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Kent knows exactly what he expects when he goes to sleep on July 3.
Still, for all his certainty, there’s a mix of relief and resignation that bubbles up from deep inside when he opens his eyes to what is unmistakably Jack Zimmermann’s bedroom. He’s got the same duvet cover Kent recognizes from the Q, the same bookcase of thick history tomes with his John Grisham novels hidden on the bottom shelf because he’s a pretentious POS who wants people to think he’s more sophisticated than he is, the same closet of plaid shirts in a rainbow of colors.
Seriously, the fact that Kent is soulmates with this dork will never cease to amaze him.
The blond boy asleep in bed next to him is new from the Q, but Kent expected that too. Fucking Bittle, with his fucking giant eyes and little button nose and his soft blond hair, like it isn’t obvious from space that Jack hasn’t gotten over Kent.
If only Jack realized it. But part of his big post-OD development push was leaving behind that boy who had flatlined on the bathroom floor, and it’s important to him that everyone knows it, because why bother growing up if everyone can’t applaud him for doing it? Jack knows the importance of the polished media smile, how it’s more critical when you lose than when you win, and what was washing out of the draft if not a big fucking loss.
Kent is the John Grisham novel in this metaphor, he realizes.
He’s getting maudlin in his old age, he thinks, and he pushes himself out of bed and stretches, unabashedly looking down at the full spread of Jack’s body. From this angle, it goes on for miles. It’s a good angle.
Bittle, he notices, wears an oversized t-shirt to sleep. Jack’s long-term, live-in boyfriend sleeps in a freaking t-shirt, like little Bitty Crocker wasn’t sexless enough already.
Kent just wishes he were still close enough friends with Jack to chirp him for this.
The very first thing Kent does is go through the bathroom cabinet. The bottle of Lexapro is the first thing he sees, front and center, and he squints at the tiny lettering on the side to read the correct dosage.
He pops the pills and washes them down with a handful of tap water, picking his head up after and eyeing himself in the mirror.
Jack looks… different than normal. Unguarded, soft, a little haggard – and handsomer for it. Maybe that’s just the messy sweep of his hair or the sleep-warm flush on his cheeks or the soft way his lips part.
Kent used to see this face when they brushed their teeth side by side on roadies, shoulders bumping, Jack ducking his head when Kent teased him about his snoring (Jack didn’t), and elbowing Kent right in the sensitive fleshy spot under his ribs to make him grunt.
Kent misses this stupid face.
They used to be very young, he thinks.
Jack’s décor is weird, a mish-mash of Southern Living and GQ that doesn’t quite coalesce. Kent has to go through every drawer in the kitchen before he finds the juicer that he knows Jack would have, and makes a face at all the weird cutesy notes on the fridge when he goes to get some vegetables from it.
He tucks Jack’s phone against his cheek and calls Mosh while he’s massaging the kale. “Yo, Mo-zilla, you remember you gotta feed my princess?”
“Yes,” Mosh says wearily, “much like the previous forty times you asked, I remember. Do you know what time it is?”
“You were up,” Kent says with full confidence. Mosh’s twins are up at four every morning, like clockwork. “So I need some advice from an old married.”
Mosh coos wordlessly. Kent is pretty sure it’s aimed at one of the infants. “Okay, hit me up,” Mosh says after a minute.
“What do most people do when they wake up on their soul-days with another person?” Kent says. “Like. I bet it happens pretty often, right?”
“Is their soulmate Jack Zimmermann in this hypothetical?”
“I plead the fifth,” says Kent.
“I recognize his voice, KP,” Mosh says. “It’s a little late to be pleading anything.”
“I plead the eighth?” Kent says.
“If the American education system were better, I would have a better response to this,” Mosh says. “Is that one search and seizure?”
“Fuck if I know,” says Kent. “Which one’s the one that gave black people the right to vote?”
“Is that the one you were going for?” Mosh asks.
“No.”
“Oh my god.” Allison’s exasperated voice is faint on the other end of the phone. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating this conversation.”
“Hi, Ali!” says Kent.
“KP says hey,” Mosh says.
“Give me that,” Allison says, and her voice abruptly goes much louder as she grabs the phone from Mosh. “Okay, ten words or less, what’s the problem?”
“Soulmate has boyfriend. Kent tell soulmate’s boyfriend? Morally conflicted. Discuss,” Kent says, counting off the words on his fingers. “Also, it’s ten words or fewer.”
“I will shove this phone up your ass the next time I see you,” Allison says.
Kent grins.
Allison sighs, voice going serious. “If it were anyone else, I would say yes, unquestionably. But with you and Zimmermann in particular, Kent… I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” says Kent, losing his smile.
“I just think you have to question what you’re hoping to achieve,” Allison says. “And whose benefit it’s for. Is there still anything there to salvage? Only you can answer that.”
“Bullshit,” says Kent. “Only Jack can answer that, except he’s not here to say.” They all know he and Jack disagree on what qualifies as salvageable.
“I know,” she says gently. “But this isn’t a normal soul-day situation, and you aren’t normal soulmates. I just think… If you want him to be happy, and he won’t let it be with you…”
Kent turns on the juicer for lack of any other response.
When he shuts it off, he hears footsteps from the bedroom.
“I think you’ll know what the right decision is when it’s time to make it,” Allison says.
“Gotta go,” Kent says, ending the call and shoving the phone in his pocket.
“G’morning, honey,” says Bittle.
“And good morning to you, sugar-plum,” says Kent.
Bittle smiles at him, warm and fond, eyes crinkling.
Decision made.
He thinks Allison would be happy, but he knows he’s not doing it for the right, noble reasons. This isn’t about protecting Jack’s relationship with the tiny baker, it’s about challenging the strength of the bonds between them, assessing their tensile strength, seeing what happens when he plucks at them.
How long, he wonders, will it take Bittle to notice that it’s not Jack behind the smile?
“Did you already get back from your run?” Bittle asks.
“Thought I’d skip it today,” Kent says, already testing the waters.
“Oh, that’s nice,” says Bittle, smiling at him. “I’ll get started on breakfast, then.”
He really has no idea, Kent thinks. “Sure,” he says. “Hey, do you know what my schedule is today?”
“Hm, let me think,” Bittle says, face buried in the fridge. “You have golf with your dad at 11, and then you’re meeting with Cassie for a session at 2, then you’re picking up the last party supplies on the way home and the party starts at 6. Is that about right?”
“Right,” Kent says. “Gosh, how’d I get so dang lucky to land such a thoughtful boyfriend?”
“Aw, you’re too sweet,” Bittle says, smiling back at him.
Gag me, Kent thinks. Either this was actually how Jack talked to Bittle – unlikely – or this was how Bittle wanted Jack to talk to him – disturbing, but possible. Or Bittle was just too dumb to notice the difference – amusing.
“So who’s the final guest list for the party?” Kent asks, needing the time to psychologically prepare for whatever he’s getting himself into.
“Oh, all our Samwell friends except Chowder, and then a handful of Falconers, except you know those boys are awful about RSVPing, it’s just shameful.” Bittle clicked his tongue. “Your parents are down from Montreal, and a few of your cousins, then that one friend of yours from your time coaching pee-wee, I think? Hmm, I’m sure there are others I’m forgetting.”
“None of your friends?” Kent asks.
Bittle pauses. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, I’m just… wondering if any of your friends are coming,” Kent says.
For the first time, Bittle looks puzzled. “Well, our friends from Samwell…”
“Right, but…”
“Your friends are my friends, sweetie,” Bittle says.
“Right, right,” Kent says.
Whaaat the fuck, even.
Jack, thankfully, has his schedule meticulously organized on his phone calendar, and Kent successfully meets Bad Bob at the golf course right on time to tee off.
This, he suspects, will be more of a challenge.
“Hi, Dad,” he says. They hug. It’s very weird to see Bad Bob at eye level. He’s got more grey in his beard than Kent remembers.
“Jack,” says Bob. “Same stakes as usual?”
“Of course,” Kent says gamely, wondering how much of Jack’s money he’s about to lose to his father. “Bring it on, old man.”
“Ouch,” Bob says, laughing and clapping a hand over his heart. “You know, that would hurt less if I hadn’t nearly thrown my back out putting away the cereal box yesterday morning. I’d say I’m solidly into my midlife crisis.”
“It’s been five years since you bought yourself a Lambo and claimed it was for your wife’s birthday, I’d say you’re past the midlife crisis point of no return, my dude,” Kent says.
Bob laughs, but shoots him a curious look. “Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the first hole.
Kent, having played just enough golf matches to know he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the course, makes desperate eye contact with his caddy as Bob selects his club. Help me, he mouths.
The caddy, who is going to get an amazing tip later, jiggles a driver, and Kent gratefully lifts it out of the bag. He lines up at the tee, positions his hands the way Bob taught him some eight years before –
And completely shanks it. Ball goes forty yards towards the wrong hole.
“Yikes,” says Kent.
“It’s alright, everyone deserves a mulligan,” Bob says. “Give it another go.”
Kent, despite knowing what’s about to happen, sets another ball on the tee and gives it another go. This one, at least, goes in vaguely the right direction, right into the boughs of a tree.
“Are you feeling alright, son?” Bob says gently.
Coming from anyone else, Kent would be able to brush this off, but from Bob…
Bob taught him to ride a stupid bike, Kent thinks. He wouldn’t go so far as to say Bob was a surrogate father, but that was all Jack’s call, not Kent’s and definitely not Bob’s. Kent had always been able to tell how much more Bob would have wanted to offer him, advice and support and gruff fatherly affection and…
And Kent would have accepted it, no questions asked. Kent would have taken it and fucking run with it.
“Um,” he says. “Yeah, I’m. I’m good.” He rubs his face with his hand. “Guys, can we have a minute?”
The caddies, because they are Bad Bob and Jack Zimmermann, do not remind them that it is 11 AM and there are already two carts of people waiting behind them for their turn on the hole. They withdraw a calibrated distance, dutifully turning their faces away.
“So, here’s the thing,” says Kent. “It’s, uh, not Jack. It’s…”
“Kent,” says Bob, so softly Kent gets an immediate, painful lump in his throat. It’s hard to breathe.
“Yeah,” he manages.
“Oh, Kent.” Bob grabs his shoulder, squeezing it.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Kent says, once he’s mastered himself enough to speak.
Bob smiles, just a little. “Should I be?”
“No,” says Kent.
Bob nods. “You forget I’ve seen you play together. No one in the stands back in Rimouski would possibly be surprised by…”
Kent nods too. He knows.
“What did Eric say?” Bob says.
It takes Kent a moment to remember who Eric is. “Oh, uh,” he says, wincing.
“Kent.” Bob frowns disapprovingly, and even that just makes him look more fatherly. “You didn’t tell him?”
“I didn’t know if Jack would want me to,” Kent says, which is true, even if it’s not the truth.
Bob sighs. “I won’t interfere, it’s not my place. But… you know Jack will know when he wakes up tomorrow.”
“And he can decide then what he wants to share,” Kent says. “I’m doing him a fucking favor.”
“Maybe,” Bob says, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Er.” He looks over Kent’s shoulder at the waiting groups. “Maybe we should move this along.”
“You’re my favorite Bad Dad,” Kent says, grateful for the relatively painless escape from what could have been a much worse conversation.
“So you’ve said,” Bob says, grinning at him.
Cassie is the Falconer’s physical therapist, Kent finds, because apparently Jack tweaked something in the first round of the playoffs and that’s why he played like such absolute garbage against the Bruins. It’s kind of a relief and kind of just confirmation, because Kent couldn’t see any other reason why Jack was having trouble keeping up with Chara, who is a dinosaur.
It’s a fun workout, because Kent’s never been able to lift this much before, even on Jack’s lighter post-rehab transition back to full form. Cassie has him do workouts with resistance bands, and Kent’s honestly worried he’s going to slip and knock someone out with the recoil with how far he can make them stretch.
Jack’s muscles are cray hot, is all he’s saying.
“You’re in a good mood,” Cassie says as he stretches to wind down his workout, smiling down at him. “Fun weekend plans?”
“Yeah, got a July 4th party tonight,” Kent says. He wishes he could invite her, but he doesn’t know if Jack is out to her. This is a song and dance with which he’s painfully familiar. “And I’m glad to be back at full form.”
“I can imagine,” she says. “If you feel as fit as you look…”
She’s hitting on him. He can’t blame her. Jack is a hot piece of ass. “Yeah, and I’m back to full weight,” Kent says, patting Jack’s ridiculously stacked torso.
Cassie smiles.
Thinking about it, though, Kent frowns a little. “So maybe I’ll stop eating so many carbs from now on. Can you remind me about that, like, in the future?”
“I’d say it’s kind of your responsibility to stop bringing the pies in,” she says dryly. “I mean, I’m proud of you for not eating them, but must you sabotage the rest of the team?”
“I don’t eat them?” Kent says.
She cocks her head. “Not that I’ve ever seen, unless you’re doing it furtively hunkered in the bathroom stall.”
“Huh,” says Kent, and smiles.
Kent buys everything on the shopping list Bittle texts him. He’s a little insulted, because Bittle doesn’t just tell him what items he needs, but exactly how many, of what brand, with helpful descriptions: 4 x Pepperidge Farm Bakery Classics hot dog buns (split on top!)
Either Jack is a manchild, or Bittle is a micromanaging loon, or both. Kent is inclined to think both.
He gets back and dumps the grocery bags on the counter, behind where Bittle is futzing around at the stove, which has a pot on every burner. Kent has no idea what Fourth of July dishes require stovetop cooking, but far be it for him to engage with whatever Bittle’s deal is.
Kent starts to unload the groceries, just as Bittle says, “Sweetie, do you mind putting the drinks in the fridge?”
He turns and sees that Kent is already halfway through doing that, and he beams.
Manchild, Kent thinks. “Of course, honey-lumpkins,” he says.
Bittle laughs. “That’s a new one,” he teases. “What happened to Bittle?”
Kent has to take a moment to recover from the realization that Jack calls his boyfriend by his last name. “Trying it out, I guess. You don’t like it?”
“I love it,” Bittle says. “But I love everything coming from you.” He tilts his head up.
Kent, horrified, realizes that Bittle is inviting a kiss. “Dad says hi,” he says, pretending not to notice Bittle’s pose by casually turning back to the fridge. “And Cassie.”
“Oh, that’s so nice,” Bittle says. “I hope you reminded him that they don’t have to bring anything tonight. Coming all the way from Montreal!” He shakes his head.
Kent wonders if Bittle would sound as fond if he knew that Bob’s parting words to Kent were I guess I always did expect it to be you.
“I told him,” he says.
Bittle hums approvingly and turns back to the stove.
Kent finishes with the groceries and wonders what excuse he can devise to avoid Bittle until the party starts. Though given what he’s seen of their relationship, he assumes he can just retreat to do his own thing and Bittle will let him go without comment.
Before he can turn, though, Bittle says, “Oh, out of curiosity…?”
Kent pauses.
“Did you end up calling Kent?”
Kent freezes, glad that Bittle’s facing away so he can’t see it. The last thing he expected was to hear his own name from Bittle. “Why…?”
“Well, you mentioned it the other day,” Bittle says, blithe and chipper, “so I was just curious, I suppose. It’s his birthday, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” says Kent. He should probably feel guiltier. “It is.”
“Well?”
“No,” says Kent. He makes a mental note to delete the call to Mosh from Jack’s phone records. He doesn’t know Bittle well enough to know if he would look.
“Why not?” Bittle says.
It might be in Kent’s head, but his voice sounds a little weird. Tight, maybe. “…He turns 25 today,” Kent says, like it’s obvious. It should be obvious. “So he wouldn’t answer.”
“That’s right,” Bittle says, and his shoulders relax. “He wouldn’t.” When he turns, he’s smiling again, broad and bright. “Well, maybe you could give him a call tomorrow.”
Kent wonders if Jack will. “Yeah,” he says.
Soulmates. It’s a nebulous term, but Kent has never needed to have it explained because he understood it through muscle memory alone. Platonic, sexual, whatever – the word’s meaning makes itself clear through the scrape of skates on ice, the way Kent knows without looking where to place the puck or set the volleyball or lob the conversational grenade.
He knows how to hurt Jack because he knows Jack, and there’s intimacy in the cruelty he can inflict. He’s taken advantage of it in the past, and Jack has hurt him too. Once upon a time, he thought that meant they were on the same page.
But now Jack has retreated back to the relative safety of Eric Bittle, where he doesn’t have to experience the vulnerability of being known. Everything’s easy with them, surface level, nice. Jack never has to worry again about having his guts spilled open and read like ancient entrails, because Bittle will never be willing to hurt him enough to try.
Kent could have tried harder to fake it, but that’s not who he is.
Once upon a time, he thought Jack liked that about him.
The good news is, Jack is famously bad at socializing, so no one questions when Kent grabs a beer and hovers in the corner like a fucking weirdo trying to talk as little as possible. He endures a lot of hugs, but no one questions the way he stiffens for them.
Bob shoots him a sharp look when he arrives, but true to his word, he just gives Kent a brief hug and then lets himself be fawned at by Jack’s old teammates.
Alicia, though, stretches up to kiss Kent’s cheek and pauses while she’s there to whisper, “It’s good to see you, Kent.”
Kent grimaces. “He told you?”
She shoots him a fondly indulgent look.
“Right, husband, good relationships, open communication, yes,” Kent says, waving his hand. “Hi, Mrs. Zimms.”
She looks deeply into his eyes for a long moment, then she sighs and shakes her head.
“Whatever it is, you can say it,” he mutters. “I probably know it already.”
“I think you do,” she says.
Kent smiles at her, endeared all over again. “Hey now, remember what you told me once? That made me call you a walking throw pillow?”
Alicia smiles. “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay…”
“Then it’s not the end,” Kent finishes. He slings his arm over her shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. “Chin up, buttercup.”
“Now, when did you go getting all mature and grown-up, Mr. Parson?”
“Probably when I got these manly lumberjack guns, check it,” Kent says, flexing Jack’s biceps at her.
He’s always liked making Alicia laugh.
Unfortunately, he can’t avoid Jack’s friends forever. See, there are friends where people understand how bad Jack is at socializing and let him off the hook for it, and then there are friends who understand and don’t give a shit.
He tries to man the grill for a while to give himself the excuse, but Marty watches for about five minutes with open pity before forcing him aside and taking over in true dad fashion. Kent makes it five steps away before Shitty swoops.
Kent likes Shitty generally. Kent is not usually inhabiting his best friend’s body when he meets him, though.
“Brah, cold,” Shitty says, dragging him over to a little cluster of Jack’s old Samwell friends. “You think you’re too cool for us now that you’re a bigshot NHL goon?”
“I’ve always been too cool for you,” Kent says.
“You wish that was true,” says Holster.
“Were,” say Kent and Nursey at the same time.
Nursey raises an eyebrow at Kent. “Did you get… better at grammar after graduating? How’s that work?”
Truth is, Kent’s been helping Kuzy with his English flashcards when he’s got time to kill on cross-country flights, but that’s not going to fly. “I’ve been helping Mashkov with his English,” he says. “Ask me about the difference between a participle and a gerund.”
“What’s the difference between a participle and a gerund?” says Nursey.
“Fuck if I know,” Kent says.
Nursey laughs.
“I don’t get it,” says Dex.
“That’s what makes it funny,” Nursey says, patting his head.
“It’s good to see you, Jack,” Ransom says. “Feels like ages since we all spent any real time together.”
“Yes,” says Kent vaguely.
“We should do this more often,” Holster asks. “Other than Christmas at Mont Blanc, when’s the next time we’re gonna see you?”
“You know my schedule’s busy,” Kent says. “But Christmas, yeah.”
They all shot him identical incredulous looks.
“What?” he says, a little panicked. Where had he screwed up?
“When’d you change your mind about Christmas?” Lardo says. “What happened to all that rot about Christmas and family and stability and traditions and responsibility?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled, I just didn’t expect that to go over so well,” Holster says.
“Bitty did say he was working on him,” Ransom says to Holster.
“Yeah, but he also said it wasn’t working,” Holster says back.
“Can’t a guy change his mind?” Kent tries, weakly.
Shitty pins him with a sharp look. “What was your senior thesis on?” he says.
Kent opens his mouth and shuts it a few times.
Thirty seconds. He’s spent a whole freaking day with Bittle, and it takes these guys thirty seconds to figure out he’s off.
“Ooooooh,” Ransom says, and he and Holster swivel their heads back to Kent in eerie synchrony. “You think?”
“I think,” says Shitty.
“And it’s –”
“July 4th,” says Holster.
Kent winces.
“Kenneth V Parson,” says Ransom.
“Not my name,” Kent says.
“Kenneth Vincent Parson,” says Holster.
“One for three,” Kent says.
“Ohhh damn,” says Nursey.
“Okay, so,” Kent says, after they all take some time to wrap their minds around this new development. “There’s a chance I haven’t told Bittle yet -”
Lardo whacks the back of his head.
“So if you could let me do that instead of going rogue, that’d just be great,” Kent finishes, shooting her a sour look.
“Not cool, dude,” Shitty says. “You better promise me you’re gonna handle that.”
“I will,” Kent says. “After the party.” At Shitty’s unimpressed look, he says, “You really think it’d be better if I hashed it out with him right now? While he’s in full on Southern debutante mode?”
Ransom barks a laugh, then masters his features. “Not cool,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’ll tell him,” Kent promises. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Um, Chowder has a question,” Nursey says, looking up from his phone.
“You’re texting Chowder?” Dex says.
“Feels weird that he’s the only one left out,” Nursey says. “He says, like, what does this mean in the long-term? Not just for telling Bitty today, but…?”
They all turn to look at Kent.
“Yeah, this conversation’s going to go exactly the way you expect,” Kent says, nodding. “First I’m going to go way in-depth about my history with Jack, and then I’m going to talk about how I feel about him, and then we’re all going to sing campfire songs and have a pillow fight and do magazine quizzes together. What season are you? I don’t know about you, but I think I’m an autumn.”
“Yeah, sorry, I think we forgot for a moment who we were talking to,” Holster says.
Ransom nods. “Kenneth Circumspect Parson. Kenneth Douchebro Swag Parson. Kenneth the Chillest Guy in the Room –”
“Just to check, where did you get the idea my name is Kenneth?” Kent says. “My name is not, and has never been, Kenneth.”
“Kenneth Like We Can’t Tell When You’re Changing the Subject Parson,” says Holster.
“The only person I’m gonna talk to about this is Jack,” Kent says, a little impatiently.
“And you’re going to?” Lardo says.
“Yeah,” Kent says. “I mean, if he wants to.” He knows he loses a bit of his bravado by the end of the sentence, and he knows they can tell. Clearly, they’re way more in touch with their feelings than he or Jack has ever been able to be.
Shitty looks almost pitying when he claps Kent’s shoulder. “I guess that’s all that matters. But you gotta tell Bitty, man.”
“And I will,” Kent says. “So, Ultimate Frisbee, anyone?”
He’s miles better than any of them at frisbee, which is pretty satisfying.
They’re not wrong, of course. He’s been distracting himself with logistics and minutiae all day because he doesn’t want to think about what it means.
But really, what does it mean? None of this is news to him, and deep down he doesn’t think it will be news to Jack either. Like Bob said, no one who ever knew them, who had seen them together, could possibly be surprised. No one who had spent any time with them on the weather-worn dock of Jack’s parents’ lake house bathed in the warm June sunset…
But it’s been years since Rimouski, and Kent knows Jack’s counting on that.
Kent always knew, though. There’s a reason he’s kept coming back for so many years. Jack’s parents know it, even Jack’s friends seem to know it. They’ve always been meteors, crashing and rebounding, breaking off fragments - then falling away and orbiting at a distance, never far from the collision course.
Even on his worst days, Kent knows that Jack musters more passion for a passing argument with him than he ever has in his cookie cutter romance with little Bitty Crocker.
He wonders if Jack will be angry in the morning.
After the party cleanup, Kent idly vanity googles his name and finds a lot of heartbroken girls (and guys) on Twitter who were hoping not to wake up today. That’s a nice ego boost, he thinks. Clearly some people out there still think he’s a catch. Ha.
“Oof,” Bittle says, flopping down on the couch next to him. He snuggles up against Kent’s side. “I think that went well, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kent says, trying to think of a way to extricate himself.
“And you were the life of the party, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says, turning his smiling face up. “That was quite a stirring rendition of God Bless the USA you led.”
And he still doesn’t know, Kent marvels. “Yeah,” he says, and he’s about to say something more when Bittle moves in for a kiss.
With no conscious thought, Kent jerks back and slams his hand against Bittle’s clavicle, holding him an arm’s length away.
“My word!” Bittle says, blinking at him in open confusion.
“Uh,” Kent says into the ensuing silence. “So yeah. There’s something we should talk about.”
Bittle stomps around the kitchen for a while, clearly wishing he hadn’t already finished washing all the dishes so he could have something to do with his hands. Eventually he settles for consolidating the leftover pies into fewer dishes so he can painstakingly scrub and rinse the two pie pans.
“I mean, I’d say I’m sorry, but I dunno if you want to hear it,” Kent says.
But he feels way worse than he normally does after hurting something’s feelings, especially someone he doesn’t even like. His throat’s tight and it’s hard for him to breathe – like how he’d felt with Bad Bob before, he realizes. There’s a weight on his chest, physical pressure like a goddamn vise.
No wonder, he thinks. He’d never really understood, before, as much as he’d tried to.
“You’re sorry?” Bittle says frostily, not turning. “You let me look like a plum fool in front of all of my friends and you think you can just say sorry for it? How many of them know, Kent?”
How many of them don’t, Kent thinks.
Your friends? Kent thinks.
“I didn’t do it to be an asshole,” Kent says, which is a bit of a convenient retcon. “I was just going to let it go because we all know what Jack wants by now – I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to compete with you.”
“It’s not a competition if I’ve already won,” Bittle bites out.
Kent always liked when people were dicks back to him. It made it easier not to feel guilty about it. “Sure,” he says. “Whatever. Congrats on your victory, he’s quite a prize.”
Bittle splutters. “That’s not what I – I don’t think of him as a -”
“Whatever,” Kent says again. “Chill, man, we both know I don’t have any right to judge you for treating him like an object. I’m the one who always acts like I know better what’s good for him.” Kent consciously knows he’s in the wrong for it, but deep down… he still has to think that Jack should have chosen the Aces. A lifetime could pass and he’s never going to change his mind about that.
He’s only a bit bitter.
“Yes!” says Bittle. “You do.”
“Well, for once in my life, Bittle, I was going to let Jack decide how to respond without any sort of interference. Sorry, was that the wrong call?” Kent says. “My bad.”
“No!” says Bittle. “You’re – you’re twisting this around to make yourself look like the good guy -”
“The good guy? Bittle, we’re not 12,” Kent says.
“Stop it!” Bittle says, sounding near tears. “You know what I mean!”
Kent sighs, because he does. He gets mean when he’s cornered. “Yeah.”
Bittle viciously scrubs at a pan.
“Um, you’re probably going to scuff the bottom if you -”
“Don’t you dare tell me how to wash my own dishes,” Bittle snaps, seeming more insulted by this than anything so far.
Kent raises both his hands.
Bittle, with extreme effort, softens his touch. “I just – what does this mean now? Are you going to…?”
“This is why I didn’t say anything,” Kent sighs. “Because nothing really changed and I thought you’d be happier not knowing. Weren’t you?”
Bittle doesn’t say anything.
“So yeah, talk to Jack about this tomorrow if you want,” Kent says. “Are you really going to tell me you’ve never wondered, though?”
“He told me not to.” Bittle’s voice goes quiet. “He said it was just physical.”
Kent wishes he could be angry. “Yeah, well, I’ve got some evidence to the contrary, buddy.”
“Don’t call me that,” Bittle says, but all the ardor is gone from his voice.
Kent’s text chain with Jack from the last few years could be a how-to manual for functional divorced couples, except that they don’t even have a kid to be forcing amicability for.
They text – not often, but sometimes. Mostly plans to meet up while they’re in the same area, always leading to meals that Kent thinks are awkward mostly because Jack wants them to be. Anytime they get along too well, he does this weird fake laugh and becomes the hockey-bot everyone else sees him as.
There’s one moment that Kent screenshotted though, some months back. He was at a sports bar with some of the Aces, watching the NBA finals, and the camera panned over Seguin court-side with whatever bro-friend was his flavor of the week.
Kent took a picture of the TV screen and sent it to Jack. He was adding a caption when the three dots popped up by Jack’s name, so that they sent the messages at the same time –
Sorry for swearing Canada
Yah sorrey for swearing Canada eh?
Kent laughed to himself and followed up with, Can’t believe Seguin got famous for that when everyone knows you said it first.
You were the only one there.
So everyone important, right.
Right, Jack responded, accompanied by a smiling emoji with sunglasses.
Kent isn’t sure if it’s in spite of Jack not knowing how to appropriately use emojis or because of it, but he fuckin’ loves that screenshot.
Bittle makes up the guest bedroom for him, and Kent sits up in bed with a notepad and thinks about what to write.
What is there to say, though? How many years has it been, how many arguments, how much dysfunction? Jack already knows they have chemistry, and Jack doesn’t care. Jack wants… this. Jack wants stability.
Kent wasn’t going to say anything to Bittle, because there’s nothing left to say.
Finally he sighs and starts to write, figuring he’ll make it up as he goes along.
Joke of the universe, Zimms. I’m not that surprised, but I guess you will be. I might have fucked some shit up for you here, and believe me or don’t, but I really am sorry. I didn’t know if you would want me to tell him. I didn’t know what to tell him. After all that talk from juniors, you didn’t even –
Wait.
Hardly daring to hope, Kent scrambles out of bed and walks quickly to the kitchen pantry, heart pounding hard. There’s a five pound tub of protein powder on the floor, and he drops to his knees and twists it open.
He’d used the juicer that morning because he only drank shakes after working out. When he’d gotten back from his session with Cassie, Bittle had been using the kitchen, so he’d skipped it.
There’s a folded letter in the tub.
Jack is the only other person Kent knows who likes the banana flavored powder. Alicia used to joke about that – Bob had bought each of them a giant tub of it as a joke on Christmas, and they’d both gone through it by Valentines.
Kenny, the letter starts.
If you’re reading this, I guess deep down I always knew…
The rest of the words blur through the refraction of his tears. Kent covers his huge smile with his hand, laughing aloud to himself in the empty room.