"I told her it might be okay if she asked the other person first, to see if they'd be willing to be fired so they could date her." I'd been pretty excited about it at the time; the idea of my aunt being romantically involved with someone was fascinating. I wanted to see it happening out in the wild.
"I am riveted, Leo," Jack tells me, voice so dry it practically cracks the compact air of the aeroplane. "Riveted. It's official. How thehelldoes this story end?"
"Anabelle followed my advice," I say proudly. It remains, to this day, one of my greatest accomplishments.
"Mistake number two has been identified," Jacks scoffs, frowning to himself. "The first was asking a thirteen-year-old for advice about anything ever." He gives me a cautious look, like he thinks there's going to be a plot twist he won't enjoy. "What happened?"
I shrug. "Anabelle and Green had a massive fight, and then I think they had sex in her office." My aunt was a bit sketchy on the finer details. "They danced around each other for ages before getting together for real."
"Oh, well, that didn't go exactly how I … hold on a minute!" Jack blinks at me in genuine shock. "Did you say 'Green'? Director Snow and AgentGreenare together?"
"They're married," I confirm, much to Jack's growing dismay.
"Well," he mutters faintly, looking up at the ceiling like he'll get some help from up there, "now I hope this plane does crash, so I won't have to figure out how to deal with theterrifyingpiece of information you just forced upon me."
"Their wedding was on a Greek Island," I tell him, smiling to myself. Their wedding is one of the few family-friendly memories I have. Anabelle actually laughed like three whole times. "VeryMamma Mia. Green made her own bouquet. It was pretty."
Jack absorbs this like I'm telling him the details of a complicated mission strategy. "Did she get to throw it and hit someone in the face?" he asks like he's hopeful the answer is yes, like he thinks it would be a good thing. And not in an “I enjoy violence” kind of way, but genuinely, as if that would be the intended outcome of throwing a bouquet.
"Okay." I take a second to process the insanity Jack is forcing me to come to terms with. "That's not what the tradition of throwing the bouquet is for." I squint at him. "I'm worried because of how you said that, that you think it is."
"You're not meant to hit someone in the face?" Jack looks so sincerely perplexed it's almost too real to be funny.
"No," I exclaim, voice pitching a little shrill, "you actual maniac!"
Jack very clearly does not believe me about this, because his next question comes out as a challenge. "Then why would you do it?"
Unfortunately, it is a challenge I am ill-prepared to meet. "I will admit, right off the bat, I don't know the full history behind why people throw bouquets at weddings." I hold up my hands at Jack's victorious reaction to my admission. "But I'm certain it's not meant to be an act of violence."
Jack still seems dubious but appears willing to let it go for now. I think maybe we're done with this. I am very wrong.
"My brother killed someone with flowers once," Jack says, the fucking human roller coaster, throwing me for another triple loop.
I stare at the lunatic sitting beside me, making it obvious from my expression how much I want this conversation to end here. Just in case he doesn't get it, I do as the cartoons taught me anduse my words. "There's not a single part of me that either disbelieves or wants to know more about what you just said."
Jack flagrantly ignores his right to remain silent and ruins my day just a little bit more. "He used a bunch of sunflowers to knock someone off a motorcycle by whacking them in the face as they rode by."
"And you told me anyway." I give him the full might and magnitude of my dissatisfaction via intense pug face. "Great, thanks, I hate it."
"Don't feel bad for him." Jack wrinkles his nose in mirrored disdain. "He was a stupid motherfucker. Didn't wear a helmet. Wanted to protect his hair or something."
His hair? Blimey. Beauty is pain, and fabulousness is death via flora, I guess.
"Wow, there's an advert for road safety," I muse, putting on a mocking rendition of a safety advert voice-over. "'Wear a helmet, bellends, or you'll get smashed in the face by a sunflower-wielding assassin and die.’"
"Hmm," Jack muses, pretending to consider the idea, his brows creasing together. His expression seems to darken, his voice coming out acerbic and self-mocking when he says, "I could play my brother in the reenactment for it."
I'm always surprised when Jack mentions his brother, especially when he does it so casually. That's twice now in a short amount of time. He must be thinking of him. Then again, I have the sneaking suspicion Jack thinks about his brother on a near-constant basis. After only caring about one person for so many years, it's hard to imagine that kind of relationship not becoming somewhat twisted and unhealthily co-dependent, with or without the dire circumstances Jack and Dan were forced into.
"Next stop Hollywood," I needle in an attempt to banish the shadows battling for dominance on Jack's face. "Mug like yours? You'd be astar."
Jack humours me, as he often does. "I could do all my own stunts."
I make a humming sound of agreement. "Change your name to Chris, and you might even get to be a fake superhero one day."
Jack pulls the great grandfather of all scowls, his shoulders seeming to hunch instinctively at the “S” word. He's got a real prejudice against supers, it turns out, which is at once hilarious and concerning to me. Jack gets growly every time anyone even mentions the vigilantes running around in the world, as if their very existence offends him. He's the only person I've met who can read an article by the infamously anti-super journalist Diane Foxley and not only resist the urge to call her a bint but also say things like, "Well, she makes some good points. Wearedangerous."
"If anyone tries to turn me into a real superhero," Jack rumbles out furiously, "no shit, I'm gonna get worked up about it. Just letting you know, so you can run inference or something, 'cause I know you like to do that. I don't give a fuck, though. I ain't got no sense of propriety, I'll fuckin' bite people. You know that about me."
