I reach the bar before Jack and duck behind it, slipping through the door without acknowledging the bar staff. Beer tempts me, but a gremlin roils in my gut, one that tries to tug me towards the cellar gym, and I need my wits about me to defeat it. Especially if I want to survive dinner with Jack without making him feel worse than I already have.
Upstairs, I examine the contents of the fridge. Someone’s shopped. Not me. Definitely not Mal. He keeps the bathroom spotlessly clean, and the rest of the flat devoid of any sign of him. The only proof he lives here is the money he dropped inthe grocery account last week, a tangent that zones me out from putting food on Jack’s plate.
Chicken. I can cook that.
I snag the pack and shut the fridge. Find some rice.
Still all white, though.
Fuck.
Jack appears behind me, as quiet as Mal, but bigger, like the men my entire life revolved around before he ever knew me. Inked and unshaven, bleeding masculinity. It took me a while to make peace with his kind heart.
Mal has a kind heart too. I see it in how he watches at his brother. How he darts to help him before even Jack knows he needs it. But it’s cracked and burned too, like mine. I see that too, I just don’t know why I can’t stop looking.
Jack reaches around me and shuts the cupboard. “Sit down. I’ll do it.”
“You’re working.”
“So have you been for the last three nights.”
I know that tone. It’s the one Jack doesn’t believe he possesses anymore.
But he’s wrong.
Despite the support he needs, Jack takes care of us all, and I know a command when I hear one, and I’m happy—relieved—to obey.
I fall into the same place at the table I’ve occupied since Mal arrived. Not on purpose, just habit. A new one. And it’s not my worst, so I’ve let it stick.
If Jack’s noticed, he’s kept it to himself. Sol won’t when he does, but Sol’s not here.
Neither’s Mal.
I need a shower. To clear my head as much as wash away the long shift. But the bathroom smells like Mal and I’m not in the mood. I’mannoyed, which is fucking ridiculous. What do I careif he’s developed a sudden interest in crab pots and mackerel nets? Maybe if the timing was different, I wouldn’t. But the questions he asked me in the cellar rattle my brain, and I fucking know he doesn’t give a shit about fish.
Jack slides a plate of chicken and rice in front of me. I’ve been distracted enough to miss him cooking up an actual meal. Too broody to fold my face into an expression of gratitude. But he’s used to me. He squeezes my shoulder and goes back to the counter for his own plate and the salad that lets me know it was Sol who did the shopping.
He puts the bowl on the table.
I don’t look at it.
Neither does he, as he tosses some on his plate. And then he eats like Mal does. Without seeming to notice or care what it is. Without stopping to check every forkful before he puts it in his mouth.
I’m jealous, truly. Jack knows how to cook for me. How to put it on the plate without the chicken and rice touching—how to tell whenthatmood is on me. And he doesn’t ask what’s different about tonight, when I ate Sol’s pasta just fine four days ago.
He eats and stays quiet, his gaze flicking between the window and the door that leads to the landing, and I know he’s not fretting about the pub. He’s fretting about Sol, about Mal, because I put the idea in his head, and now I have to whittle it out before he gets upset.
“What’s got your brother so interested in fishing with Sol?”
Jack keeps his focus on the window. “I don’t know. Maybe he wants to be a fisherman.”
“How likely is that?”
“I already told you he pukes on boats.”
“Used to.”
Jack sighs. “If you say so. We haven’t spent much time together in the past decade.”
