Chapter Text
39th Birthday.
Mari left work at 5:57 pm, deliberately three minutes early.
She didn’t tell anyone why, didn’t mention anything about the day’s date, and gave a polite smile to the tech who snuck a “Happy Birthday” into a labelling request she’d passed over at turnover.
Birthdays weren’t for parties anymore. Didn’t like the fuss. Not since—well…
The spring evening air was warm against her bare arms as she stepped out into the parking garage. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. She had plans for takeout from the good place across the street and a bottle of wine she’d stashed in the fridge the night before. Even if she’d wanted to check out the alert, the distraction of the familiar beat-up truck that had carried her over more miles than she could count was parked beside her car.
And there he was.
Leaning lazily against the passenger door like he hadn’t been standing there since 5:30.
“Hey, Goldie,” Jack called out.
Mari slowed.
Jack pushed off the truck, hands in his jacket pockets. “Happy Birthday.”
His voice was low, and his smirk even lower.
She really tried not to smile. She failed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I work here, remember?” he said, gesturing at the building like it and the spot they stood in hadn’t seen them fight, fall apart, and fall back into bed more times than they could count. “Night shift hero? Every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday.”
She raised an eyebrow, “You don’t usually clock in until seven.”
“You don’t clock out until 6:30 pm.”
“Got places to be,” he nodded, smirk still on his face, “you?”
He shrugged, “Was in the neighbourhood.”
She pursed her lips. “And?”
He opened his truck door and pulled out a brown paper bag—a little grease-stained, but very familiar.
Mari blinked. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
She grabbed the bag from his hand and peeked inside.
The smell hit her first—sugar, cinnamon, and the browned butter glaze she loved from the one bakery on the edge of Lawrenceville that only made them on Thursdays and was usually sold out by 8 am.
“Jack…” She didn’t know what to say.
“I know. It’s Monday. Don’t ask questions.”
She blinked again as she looked down at the bright yellow donut box inside the brown bag. “Did you bribe someone?”
“I’m not above it,” Jack said with a shrug, “But for the record, I was very polite about it.”
Mari closed the bag and pulled it close to her—the warmth of the bag was not lost on her, and neither was the effort.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and he ducked his head like he was given a compliment he wasn’t sure how to receive.
He pushed himself off the truck and stepped in to place a kiss at her temple.
“Enjoy, Mari, happy birthday.”
Then he quickly locked his truck and headed in the direction of the hospital parking entrance, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders a little lighter than they had been for the last couple of months. If she allowed herself a moment of suspended disbelief, she could almost see her Jack—the one from when things were simple again. That the world could reset itself on any given Monday if you just allowed it to.
She managed to fish her keys out and get everything into the car without dropping anything. The drive home was short, her mind running parallel to the highway, catching on the jagged edges of what once was. The time Jack had driven her home stoned out of her mind after her wisdom teeth were pulled and she’d pouted that he’d promised after her appendix she wouldn’t spend another birthday under anesthesia. “As you should know, Dr. Abbot, it wasn’t general anesthesia, it was local. I believe I made a promise on the former.” The arguments over which route was fastest and Mari’s permanent refusal to agree with Jack’s assessment over Crosby versus Ovechkin, while he would light the candles on her lopsided cake with the Zippo lighter he kept around despite never smoking a cigarette since he was twenty-two.
At home, work clothes switched for comfy sweats, wine cracked open and food on its way, she opened the bag Jack had given her again. Pulled out the doughnuts, the smell of cinnamon and pecans filling the kitchen, when the soft thud of an envelope hitting the floor caught her attention.
She bent over to pick up the fallen card. On the front, in Jack’s familiar handwriting, was her full name. She rolled her eyes as she opened the card inside.
Happy Birthday, Mari
- Love, Jack.