visit to his wife. This time there is barely any space to mourn his love, not when he juggles the multitude of possible ‘signs’ he had been bombarded with on his way back home.
He knows, everything he had seen since leaving the graveyard–be it the rainbow over the city, the jarring amount of signs and phrases that told him to just do it, go for it and not wait any longer, or the way he had seen a total of four strangers that were the very picture of you at first glance–were all coincidences. He is aware that he only regards them as ‘signs’ because his mind wants him to perceive them as such.
But isn’t it quite the comforting thought that his dead wife listened to him, heard him and is now showing her approval by putting all those things in his path?
Jack finds himself unlocking his door with much less hunched shoulders than when he left this morning. His eyes fall upon the sticky note glued to the door, and after a short pause he peels it off, deciding he won’t need to shield you from himself today afterall.
Crumbling the note in his palm, he enters his home and finds his mother sitting in his armchair, reading a book. She looks up at him over the rim of her dainty glasses and studies him intently but without saying anything at first.
“I’m back.” “I can see that. How are you feeling?” she asks calmly, not pushing, just prodding a little. Jack sighs, shoulders shrugging. “Not good, but not awful either. I…got some closure.”
That earns him a pair of raised eyebrows. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jack thinks for a moment, then decides that he can spare a vague explanation. “I thought about what you told me and my therapist’s advice and tried really hard to remember what…Skipper wanted.” The nickname feels nearly foreign on his tongue after years of not uttering it aloud.
He swallows hard but finds the bitter aftertaste the name usually had ever since his wife’s passing no longer as impossible to bear.
“And did you come to a conclusion?” his mother asks, book slowly lowering towards her knees and her full attention fixed on Jack. “I guess so.” “Are you gonna share with the class?” “I just…concluded that all roads lead to the same destination. And I want reach it now. No more delays.”
A smile stretches across his mother’s lips and she hums looking all satisfied and smug.
“I guess there is no need for me to get involved after all. You should go have a talk with your neighbor soon, but I did tell her you might need some time. So, no need to rush up there now. You should go rest a bit. And dry off. You are soaked through.”
Confused, Jack shakes his head. “When did you tell her that?” he asks, “Did you see her?” “We ran into each other when I came back here. She needed some help getting a jar open and I invited her in. We had a little chat.”
His heart plummets a few inches, dread filing in when he pictures his mother and you being alone once again. The last time that happened had ended with you screaming hysterically at him via text message why he hadn’t told you or made it obvious that the two of them were related.
Jack had been both thankful that he didn’t have to explain himself to you in person, as well as worried how you would handle the revelation by yourself. But even if he had wanted to apologize for his indiscretion personally, he just didn’t find the time to see you in the last couple of days.
Both your schedules didn’t align, and out of courtesy for his mother visiting him in support around one of the times grief usually struck him the worst, he had spend his free time with her.
Now, after finding out you had been down here while he had been away, the weight of how much he misses you hits him once again with full force. He can feel an emotion akin to jealousy brewing inside of him at the prospect of his mother having had the chance to spent time with you while he didn’t.
The decision–the need–to see you is overwhelming and all consuming. So, when he turns back around it’s pure instinct without much thought.
“Where are you going?” “Upstairs,” is all he says before he is out of the door and finding his way back to you.
The familiar path is covered in record time and the seconds after his knock stretch like molasses. But then he hears footsteps and the door opens to reveal you.
“Jack. What are you doing here?” you ask, frowning. He remains silent for a bit, soaking in your appearance as if the lack of seeing you the past couple days has depleted some kind of battery in him that uses this opportunity to fuel up again.
“I needed to see you,” he admits, heart beating hard and fast in his chest. He is considering just blurting out his feelings right then and there, rip the bandage of in one go. But your frown deepens at his words and he hesitates.
“I didn’t think you wanted to see me. You used the safe word.” Jack becomes aware of the still crumbled up piece of paper in his palm, the edges of it digging into his skin. There is something in your tone that has his alarm bells ringing and he licks his lips nervously.
“It’s not like I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t want you to see me. There’s a difference.” “Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek, not at all showing the relief Jack would have expected. His zeal to confess what he has finally accepted starts to deflate with every second he doesn’t feel your usual vibe brightening his day.
“Are you okay?” “I’m fine. Are you okay, Jack? I mean… I– Listen, you don’t have to be here right now just because your mother said something. She told me what day it is and…well it’s probably for the best if I just don’t try to–” You clear your throat, gesturing wildly with both arms, almost clubbing yourself in the chin with your cast. “You know… say anything. We both know I’m not good with words. But anyway, you shouldn’t be here.”
Perplexed and entirely clueless about the context of your speech, he stares you down. “Why not?” You take a massive breath in, shrugging and shaking your head violently. “Because! You are vulnerable today and you might think or feel like you’ll make sense. But I won’t be able to take anything serious if you tell me today. It will feel like you’re only telling me because your mom urged you to. And no matter which direction you would go with this, it wouldn’t feel genuine. I don’t want someone else to be forcing you into telling me the truth either way. I want you to know that you can come to me and be honest at any time. If it’s not your idea, though, I won’t hear you out. I’m sorry, Jack.”
You give him nothing more than a apologetic smile that doesn’t come close to reaching your eyes, then you step back and close the door right in his face.
Confused and feeling like a he lost the plot, Jack scratches his chin. He feels like he time traveled a few months back when you told him he would remain nothing more than a one-night-stand for you. He had sworn he wouldn’t leave more misunderstandings hanging between you two.
And despite every last semblance of energy leaving lost his body after your strange and unprompted outburst, Jack knows he has homework to do. Find out what the hell caused you to shoo him away, what his mother supposedly had pressured him into telling you, and how to fix this mess.
next part
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