Page 21 of Forever Wild
I smile at the angsty teen version of Jack staring back at me. I mean honestly, he hasn’t changed that much. His baby face is now chiseled and currently covered by a lot of unruly facial hair, but he has those same intense eyes and serious expression.
Movement catches my eye and I turn as Jack steps into the kitchen. He walks toward me, opening the freezer and grabbing a bag of frozen peas.
“Are you okay?” I glance at his knee indicating I mean physically. I know better than to touch on his emotional state. I wouldn’t be okay either.
“It hurts.”
My brows rise in shock. “Wow. I can’t believe you just admitted that.”
He glares but there’s no real malice behind it.
“So…”
“Thank you for today. I’m sorry I was an asshole. My dad…” He trails off and that muscle in his cheek jumps again. “Thank you, Ev.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stare at each other. The strain on his face reminds me that he’s in pain.
“You should probably elevate your knee.”
“Yeah.” He lifts the peas.
“Is there a shower in this giant house?” I ask. I smell like chlorine and sunscreen and am still in my suit underneath the dress.
His gaze travels over me from head to feet and back again slowly. “Yeah. Upstairs. Second door on the left.”
Still neither of us moves. I have so many questions that I don’t know where to start. It strikes me that I’ve known Jack for four years, have spent a lot of time with or around him, and yet I don’t really know him. I wonder if anyone does.
8
GIRL TALK
JACK
I settle into a chair in the living room. Dad’s gentle snores have increased to a rumble that nearly drowns out the television. Not that I’m really paying attention.
My attention is tuned to the sounds upstairs: the water running, the soft footsteps, the opening of a door. I hate that she’s here. Hate that she saw my dad like this. I’m not embarrassed of him, but it’s just not something I share. I remember that well enough from being a kid. When your dad is the town drunk, people give you these pitying looks and everything you do is measured against him.
Right after I was drafted to the league, I ran into a teacher from middle school and she couldn’t stop telling me how proud she was of me, how great it was that I had made something of myself despite my circumstances.
My circumstances never held me back. If anything, they were the fuel pushing me tobe anyone but him.
I’m deep in my thoughts and still craning my head to listen for any movement upstairs when Dad’s hoarse voice says, “Jackson.”
His blue irises are dimmed by his glassy and bloodshot eyes. He’s taking stock of the situation: lying on the couch, me sitting with him, the clean room. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even remember that he made a mess of the place before he headed to Perry’s.
“Dad,” I say keeping all emotion out of my tone. Once upon a time, I might have been sad or angry but now I’m just resigned that this is who he is. No matter what I say or do, no matter how much money I make or success I have, he’s a variable I can’t control. If he were anyone else, I would have cut him from my life.
“I’m guessing by the look of disgust on your face that this visit isn’t a happy one.”
Christ, he doesn’t even remember us picking him up from the bar. I shouldn’t be surprised. Just another Saturday afternoon bender.
“Coach called. You were giving his new bartender a hard time after he cut you off.”
A spark of recollection flashes in his face, some of his color returning, and the light in his eyes returns too. As he processes through the memory, his expression turns remorseful. “I met up with some of the guys to watch the game. You know Bruce is always buying rounds for everyone. I might have gone a little too hard.”
Yeah, let’s blame Bruce and not the entire case of beer that he likely drank before he left the house. I hold in the thoughts. His friends are drunks, just like him. Though they all somehow manage to get home without passing out or driving under the influence. Wishing he could be a more responsible drunk is among the many wishes I’ve cast over the years.
