Trouble in Paradise
summary: It starts with a proposition from a handsome stranger. You both are in need of a distraction to keep you occupied during a week-long tropical getaway, and a summer fling seems like the perfect solution, even as it becomes more and more apparent that your feelings run deeper than just casual sex. But when you discover the man you’ve been hooking up with is none other than Jack Abbot — your father’s best friend — and your father proposes a yearly trip with his family, your little distraction threatens to turn your already messy life upside down. What follows is ten years of the most chaotic, exhilarating, angst ridden vacations of your life.
pairing: dbf!jack abbot x reader
wc: 10.2k
tags: abbot is reader's dad's best friend (but neither of them know that at first), distracting each other from their trauma and high-stress lives with some good old fashioned casual sex, problematic summer fling, girl dad/widowed jack abbot, marisol abbot is canon, smut + angst + mutual healing -> eventual happy ending.
warnings: discussions of suicide, age gap, mentions of his prosthetic, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending (eventually), smut, original characters, no use of y/n, no betas.
chapter: 1/10
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YEAR ONE
Vacation. You understand the meaning of the word. Actually, thanks to seven years of Latin, you can even pick out its root - vocare: to be empty, free, at leisure. A state of being entirely at odds with the one you find yourself in now.
Technically, you are on vacation. A day earlier, you tugged your fraying duffel bag (then lugged, balanced on both your shoulders when the straps finally gave out) through the fluorescent labyrinth of LAX, sat in the cafeteria nibbling on a gummy quesadilla (the only thing you could be absolutely certain wouldn’t give you food-poisoning mid-air), and silently said your first prayer in years while you waited for the plane to right itself post-take off (the period of time when most crashes occur, you’d read once). Now, you were on the island of Kauai, set up in your own bedroom within your family’s brand new time-share suite, staring out at the serene crystalline waters beyond your window. Paradise on earth, all yours for the next week, and you’re certain you’ve never been more miserable.
You roll your neck, working out the kink that has sneakily set up camp over the past hour you’ve spent bending it at an unnatural angle to glare down at your computer screen from the comfort of your bed. It’s not that you are working on vacation — or rather, it’s not just that you are working on vacation. The work itself has actually been agonizingly simple — the kind you haven’t gotten since your first few weeks on the job. But, after spending over a year with the firm and recently being promoted to the position of senior law clerk, you’re flying through your list of priorities for the day practically on auto-pilot. It is, of course, the ideal situation for someone stuck working during the one trip scheduled for their summer vacation, a much needed reprieve before your final year of law school. It is, of course, your personal hell.
The door to your room creaks open, and you instinctively tilt your laptop screen lower — a habit ingrained in you after twenty three years living with an exceptionally nosey family. Your dad pokes his head in, his nose somehow already sunburnt a Rudolph red so bright it practically glows.
“How’s it going?”
“Good.”
You punctuate the word with a tight smile, unblinking eyes politely flashing please leave with all your psychic might.
“You sure you don’t want to work from the pool? We got a table with a great view - and we can set up the umbrella so it doesn’t cook your laptop.”
“The Wi-Fi is more reliable in here,” you reply more coolly than you need to.
It’s possible that the Wi-Fi from the pool is fine, or that you would be able to set up a perfectly stable connection to the hot-spot on your phone. But, for some completely insane reason you’re not sure the highest paid shrink or least sketchy psychic would be able to divine, you’d rather be in this humid little room, left alone to stew in your misery.
One of your friends at school likes to joke that you’re a masochist. You always laugh it off, skin prickling and stomach sinking as if caught with your fly down, smiling off the agonizing realization that the world has somehow borne witness to one of your most humiliating flaws without you being the wiser.
Your dad levels you with a look that says he doesn’t entirely buy the excuse, but he doesn’t call your bluff, leaving the weight of the little white lie entirely upon you. He leans against the door frame, scratching at his calf with his other foot. A bit of sand spills from his flip flops onto the tile.
“Can you - can you please not make a mess?”
You try to keep your voice from reaching the screechy pitch it somehow always manages to get to when you raise an issue that to most people would not matter, but it must get there anyway because your dad rolls his eyes before stepping out of the room — leaving the door open a crack, a final bit of fuel tipped into the fire of irritation raging in your chest.
For the next few hours, you are left alone. And it’s...fine. It’s what you wanted. You don’t let your eyes stray to the beaches beneath your window, searching for the familiar shapes of your family. You don’t picture their smiling faces bobbing in the surf, perfectly happy, exactly as they should be. And because you’re not doing any of that, the images do not make your stomach twist so painfully you wonder briefly if you have an ulcer.
At around five, your phone buzzes with a call from your boss - or rather, one of your many bosses (aka the senior partners at your firm). As you raise it to your ear, your mind races through every upcoming deadline and every detail of the few tasks you’ve worked on that day, grasping for any potential screwups. You haven’t identified any by the time her voice chimes over the tinny speakers.
“Heeeey.”
The greeting is perfectly friendly, and even though there seems to be nothing nefarious lurking beneath that single cheerful syllable, does absolutely nothing to ease your anxieties.
“Hi, Jocelyn!” You force your voice up two octaves into what your sister calls your customer service voice and you smile, hoping some forced sunniness while diffuse over the line.
“How’s it going?”
Swallow. Breathe. “Good! I’m still working on the trademark search for Pontus but I should be done by end of day, and if not I’ll get an early start tomorrow to make up for it.”
“I don’t think there’s a need for that, but I appreciate the extra effort.”
A small burst of pride flares in your chest.
“Actually, I was calling to ask about your trip. How are you liking Hawaii?”
“Oh.” Your brain seems to stutter. “Um, yeah it’s beautiful. Thankfully the hotel has pretty good Wi-Fi.”
“Kauai is so beautiful at this time of year. My husband and I vacation there every August on our anniversary. Where are you staying?”
Where are you staying? Your eyes dart to the hotel stationary you’ve been jotting down notes on.
“Nani’s Paradise,” you read. “It’s right on the beach in Kapaa.”
“Huh, I haven’t heard of that one.”
“It actually just opened this summer. The owner served with my dad, and I guess he decided to offer a bunch of their old army buddies discounts on the timeshare units.”
“That’s a nice deal. Have you hit the beach yet?”
“Oh um, not yet.” You fiddle with the hem of your shorts. “I think I’ll try to go this weekend, or maybe tomorrow before I start.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised you wanted to work this week. If I were you, I’d have my Outlook set to out of office and leave all reminders of work back in Cali.”
“I—“ Your mouth snaps shut. I didn’t realize that was an option. Since your firm already operates remotely, it had been a no brainer that you would simply continue with your regular work schedule during your trip.
“It’s no problem,” you finally manage. “I haven’t had too much on my plate and I didn’t want everyone else to have to pick up my slack for a whole week.”
The line goes silent for a beat. Then another. And another.
“Can I give you some advice?”
Every muscle in your body is clenched. “Sure!”
“This profession has a tendency to burn people out. All of us appreciate all of your hard work this past year, but…”
But?
“If you pour all of yourself into your work this early, there’s going to be nothing left by the time you’re thirty. A career in law is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s all about balance. That means taking care of yourself. Not starting early or working late when it’s not needed, not keeping yourself from taking breaks when you need them. Do you get what I’m saying?”
No, you want to scream. No, I do not understand how I am expected to spend the rest of my life completing my work in advance of all deadlines and free from any errors that could get me sued for malpractice without skipping breaks and working overtime and spending hours that I should spend sleeping every night planning out everything I needed to do the next day.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Good.”
She sounds relieved, and you realize this has been her motive all along. You wonder how fucking neurotic you must have seemed to the other partners to prompt this little intervention.
“I think we are capable of handling your workload for the rest of the week, but it’s totally up to you.”
Prove that you are capable of making responsible decisions is what she's really saying. You swallow.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“Alrighty then! We’ll all be expecting lots of pics on Monday. Enjoy paradise!”
When you finally lower the phone from your ear, there are tears in your eyes. You don’t know what is happening. All that you know is that your throat feels like a vise, choking all the air out of you. Your skin is hot, and the volume of every painful beat of your heart feels magnified, and you really can’t fucking breathe, and you are stumbling out of your room, no shoes, no key, no destination in mind, feet digging into rust red soil as you follow a narrow path through the foliage bordering the hotel.
When the path finally opens onto a cliffside clearing overlooking the sea, you fall to your knees. Rocks bite into your skin, but the pain is a welcome shock to your system, an anchor that helps you to ride out your inner tumult. You force deep breaths through your nostrils. Inhale, one two three. Hold, one two three. Exhale, one two three. But even as your panic fades, your anguish persists. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you swipe at them irritably before noticing the dirt coating your palms.
Behind you, someone clears their throat.
“You stole my spot.”
The voice is gravelly, and distinctly masculine — something that triggers a more serious spike of panic. You ball your fists as you turn around.
It takes a moment to spot the man, his figure nearly imperceptible against the dark rainforest in the fading light. As he steps into the clearing, you can more easily make out his features, the black muscle tee tight against a broad chest, the short cropped waves of sandy hair, a patch of grey at his temple. He’s definitely older than you, maybe a few years younger than your father. Handsome, if you’re being completely honest, although that does little to ease your anxiety.
“What?”
“This is the place I come every night to be a miserable bastard, and I’ve never been good at sharing.”
“You—“ Your weary mind nearly splutters out a knee-jerk apology before you note the twinkle in his eye and fully process his words. “You asshole.”
“Ouch.” He clutches a hand to his chest. “You got a habit of cussing out strangers?”
“You got a habit of harassing girls in emotional distress?”
His eyes dip slightly, no doubt taking in the mud and tears and snot — oh god. You tug your tank top up to wipe aggressively at your cheeks. The stranger watches, lips curling slightly.
“You can kindly fuck off now,” you say, waving him away with a sniff.
Without breaking eye contact, the man eases himself onto the dirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.” He juts his chin out defiantly. “As you mentioned, you are clearly going through some shit and should not be left alone. Especially not here.”
Your gaze dips below the edge of the cliff, which is far steeper than you’d initially realized, dropping sharply at a near ninety degree angle with nothing but the distant tops of the palm trees lining the beach below to break a fall. How fucking far did you walk?
“I’m not suicidal,” you snap, although you’re not entirely sure about that.
The stranger cocks an eyebrow, clearly as convinced by your statement as you are. Your cheeks feel hot, and you tug your knees against your chest, burying your face against them.
“Talking might help.” Before you can even reply, he raises his hands warily. “Or not. Just an option.”
The fire in your chest begins to peter out. Okay, yes, this was the kind of situation your parents had warned you about since back when it was actually socially acceptable for you to be throwing this kind of tantrum, but the stranger doesn’t seem to have any discernible bad intentions. He just wants to be able to return to his family without the potential suicide of some random twenty-two year old straining his conscience.
You sigh, and hug your knees a little tighter.
“Do you ever feel like you’re burning alive?”
“All the fucking time,” the stranger replies without skipping a beat.
His eyes are locked on yours, an intensity in them that almost frightens you, but there’s something familiar about him. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, so evident in the dark circles and strained wrinkle of his brow, at odds with the rigid set of his shoulders. Maybe it’s whatever drove him to this cliffside, the same thread of darkness threatening to pull you both over the edge.
“How do you make it stop?”
His eyes crinkle, almost pityingly. “Wish I knew.”
It should make you feel hopeless. The guy’s significantly older than you and he still hasn’t figured this shit out, which means you’re as good as fucked. It doesn’t, though. Your heartbeat fades to a dull thrum in your ears.
“Sometimes I think it’s my fault,” you find yourself confessing. “Like I can’t live without it. Everybody seems like they’re getting better, growing and shit, and I..I don’t know. It’s like I’m flailing in the darkness. Like I can’t find my way out, and it’s easier to just stay put. Does that make any sense?”
“Mostly. How do you know everybody else is doing better?”
“I don’t know,” you sigh. A cool breeze tickles your cheeks. “My work situation has basically been bordering on emotional abuse for the past year, and now it’s like…people are nice to me? Maybe that’s just how they test you but…I don’t know. And my parents…” Swallow. Breathe. “Things were awful between us when I was younger, and now that I’m an adult, things are suddenly fine. And they want me to relax, and go easy on myself, and have fun, and they didn’t teach me how to do any of that. It’s like the whole universe is screaming at me this is the thing you’ve been waiting for — the part where your life finally gets easier! And now I have no idea how to live it anymore. I don't know how to exist without the bad.”
Even as the words come out of your mouth, you’re aware you sound insane. And yet, you don’t stop talking. Because the stranger doesn’t look at you like you’re crazy. His head is cocked, listening attentively, nodding along. Maybe he’s a therapist, used to people like you having mental breakdowns about insignificant shit like this.
“Anyways,” you sniff. “I think I’m the first person in the world to cry about getting a week off of work.”
At this, the stranger smiles.
“May have beaten you to that, sweetheart. Minus the actual tears, of course.”
You can’t help rolling your eyes. “Because real men don’t cry, right?”
This earns you a chuckle. “No, I’ve cried plenty, actually. Just not about that.”
He says it teasingly, but you get the sense there’s no real judgement in his words.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor.”
A laugh rips out of your throat and your head lolls, falling against your knees as it shudders through your chest. Just your fucking luck, you’re sitting here crying over your stupid family shit and twenty dollars an hour internship in front of someone who literally saves lives for a living. The stranger's brow wrinkles, clearly confused, but amusement shines in his eyes.
“You know, in twenty years of telling people that I have never gotten that reaction before.”
“I’m sorry,” you stay, delirious tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not actually that funny, it’s just — you have a much better excuse for being miserable than I do.”
“I don’t think any one profession has a monopoly on being miserable. What do you do?”
“I’m a law clerk.”
He huffs out a husky laugh of his own. “See, there you go. I don’t think I’ve ever met a lawyer who smiles.”
“You should see the partners at my firm talk about billables. I think sometimes I can actually see dollar signs in their eyes.”
He smiles — although that’s not quite right, it’s more of a smirk really, crooked and mischievous in a way that, under the right circumstances, would make you a bit horny. You force yourself to look away. The sun is fully submerged beneath the sea, leaving the horizon glowing burnt orange while darkness begins to creep in over your heads.
“What brings you here, then?” you ask.
“My daughter says I need to learn how to relax,” he says, a petulant frown on his face.
You snort. “Let me know if you figure it out.”
Below, a line of tiki torches ignites on the beach. You’re sure your family is down there somewhere, if they’re not combing the hotel for you. You should want to be there, with them. At the very least, you should want to check your phone for calls, send them a text to let them know you’re alive so they don’t freak out. Instead, you feel nothing.
“I guess this is a pretty place to drink myself to death,” you muse.
“I don’t think it counts as real relaxation if you’re drunk.” The man scratches a patch of stubble on his chin. “I dunno, maybe I’ve been doing it wrong.”
You shrug. “I’ll take what I can get.”
The stranger purses his lips and nods, again failing to pass any judgment. Something glints in the corner of your eye, and you catch a bit of metal peeking out of the jeans he’s wearing. A prosthetic, you realize. Another reminder of how truly insignificant your problems are.
His eyes follow yours, and his Adam’s apple bobs when he finally catches what it is you’re looking at.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
There’s a slight delay, his eyes lingering on that spot a moment before his gaze returns to your face and he answers.
“Jack.”
Another flicker of familiarity, although you still can’t parse out why. You introduce yourself, habitually extending your hand as you give him your name. The corner of his mouth twitches, but he shakes your hand, his grip strong, palm calloused. His lips squirm a bit at the contact.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just…your skin’s so fuckin’ soft. I guess paper pushing has its perks.”
“It’s not that soft —“
But he’s already flipped your palm up, caressing your skin with an almost scientific curiosity. A gesture so unexpectedly intimate a familiar throbbing begins between your legs. You inhale sharply.
His gaze snaps up to yours. Slowly, experimentally, he slides his fingers down your wrist, up your arm. He stops at your shoulder, fingertips less than a hair’s breadth from the strap of your tank top.
“There is one way we can relax,” you say, watching him carefully.
You know he has already caught your drift by the way his gaze darkens ever so slightly. His fingers slide beneath the strap.
“Oh yeah?”
You watch as his hand drifts lower. “Yeah,” you can barely manage, your voice already gone breathy. “Has a high success rate, I’ve heard.”
His gaze pierces yours as his fingertips draw circles over your chest, right above the beginning of the curve of your breast. You nod, a bit too desperately, but it’s hard to think about anything now but the desperate need coursing through your body.
It’s a terrible idea, sleeping with a total stranger while you’re in a state like this. It’s also exactly what you need.
You’re not sure who leans in first. All at once you’re crashing into each other, breath hot against each other’s cheeks, hands skimming beneath your clothes. Every touch, and every gasp, every brush of his tongue against your own electric and exhilarating. The soil is soft beneath your elbows as you lean back on them, lifting your hips so that he can tug your shorts down to your ankles. You should be embarrassed of the unattractive, oversized comfy panties you put on that morning, or the dirt smeared on your face, but you can’t conjure the feeling as his hand dips beneath your waistband.
Fuck. Your back arches against him, and he’s not even inside you yet. The mere presence of his hand beneath his panties, calloused fingers against your soft skin is enough to make your entire body feel like a live wire. By the time his thumb finally begins to rub small circles against your clit, you’re already soaking his fingers.
“Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, dragging a finger through the wetness pooling along your folds. “Is this — can I…”
“Please,” you gasp.
He smirks, eyes glinting in the glowing light as he sinks a finger inside of you. Again, you arch against him, forcing him to dig deeper. He adjusts the angle as he begins to thrust, hitting your G-spot. You’re on the verge of crying out, of actually begging for more when he slides a second finger in. The stretch is exquisite, even more so when he begins to scissor his fingers, spreading you open while one finger keeps steady pressure against your G-Spot. His thumb picks up speed, and his other fingers follow suit.
You buck against him, head digging into the dirt as the wave of pleasure you’re riding builds. Jack holds you up, sliding his free arm behind your back so he can angle your hips higher. Stubble scrapes against your stomach, and his lips meet your skin, trailing a path down to your core until his tongue takes the place of his thumb, swirling over your clit. He murmurs something against you that you can't quite make out, but the low hum of his voice melts into your skin, adding to your stimulation.
"Good," you finally catch him saying as he pulls back a little. "So fucking good for me."
The praise ignites something in you, and when his mouth ventures lower, tongue joining his fingers as it dips between your folds, his name slips from your lips in a desperate maon. Your hips writhe against his face, his fingers, chasing more - more friction, more him - until you break, white hot waves of pleasure radiating across your body.
He continues to stroke you until you come back into your body…and spot the slack jawed couple staring at you from the edge of the clearing.
“Shit,” you mutter, pulling away from Jack as you tug your shorts back on. He’s quick to follow your gaze and immediately starts to his feet, hands tucked guiltily behind his back.
“Sorry to intrude,” the man offers with a sleazy grin, and his girlfriend elbows him in the ribs.
“We were just, uh…” Yeah, you can’t really think of any non-pervy explanation for what they just walked in on that would sound remotely believable. “We’re leaving,” you finally say, tugging Jack back down the path to the hotel.
There is a fine line between fearless and suicidal. Jack’s therapist told him that once, after the third time he’d been fired at while working as a SWAT medic in his free time. While this was an activity most would consider brave, his therapist had been unsatisfied when he told her that the work honestly didn’t scare him. Fear is healthy, she reminded him. It keeps us alive.
Jack, after all, did have something to live for — or rather, someone. Florence had just celebrated her twelfth birthday. The name had been all Marisol’s doing. Personally, Jack felt it was a bit…preppy. When he expressed this, his wife had rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the ribs. Snob. It was those eyes he saw every time he looked at his daughter. He preferred to remember them like that, a flash of a memory from a good day, one of those perfectly mundane moments he’d never realized had been numbered. But more often than not, the image of his wife he saw in his daughter’s face was a flash of a memory from the worst day of his life. Those eyes, frozen open, the light in them permanently extinguished. The crack of her ribs beneath his hands as he continued compressions, knowing it was no use, still unable to stop. Paramedics arriving at the scene just minutes too late, rain pouring through the shattered windshield of their minivan as one of the body bags he’d used a thousand times in his career was zipped over the face of the person he loved the most in this world.
Idleness became an affliction, work the only possible solution. Unfortunately, that meant that he rarely got to spend quality time with his daughter, who was growing up at a rate that startled him.
When he’d asked her what she wanted for her birthday this year, she’d slowly lowered her spoon, cereal forgotten, and folded her hands on the table. “I want to go on a vacation,” she told him with the practiced coolness of a hostage negotiator.
It was a fairly reasonable request. Money wasn’t an issue. His mother usually watched Florence while he was on call, and it would be good to treat her. He could set them up somewhere nice. Florence had always liked those beach trips to see Marisol’s folks in Rhode Island as a kid. He could even fly ‘em first class. A plan was already half-baked in his mind when she continued, “With you. A whole week, somewhere we’ve never been before. No work. A real vacation, like a normal family.”
It was this last sentence that cracked something in him. Florence was not a complainer. In fact, at an age where he himself had been a hormonal menace to his own parents, she somehow managed to carry herself with a levelheaded maturity some of his oldest friends still had yet to master. She detested being coddled or talked down to, and while she accepted his odd work schedule, she was quick to call him out on his bullshit. As if sensing the weak excuses about to come spilling out of his mouth, she held up a shimmery manicured hand.
“I already talked to Robby about it.”
“You — what? How the hell did you even get his number?”
She rolled her eyes. “Your password is the same for everything, and you save all your contacts as their government names.”
“What else should I be saving them as?”
Another eye roll. “Robby says he can handle your shifts for a week as long as you’re back by the fourth.”
His brow dipped into a scowl. “How long have you been planning this?”
The corner of her lips twitched, and she took a smut bite of her Cheerios.
“You need to learn how to relax. And how to have fun.”
“I am fun,” he huffed.
Wasn’t he?
He never said no to ice cream, always constructed top notch fuckin' pillow forts for movie night, had even somehow mastered the art of the manicure — a skill he never would have thought he could add to his CV. He was a good dad…he was trying to be a good dad. And that was why, even though he could already feel a trickle of dread at the thought of being away from the ER for an entire week, he knew he had to do this for her.
It was fortuitous that less than a week after their talk, he received the offer from Koa. Timeshare units available at half the usual cost for all of his old army buddies in honor of the grand opening of his new boutique hotel in Kauai.
“It’ll be like a reunion,” Koa had told him. “Allan’s already planning on bringing his girls there in June.”
Jack wasn’t keen on the idea of spending the one week he’d promised to his daughter re-hashing old war stories, but he also knew this was exactly what she’d wanted. Seven days a year where he was forced to step away from the chaos, too far from the Pitt to even consider racing back when his team inevitably needed him.
The first day had been mostly fine. Florence, ever the planner, had designated it for “adjusting.” After organizing their belongings in the unit (which had taken her a whole hour, and Jack less than five minutes), Florence had set up base on the beach. While she tanned in the last hours of daylight, Jack sat…and sat. Stared out at the sparkling waters, the glare of the sun so bright it nearly blinded him, and wondered how the hell he as supposed to manage seven days like this. He was relieved when she finally asked him to go grab them some dinner from the hotel’s poolside bar, and tried to absorb himself in the baseball game playing on the closest TV while he waited for their order. When he returned to the beach, he tried people watching until Florence made some comment about him being a creep.
The first night was about as bad as he expected. He should have been exhausted, heading straight from a night shift to an eleven hour flight during which he hadn’t slept a wink, but of course his mind refused to yield to any of the signals his body tried to send it. So, while Florence dozed off to reruns of Grey’s Anatomy on the sofa, he slipped out of the room, figuring he’d see if the hotel had a gym. He hadn’t gone looking for the cliffside, but when the dirt trail outside their unit brought him there, he couldn’t help chuckling to himself. Robby would have been amused. Even on vacation, he somehow still managed to find himself on the island’s equivalent of the roof of the PTMC.
His feet found their way to the ledge, where the soil ended sharply. At some point, heights had frightened him. He had a vague memory of a family road trip to see the Grand Canyon, being petrified to go anywhere near the rusted railings even while his older sister teased him. But now, nothing. No thump thump thumping of his heart in his ears, no pricks of adrenaline hitting his veins as he stared down at the darkening beaches hundreds of feet beneath him. If anything, the sight was strangely calming.
Fuck.
He should call his therapist. Six hours ahead, shit, it’d be barely five a.m. for her. He could handle this on his own. Did it for years before he caved and finally started seeing her. But now, left here without even the potential beep of his pager to keep his mind distracted, the floodgates were open. Nothing to keep him from thinking about Florence, and all the ways he was probably letting her down, and his wife, and all the ways he was definitely letting her down, and the coolness of her skin against his fingers, and the motionlessness of her chest, and the pain that had ripped through him, somehow so much more consuming than the pain of the explosion that had cost him his leg and the lives of his friends, the friends Koa would never get to bring here, and why hadn’t he died in that moment, or in the accident that had killed his wife, why was he the one who got to live this life that he was wasting, that he would have traded in an instant to get any of them back. What made him so fucking special?
A pinprick of orange light in the horizon startled him. Morning, somehow. Another day, his heart still beating.
Thankfully, Florence had crammed their schedule for their second day. Breakfast at some place she’d found on TikTok — when the fuck had he let her download that??? — followed by a lengthy hike. The exertion was exactly what he needed, and when they returned to the hotel for a poolside lunch, he nodded off in his lounge chair. He woke three hours later, skin browning and slightly burnt, and found Florence reading. They had missed the snorkeling she had planned for that afternoon. She didn’t say anything about it.
It was guilt over this that Jack was needling with when he returned to the cliffside that night and found that he was not alone. He heard you before he saw you — your wet sobs and gasps for air piercing the stillness of the rainforest. Finally, he found you crumpled on the ground just a few feet from the ledge. And for the first time in a long time, Jack was genuinely afraid.
He thought of the time he’d found Robby on the roof of the PTMC, looking just about ready to jump — looking about the same way he probably had every time his friend had found him there. It always seemed easier to lead with humor, de-escalate the situation a bit.
He wasn’t prepared for the fury in your eyes.
Those fucking eyes.
Marisol’s eyes. The resemblance so striking that it nearly knocked him off his feet. Even more of a carbon copy of his wife than his own daughter.
The longer that you talked, the less alike you looked. Sure, the similarity in your eyes was startling, but Marisol was more…playful. Light. There was a twinkle in hers that was nowhere to be fucking found in yours. Where Marisol was sunshine, you were fire. He could see it, raging just beneath the surface.
It was strange, speaking to you. Like speaking to his reflection, his own unrestrained id, putting all of the things he still struggled to explain to his therapist into words. There was even a moment he wondered whether you were even real, whether his sleep deprived mind had dreamt you up. But then, you touched him, and…
Fuck.
You were younger, that much was obvious. All of his medical experience hadn’t made him very good at guessing age, but he figured mid-to-late twenties, at least. Far younger than any of the very, very small group of women he’d tried dating over the past decade. And yet…
Those fucking eyes. Fluttering ever so slightly when he touched you. And before he could even consider what he was doing, his hand was skimming beneath your shirt, and he was stumbling over the ledge. Free fall.
He had never done anything like this. Hell, he’d barely slept with anyone since Marisol. But there he was, tugging his shirt down over his erection like a fucking teenager while you mumbles some excuse to the traumatized looking couple who had made the mistake of going looking for the scenic lookout.
Now, he’s stumbling along behind you, no fucking idea where you were taking him until you finally led him into the main building of the hotel and through a door marked KITCHEN.
“Should we be in here?” he asks, glancing around.
It’s late, and the room is near completely dark, lit only by the light from the fridge you’ve just tugged open like you own the fucking place.
“I know the owner,” you say, still a bit out of breath. “And I need a fucking drink.”
He wants to ask how you know Koa, wants to ask you a million fucking questions, but he’s forgotten how this works. How to keep from being too much for the stranger you’ve just fucked, to keep ‘em from sprinting in the opposite fucking direction. So, he accepts the cold glass of Scotch you pour him without saying another word, more than a little impressed when you down your own in one mouthful.
“That was…”
His stomach clenches for a few uncertain beats before the smile breaks on your lips, and you shake your head.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
Now that he’s looking at your mouth, it’s difficult to keep himself from replaying the moment you broke, throbbing around his fingers as your lips parted, the smallest gasp escaping like waves breaking against the shore.
And that’s when you notice it. The hard on, still poking against the cotton of his T-shirt. Your smile turns mischievous.
“Shit, sorry,” you offer, looking more amused than apologetic.
“It’s fine,” he grunts. He can feel blood rushing to his cheeks — is he fucking blushing?
“Is it?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow playfully.
You hold his gaze daringly as you sink to your knees, then begin to actually fucking crawl across the kitchen floor to him. His hands dig into the stainless steel counter at his back as yours find his zipper and free him. His erection bobs against his stomach, a bit of precum already beginning to dampen the head. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard, the last time he —
Your lips part around his head, and all thoughts go out the fucking window. In the silence of the kitchen, the sound is obscene, every wet suck amplified. You slide farther and farther down his cock, gagging a little as you struggle to take him. When tears begin to collect along your waterline, he pushes you off a little
"Fuck," he mutters. "'s okay. You don't-"
But his attempt at chivalry seems to egg you on even more - your head slides down suddenly, and he feels himself hitting the back of your throat.
You blink at him, desperation flashing in your eyes. Slowly he nods. The corners of your lips curl slightly. You begin to bob your head, tongue tracing over his cock as it moves against it.
"That's it - fuck. Fuck, yes. Good girl. So good. That's right.."
Eventually, he notices your free hand moving as he speaks, sliding beneath the waistband of those tiny fucking shorts. Your eyes flutter as you begin to stroke yourself, hands moving in tandem, and holy fuck he’s close already, barreling towards his orgasm closer than he has since he was a fucking teenager. His fingers curl in your hair, pushing himself deeper inside you. You glance up at him, locking eyes, your gaze cloudy and distant and he knows you’re close too, and when that soft little shudder of your shoulders tells him you’ve made it, he loses himself, cumming down the back of your throat with a groan.
You slide your lips off of his softening cock with a wet smack, and lick them with a grin.
“You’re welcome,” you say teasingly.
He scowls down at you, but his hands are gentle as he brushes back the hair matted to your sweat slicked face.
“Thank you,” he says.
You slide your hand out of your shorts, and he has the obscene urge to lick your fingers clean like a fucking porn star. As you wipe your hands against your shirt, something shifts in your expression, that boldness you’ve worn since stepping into the room retreating suddenly and completely. He’s wondering if you’re already starting to regret it when you ask bashfully, “How long are you staying?”
It’s a little embarrassing, how relieved that one question has him feeling.
“I leave Sunday.”
“Same.” Your eyes fixate on some point in the distance, dimming. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to manage the rest of this trip.”
He swallows. It’s selfish, he knows. So fucking selfish to even consider it. But maybe that was his problem. The reason he was able to be so fearless, so careless with his life despite knowing exactly what his death would do to the people he loved. Jack Abbot is a selfish bastard. And maybe that’s why he says it.
“If you want, we can be each other’s distraction.”
Your gaze returns to him, widening. He braces himself for laughter, or anger, even disgust. Instead, what he gets is a brilliant fucking grin.
You can’t stop smiling. It’s such a startling change that your mother’s mouth puckers as she stares at you over breakfast.
“Are you okay?” she asks warily.
“Yup.” You swallow a mouthful of coffee, wrestling with the corners of your lips. Down boy.
“You’re acting weird,” your sister Lucy chimes in, glaring at you suspiciously while spreading butter on her toast. “Different. Like you’ve been body snatched or something.”
You shrug. “Maybe this is vacation me.”
Your gaze drifts up from her face to the cliffs hanging above the beach.
“I’ve got the whole week ahead of me.”
This time, you don’t fight your grin.
Florence actually has to shake Jack awake to get him up the next morning. He blinks groggily up at her frowning face, and quickly pushes himself onto his forearms when he notices the alarm widening her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes already scanning the room for threats.
“It’s noon.”
Jack curses under his breath. Should’ve set a fucking alarm, but of course, he’d never actually needed one before. He’d never managed to sleep longer than five hours in a row without his body instinctively waking him.
“Sorry, kid.”
She shrugs. “‘s okay. Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, just…jet lagged,” he offers.
Because there’s no way in hell he’s telling his tweenager the real reason he slept like a fucking baby for the first time in years.
Your sister somehow convinces you to go snorkeling with her. Normally, you would have watched her from the shore, but the high you’re still riding from the night before has you feeling like a yes girl, so you slip on a bikini and a pair of water shoes and meet her down at the shore.
The water is bathtub warm, and you give a surprised gasp as you sink into it. Lucy’s already diving right in, splashing around beside you.
“Be careful,” you can’t help reminding her. “Most shark attacks happen in four feet of water.”
“Three.”
Your stomach flips. Jack is standing a few feet away on the shore. He doesn’t introduce himself to Lucy, doesn’t give any indication that the two of you know each other. The corner of his mouth curves ever so slightly, a small, private smile you know is meant just for you. There’s a strange, fluttery sensation in your chest. Butterflies. You’ve never understood the expression before now.
You force yourself to blink and break the eye contact to keep your sister from getting suspicious. The sea floor dips beneath your feet, forcing you to swim to keep your head above the water. It’s completely terrifying, and exhilarating. Even as terrifying images of the creatures that may be lurking beneath you flash in your mind, you bat them away, gliding through the water. You focus on your body, the arc of your arms, the thrust of your legs. For the first time in a long time, you feel almost relaxed. Almost normal.
As you swim, your eyes keep straying back to Jack's body, the curve of his tan biceps, the ripple of muscles across his bare chest. Later, you can explore every inch, you tell yourself. You have all fucking week.
Jack is out the door a millisecond after Florence turns in for the night. As he nears the clearing, he forces his pace to slow and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the epitome of casual. Jesus fucking Christ.
You’re sitting again, legs tucked against your chest, wild curls floating in the breeze. Beside you is a bottle of Jameson. He can already tell there’s an inch missing, and judging by the lopsided grin on your face, he’s pretty sure he knows where it went.
“Hi.”
That single word shouldn’t have his entire body humming the way it does. If he wasn’t sure before, he knows now that he’s a goner.
“Hi.”
You stand, stumbling slightly. He quickly crossed the space between you and takes your forearm, steadying you.
“You okay?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m getting really fucking tired of people asking me that question.”
Before he can press you further, you snatch up the bottle and press past him.
“You coming?” you ask, grinning over your shoulder at him.
Jack shakes his head, but follows.
You have never been skinny dipping. It’s never been particularly appealing to you. The waters in California are inexplicably frigid, and it’s not as if anyone’s ever asked you to. But now, here, it sounds like the best idea you’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the desire to ogle Jack’s naked body you’ve been battling with since the afternoon, or maybe you really are having a quarter life crisis. Either way, when you reach the deserted beach beneath the cliff, you begin to strip.
Jack’s eyes remain fixed on yours, and the strain of keeping them there is evident in the creasing of the corners. You laugh.
“You can look, you know.”
You lift your arms from your sides, giving him a full view. Finally, he glances down, eyes tracing over every curve. You shiver.
“Your turn.”
Jack tenses. After a moment, he slowly removes his shirt, then his pants. Your eyes linger shamelessly on his chest, then his cock, then —
Shit. You’d forgotten. The prosthetic glints in the moonlight.
“Are you —“ You begin, suddenly so ashamed you had the idea, but then Jack holds up a hand.
“Just, give me a sec.”
You wait patiently as he removes the prosthetic, then stores it safely on the shore. His jaw flexes, but slowly he begins to hobble into the surf. You meet him halfway, arms encircling his waist. You can feel him tensing at your touch.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
His breath tickles your cheek, filling your nostrils with the sharp bite of peppermint. It’s fucking adorable, the thought of him chewing mints on the way over, just for you.
“For this. I know you didn’t want to.”
“I didn’t say that,” he protests gruffly.
You raise an eyebrow. The whiskey is startling to spill a little, and you take a long sip before pressing it into his hand.
“So, where are you from?” you ask as he drinks.
“Pittsburg. You?”
“LA.”
His eyes twinkle, and he shakes his head. “Probably should have asked you that before, huh?”
“Yeah,” you admit. “Usually I at least get a guy’s number before letting him come inside me.”
His eyes widen, immediately apologetic, and you giggle.
“It’s fine. It was pretty hot.”
“Really?” His brow furrows doubtfully.
“Really. I like knowing what you taste like. Talk about a welcome distraction.” You feel his cock twitch against your thigh, and you grin.
The water is much colder at night and you shiver against him. His grip on you tightens, fingers curling around your bare hip.
“Turns out all I needed was a good old fashioned summer fling.”
“Fling?”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, a fling. You have heard of it in your many years on this planet, haven’t you?”
He splashes water at your chest. “Smart ass.”
You feel your nipples begin to harden with the sudden cold. Jack’s eyes widen slightly. His hand shifts, sliding further up your side until his fingers cup your breast. His thumb circles your nipple.
“This...fling,” he begins, still saying the word as if it is entirely foreign to him. “How would it work, exactly?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. That’s kind of the point of a fling, isn’t it? No rules, no commitments. Just…”
“This?” Jack finishes for you as his other hand slides down to your ass.
You bite back a grin. “Just this.”
The water presses you against him, slotting your legs on either side of his. Your crotch grinds against his thigh and you bite your lip at the sliver of stimulation it gives you. The hand on your ass lifts you against him, giving you more friction when the waves recede.
“Is this — is this okay?” You ask him, not wanting to wreck his stability.
Jack huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
The waves press at your back again, and this time you lean into the motion, grinding your crotch against his knee. A moan escapes your lips. Jack nips at your neck as you rock back and forth, using him like a fucking animal. Your hand finds his cock, hard despite the cold, and you begin to stroke him. His head falls against your shoulder, and you both arch into each other as you chase your orgasms.
It’s the faint moan he gives against your skin that finally sends you over the edge, gasping as warm waves of immense pleasure roll over you. He pants against your neck as you ride it out, muttering soft curses into the breeze.
You stay like that for a long time, clutching each other. Your head against his chest, listening to the faint beat of his heart beneath the roar of the sea. It’s incredibly intimate, especially given how little you know each other. You can’t bring yourself to care.
Jack is alive. Fully, completely alive in a way that he didn’t know he could be. He can’t remember the last time that he woke up without already feeling like he was running on empty. Now, he’s so refreshed he feels as if he’s practically radiating energy. It’s probably a side effect of all the sleep he’s been getting, although he had a sneaking suspicion that it’s not quite so simple.
Florence is, predictably, disturbed.
“Are you on drugs?” she asks him over breakfast in their room the next morning.
He nearly chokes on his eggs. “What?”
“You look weird.”
His lips settle into a deep frown. There goes his good fucking mood.
“I am not on drugs.”
Florence shrugs, staring down at her pancakes. “I wouldn’t judge you, you know. If you were.”
He presses a hand to his temple. This fucking kid.
“Sweetheart, if I was doing drugs, I would one hundred percent want you to judge me. I’m just…happy.”
“Really?”
The way her voice wobbles on the word nearly breaks his heart.
“Really,” he assures her. “Now eat up. Can’t kayak on an empty stomach, doctor’s orders.”
She rolls her eyes at the familiar refrain, but the smile on her face makes his heart swell.
You cannot stop thinking about him. It’s growing a bit ridiculous. Swimming laps in the hotel pool, eating breakfast, flying over miles of rainforest in a very sketchy zip line (another activity Lucy managed to talk you into), your mind predictably wanders to Jack. What he’s doing. What he’s wearing. Nothing, you hope, though you know that’s definitely not true. He’s with his daughter, on a family vacation, same as you. And yet…
You can barely concentrate on the conversation at dinner with your family that night, knowing you’ll be seeing him soon, wondering about how he’ll make you come this time. You picture your back pressed roughly against the wall, him thrusting inside of you. His face between your thighs while your fingers dig into the sand, stubble tickling your skin. It’s such a vivid image you forget about the macaroni salad you’re ladeling onto your plate and spill a bit onto your dress. You curse silently and scrape at the stain with your napkin before retreating from the buffet.
And then, he’s there. Right there, in front of you, and you’re so overjoyed by the mere sight of him that you don’t immediately notice where he’s standing. At your table, speaking to your parents.
Shit. You have no idea what this could mean. Maybe he saw you there and wanted to introduce himself…but why? Was he suddenly old fashioned, had to meet the parents of the girl he was fucking? He was on the older side...
“There’s my girl,” your father calls.
Jack turns.
And sees you.
And his eyes just about burst out of his fucking skull.
There are many reasons Jack should have known who you were. Allan talked about his girls non-stop in the group chat with his army buddies, especially the oldest one who was in fucking law school. Even your name, he’d known, just failed to put two and two together. You knew the owner — it had been right fucking in front of him the whole fucking time.
If he’d downloaded FaceBook or Instagram like Florence had encouraged him to, he would have seen the pictures. Would have recognized the daughter of his oldest friend before he fucked her. Twice.
Allan will not stop fucking talking, asking questions about the PTMC, and Florence, and his life, questions he should be more than happy to waste an hour or two discussing with a friend he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade (since Marisol’s funeral, he realizes with an ache). But now, the conversation feels like his own personal circle of hell, because of how hard it is not to fucking look at you. Standing there, in that near sheer white dress. A dress he would have ripped off you in a few hours if he hadn’t spotted an old friend and decided to say hello.
He shouldn’t still want you, not now. Shit, shit, shit.
Allan blinks at him, confusion scrawled in his brow, and for the life of him Jack can’t remember what he just said.
“What?”
“I said you look good,” Allan repeats. “Doesn’t he?”
His wife, Darby, nods vigorously, her wine sloshing in her glass as she does.
“It’s the tan,” she muses. “Kauai looks good on you.”
Don’t look. Don’t fucking look.
He does. You’re frozen, lips curled, eyes pinched. He can’t imagine what you must be thinking.
“It’s been a long time,” you finally say. “Can’t remember the last time I saw you.”
“I think you must’ve been, what, eight?” Darby asks.
Fuck. Jesus fucking fuck fuck fuck. You cannot fucking be eighteen —
“No, she was in middle school,” Allan corrects her, squinting. “Twelve?”
You nod slowly. Your fingers are white against the plate you’re still holding.
Twenty-two. Better than eighteen, but certainly younger than he’d expected.
The youngest girl peers up at him. “Sorry, who is this dude?”
“Lucy,” her mother hisses at the same time Allan says, “This is your Uncle Jack.”
Uncle fucking Jack.
Don’t look. Don’t fucking look.
This time, you don’t wait until your family is asleep before heading to the cliffside, mumbling some excuse about needing some air before starting down the now familiar path. Jack is already there waiting, hands folded behind his back, his every muscle visibly tense.
“I didn’t fucking know,” he swears as soon as he sees you. “When we met. I didn’t know it was you.”
“Neither did I.”
You ignore the part of your brain that reminds you that you had noticed something familiar about him that night, that his name had stirred something in the recesses of your memories you hadn’t been able to identify, and had stupidly decided to ignore.
Jack nods. “I’m sorry.”
You scoff. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. What we did was…”
Insanely hot at the time, and now insanely fucked up?
“Consensual,” you finally croak out.
Jack winces.
“It’s not, it doesn’t…” You swallow. “It doesn’t have to be weird or anything. We haven’t seen each other in like a decade, we probably won’t be running into each other very often after this.”
“Right.” Jack nods, sighing. “Let’s just get through the rest of this trip.”
He looks worse than you’ve seen him in days. Your chest aches a little, knowing you’re partly responsible for putting him in this state.
“You can have the spot back,” you offer.
Jack huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think I’m fucking coming back here.”
It stings more than you expect. The disgust in his voice, the distance between you. Was it only the night before that he’d held you in his arms?
“Fine,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can think of. “Have a good night.”
You leave him there before you start to cry.
Don’t look back. Don’t fucking look back.
Jack doesn’t sleep, so he’s awake when the text from Allan comes in at just after seven the next morning. He wants the tree of them — him, Allan, and Koa, that is — to have dinner that night.
It is surprisingly nice. He hasn’t gotten to talk to Koa much, as he and his wife Nani — the hotel’s namesake — had been overwhelmed by all the new business since the opening. And Allan he hasn’t seen at all these past ten years, the two of them communicating primarily over text and the occasional too short phone call. It’s nice to catch up, hear about his life, his business…his girls.
“Think the older one’s becoming a bit of a workaholic,” Allan jokes.
“Can’t imagine where she gets that from,” Darby replies, her tone equal parts teasing and acerbic.
Allan grimaces and takes a long sip of his beer. Jack does the same, trying not to think about what you told him that first night. It's none of his business.
Jack turns to Koa, who’s been uncharacteristically silent. “You good, man?”
Koa blinks, then shakes his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Same old bullshit. Work is never done, is it?”
“Guess you need a vacation from your never-ending vacation,” Allan jokes.
Nani laughs, squeezing her husband’s arm. “Cheers to that!”
Jack throws back the rest of his beer. Koa's eyes linger on him.
“You know,” Koa begins. “We’re hosting a luau tomorrow night. Allan already snatched up tickets for his gang, but it would be easy to get you and Florence seats at their table. I’m sure she’d love it.”
Jack knows that she’d been hoping to go to a luau before they left. He also knows that if he has to spend the night sitting across from you, he might implode. But Jack is done being selfish. This trip is about restoring his connection with his daughter, not — what was it you called it? — a summer fling (and an extremely problematic one at that).
“That would be great, man,” he says, and he tries to mean it.
You have no idea what to wear. All of the clean dresses you have left are hanging from the curtain rod above your hotel room window like brightly colored ghosts. When did your wardrobe get so slutty?
When you packed, you can recall there was a vague idea in your mind of finding yourself a fun summer fling. One of those fleeting daydreams you never took too seriously, but liked to amuse yourself with to distract you from the monotony of your day to day life. Be careful what you wish for.
Lucy is sprawled across your bed, doing one of her favorite things in the world — intruding upon your space for no apparent reason, and completely ignoring you except for when the occasional biting insult pops into her head.
“You look constipated.”
Another zinger.
“I’m thinking.”
She sighs and rolls onto her back, abandoning her phone on the comforter at her side.
“I thought you were going to be normal now.”
“I’m being fucking normal!” you snap.
She sighs again, mumbling something about body snatchers under her breath.
Turns out, the luau doesn’t start until after two hours of dinner, and drinks — and conversation. It’s just Jack’s luck that you somehow end up seated right beside him. He doesn’t miss the pained look on your face when you realize it’s the only unclaimed seat, or the way the pale blue sundress you’re wearing hugs the perfect curves of your body.
Jack distracts himself by focusing on Florence, and tries very hard not to think about the fact that she is the same age you were the last time you two saw each other. Unfortunately for him, Florence actually seems to be having a grand old time with Lucy, and begins to grow a bit irritated by his frequent interruptions.
“Are you having a good time?”
“Yes,” she says. Not quite a snap, but not fucking cheerful either.
It’s good to see her like this, chatting so animatedly with someone her age. Florence’s teachers have consistently expressed their concerns about her social skills. Maybe something positive will come out of this trip after all.
They head to the buffet table in search of desert together, ignoring the tables with the main courses completely, although his stomach does growl a little at the smell of the pulled pork. He help her scoop pudding and delicate mochi cakes onto her plates, as she balances eagerly on her toes, a genuine smile on her face.
“You and Lucy seem like you’re having fun.”
She nods vigorously, but then her face falls.
“It sucks that they live so far from us.”
She plucks a grape straight from the bowl and pops it into her mouth, but he can’t bring himself to scold her.
“Well, you can get her number. You guys can…video call, and stuff.”
“I guess,” she says with a sniff.
While Florence and Lucy dig into her plate of desert, Allan catches his eye.
“It’s been really good to see you, brother.”
Jack swallows. “Yeah. It’s been too long, man.”
Darby is saying something to you, but you’ve gone silent. He can see you watching him out of the corner of his eye.
What are you thinking? he wants to ask you.
Instead, he says, “So, you’ve got one more year of school left, right? That’s gotta be a relief.”
You lift your eyebrows ever so slightly, as if to say, are we really doing this?
“Yeah. It’ll be good to get back to real life.”
Real life. He’d almost forgotten about it — the mindfuck environment of the PTMC, sleepless nights, moving through life like one of the living fucking dead. Your plan to distract each other had certainly worked. Maybe a little too well.
Darby groans. “God, I can’t believe we leave tomorrow. How am I supposed to go back to work after this?”
“Do we have to go back?” Lucy asks. “Can’t we stay just a few more days?”
Florence’s eyes shine, hopeful.
“The time-share’s only for a week at a time, honey,” Allan reminds them. “But we’ll be back next year.”
Jack sees the idea forming behind Allan’s eyes before he says it.
“You know what — why don’t you guys sync up your week with us from now on?” he suggests. “We could make it a yearly tradition.”
Lucy and Florence share twin grins and voice their support for the idea. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Jack is faced with the same question.
Make his daughter happy, or avoid you.
He can feel you staring at him as he says, “That’s a great idea.”
⟡read chapter two⟡
