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"Are you sure this is OK?" Annie's tugging the bottom of the pink fabric above her knees, seeing if maybe it might just go over them. Or at least touch them. Ugh, she should have gone shopping. These are super cute skirt-shorts for a walk on the beach, but meeting your boyfriend's mother for the first time? Well, it depended, Annie guesses, and she weighs her options quickly, rolling them around in her head before speaking. "You know what? I can just wear pants. Maybe I should wear pants." She's already starting toward the bedroom. "I have those nice gray ones."
"You look great, Annie," Jack's flick of the mouth is slight and subtle, just like everything about him. Annie's realizing how closely she has to focus to catch his words; Jack's restrained brevity can be difficult to interpret sometimes. Annie, on the other hand, fills most of their silences.
"Really," he reassures, as Annie stops and turns to stare at him, perplexed, waiting for him to finish his thought or at least justify it: he's so sure of himself sometimes that it scares her. Jack scans her up and down in response, a boyish smile upon his lips as he takes her in — this tiny hurricane of a human. His mother is no one for her to fret over getting along with, and he knows it. "Don't worry."
"Yeah but you're not telling me much about her!" Annie protests, breathy, almost frustrated. The only thing she knows about Jack's mother is that her name is Myra; she's a second grade teacher, living more north of Los Angeles and away from all of the beaches ("She doesn't much like them much anymore," Jack's voice replays in her mind. "Too many tourists and surfers."), and she's single. She's raised Jack as a single mother, too.
For a moment Annie's thoughts wander, and they land back to a few days ago, on the very moment that Jack's surprised her and suggested she meet his mother the next time. They had been wandering together along the oceanfront after an outside dinner at a burger place in Huntington Beach. Of course it's taken her aback. She's been seeing Jack for only a few weeks, and the way this just casually slips off of his tongue like it's nothing is . . . nothing short of extraordinary to her. Two months, she's been seeing him. Maybe.
"Already? " She'd asked, and then laughed, thinking he had been joking — he must be making some wisecrack insinuation, something related to their fast-moving meeting circumstances, because how ridiculous, she'd thought, no one would want me to meet their mother, especially not after only a few dates.
But Jack had only shrugged in response, not even a hint of humor upon his face. "Why not? " It'd been so serious and innocent that Annie had felt badly for even thinking it'd been a joke at first.
And now, here they were, and here she is — not at all sure about what she should wear or even if she should be doing this at all. It all seemed so fast — everything had with him — and, joking aside, it had truly been the quickest and most intense relationship she'd ever been in thus far. But it's intense in the way a relationship is supposed to scare you — ironically. Jack is such a comforting person; such an excellent, attentive partner; such a lover in the bedroom, and their relationship feels like home to her; a cloudless, sunny sky over her otherwise chaotic life. Despite how quickly it's progressed (and no jokes about that, please), that's what feels intense about it — it's home.
Sometimes, when she takes a breath, Annie realizes, anxiously, that she's just been waiting for the other shoe to drop and for her dream to shatter. But it hadn't, and he hadn't. There hadn't even been a hint, once, at any point, of that. Not even a fleeting moment of Jack being someone other than who he had seemed to be with her, at first and always.
Annie sighs to herself. Who, really, is ever sure? Of anything? She supposes. Besides that, she likes Jack.
Maybe even loves him.
And so, it's all she can do now but ask him, as she pulls on her shoes; clips and re-clips a few annoying bangs out of her face.
"What does she wear? What does she like?"
"It's going to be fine."
Jack places a hand gently upon Annie's arm. Maybe it's mean, but he wants to savor the moment. Her worry is endearing.
Annie's brows are tense, and pulled together. Jack can't help but smile again at her expression — she's purely frazzled, wound up, reactive. Annie's easy to read, in the way that Annie often is, and while he can't always predict her reactions, he can always see them, clear and expressive. She's as truthful as he, perhaps just louder about it.
"Trust me. You'll see."
She sighs, an audible rush of air through her cheeks. She does, she really does trust him, of course she does. But goddamn, that strong and silent personality he's got is such a wall, sometimes.
"If she doesn't like me and it's because I could've worn the gray pants, it's your head, Officer," Annie mumbles, teasing as she walks past and out the front door.
He shakes his head as he lets her past, grinning.
"I'll take that blame."
* * * * * * *
Myra Traven is immediately welcoming; a short (the height must have come from Jack's father, whoever he is), attractive, dark-haired woman with kind eyes just like Jack's, a scarf, and a way of moving about that makes her look as if she's floating. She's not married and has not been since Jack's father left them, but she's never changed her name back from Traven. She looks not a day over 45, and Annie makes a mental note to ask Jack later how old she is because she realizes she doesn't know.
"Hello, kiddos!" She and Jack are both beaming as they hug each other, and the love between them is immediate and apparent to Annie. "You must be Annie," Myra approaches her next; her voice is warm and like a croissant; a bit louder than Jack's, but it has the same comforting softness, and Annie can see where he gets his speech inflections from. "You a hugger?" Annie nods, a bit shyly, and laughs, because she always laughs when she doesn't know what else to say. "Well, good. I'm going to hug you anyway."
Everyone makes their way inside. Annie notices Myra's particular taste of interior decorating is not at all like Jack's; she's clean but not minimalist. Her style is louder and more eccentric. She's got a wooden painting of a rooster bellowing above the kitchen sink, a few interesting odd clocks with squiggly hands that look like they've melted, and paintings of people from another time, in top hats and monocles and some looking like cats. Her kitchen looks straight out of a retro beach house, and there's something so comforting and charming in its oddity. In the living room the biggest piece is a printed painting, that looks straight out of a 1950s movie poster, of a blonde pin-up woman, a laser gun in hand, gaping as she shoots at an alien, a speech bubble that reads: "Beam me up, Johnny!" right above her. Johnny Cash is sitting thumbs up atop a spaceship in the upper left side.
Annie approaches a 3D model of a bird, made out of wood, the outline of the work sketched with crosshatching shading.
"This is so cool," Annie observes, and Myra looks over from Jack, smiling.
"Oh you like it? I made that one."
"You made it?" Annie's breath almost catches — Myra's an artist.
"Oh yeah. I've got a ton more. I love birds."
And from there, it's a success.
* * * * * *
They stay all evening and into some of the night. Before they know it, it's well past ten, but Annie and Myra are still chatting, seated across from each other at her dining room table. They're bouncing ideas off of each other like old friends. Jack's been mostly quiet, adding to the conversation where appropriate and convenient, but he's mostly enjoying this seemingly long-lost fit of a pair — they share thoughts as if they've finally found their soulmate; a foil for each other's ideas — verbalized and formulated in tandem, as if they'd never not held each hemisphere of the same brain.
Of course, Jack had known, from the moment he had paid close attention to Annie that day on the bus, that she'd love his mother. But here was the proof.
"Oh I used to lecture at university," Myra's recollecting. "I was writing a book, too. But then after a year or two I found academia wasn't really my thing. Too many intellectuals trying to out intellectualize the other one. Of course the pay is shit too. And it's so political and cliquey. Don't get me wrong; my pay is still shit, but I like the kids way more," she's referencing her second grade class, now; she's revealed to Annie over the course of the night that she teaches at an elementary school in Santa Clarita. "At least they get to their point."
Jack laughs gently; he's heard this many times before, but never Annie's response.
"I would've loved you in school," Annie admits, and ugh, if only, if only. Academically, Annie had always struggled a bit; not because she wasn't sharp, but reading, listening to lectures, and test taking? None of it was her thing. She'd needed stimulation, and no teacher had ever really understood that; not unless she'd been in a class with one on the more eccentric side; art class was home to them, usually, and so Annie had become an artist. "The women professors I had in college were usually great though. The men, eh."
"Oh don't even get me started," Myra rolls her eyes, playfully. "'Men professors are always like: 'Have you ever heard of a little known artist called P. CaSo?'"
Annie laughs so hard at that that she leans forward and into it, grabbing Myra's wrist. They're both laughing, now, and Jack looks on, proudly.
* * * * * *
An hour later the night has slowed. They're all yawning after every few sentences, and Jack takes the cue; readying for their drive back to Los Angeles.
"I'm just going to use the bathroom before we go," Annie dismisses herself from the table, taking her empty glass of what had been a Prosecco she'd brought with them as a peace offering. Just in case, she'd half joked, though now Jack's humorous response to such line of thinking is clearer having met Myra. Yeah, yeah, she'd maybe concede halfway later. He'd been kinda right. A little. It had been fine.
"Of course, honey. Down the hall, take a left and to your right."
Myra turns to Jack the moment Annie is out of earshot, smiling warmly at him. It's a win.
Her son, her only son.
His mother had always hoped he'd find happiness; maybe settle down with someone sweet, regardless of gender (there had been a moment she might have suspected Harry, perhaps, were he not married . . . but she'd let Jack tell her on his own time, had that been the case). But it's been hard to imagine for him, knowing the line of work he's chosen to go into; knowing the kind of person he is. For his whole life, Jack's always been a loner. She's let him grow up and out, in his own way; never stifled him, never overprotected him; she knows he's out there, doing his own thing, using that big out-of-the-box sideways thinking brain of his to help people; to solve puzzles; to do what he does best. To do what he's always done, ever since he was a tiny, quiet, shy child, hyper-focused on his tactile puzzles and games that require hard and fast logical thinking. Jack always solved them, but unusually so.
And she's proud of him. She just hopes, always hopes, that he isn't lonely.
But Annie fits, Myra thinks, she fits so well, somehow, and it's lovely and surprising to see.
"She's great," she says, and Jack nods in response.
"Yeah. She is."
"I really like her, honey. She seems really good for you. And so cute!"
Jack's almost blushing, now; smiling into his empty glass.
"Yeah." He looks up at his mother, meets her eyes. "I think you're good for her, too."
"Oh? No mother of her own?"
"She's got one," Jack's response is automatic, and then he smiles as Myra does, because, of course. But it's his habit sometimes, to answer a sarcastic question with a truth. "But her family's not around. I mean, they're back in Arizona." He pauses to gauge his mother's reaction before continuing. "She lives alone. In LA."
Myra nods, knowingly. She's suspected, with how shy Annie's been at first — it's reminiscent of an unseen child, told often that she's too loud, too much — not interesting enough to take up so much of the space that her thoughts truly want to take up.
"She's got two brothers," Jack continues quietly, voice low so that Annie can't hear from the other room. "She's the youngest. Think they take up most of her parents' time, to tell you the truth."
"Oh, poor thing. What a dear. So, are you guys going to keep at it?" Myra suspects maybe so; she hopes so, but she'd never voice as such for fear of attempted control. Then again, she's never met any of Jack's other dates. She can't remember the last time he'd admitted to her he'd been on one. Just the way of his life, she had supposed.
"Yeah," Jack's response is genuine, neutral, and straightforward, as always. "I hope so."
"Me too."
* * * * * * *
"God, I love your mother," Annie admits, on the drive back. "Like. I'd die for her."
Jack offers a tiny, breathy chuckle, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead at the road.
"She liked you too, Annie."
"Did she? I hoped so. What a woman," Annie laughs again at her own comment, a bit nervously. "She's young, isn't she?"
"Yeah. Young mother. Had me when she was 19."
"Wow," Annie quickly does the math. Jack was 29; that'd make her 48, maybe 49, depending on when her birthday was. No wonder.
They sit in silence for a while; Jack's focused on driving but his thoughts are likely elsewhere, and Annie considers this woman she's just met — considers this tiny, beautiful family Jack has, full of brains and truth in one small unit tucked away in Santa Clarita.
"She's got your eyes," Annie says, breaking it at last. "And the way she talks, it's like: I can so see it. Where that big head of yours comes from."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Annie reaches up to touch his forehead playfully; run her hands through his bangs; they're sticking up slightly and he's due for a buzz soon, but she loves this little in-between look he has going on right now. "You must've been such a cute kid, Mr. Jack Traven." She ruffles his hair; he ducks his head into her touch, cooperatively and playfully. "Why didn't she change her name back?"
"Too much paperwork, I guess," Jack says. "Plus she couldn't locate my dad." His jaw hardens a bit, talking about this. "I think she does like the name, though. She never got along too well. With her family. Nice separation. Fresh start."
"Oh," Annie says, and then she sits back and quietly, rolling all of this around in her head. "It's a nice name," she says, after another long moment. "Myra Traven. Jack Traven. Suits you guys."
"Yeah," Jack lowers his hand; reaches for her's, as usual. She takes it, holding onto him as they drive.
"Annie Traven," she finally says, out of nowhere, trying it out loud. Jack's lip curls slightly at the corner nearer her, a tiny grin at the implication of this. Annie looks at him, smiling back. "That sounds super weird, right? It's like a private investigator in a Dick Tracy thing."
"Sounds nice," Jack says. "But you could keep your name. If we got married."
"Really? You wouldn't mind?"
"Why would I mind?" Jack can't help but chuckle at that; the way Annie reacts to him sometimes is a stark reminder of the oddities of most others; he usually forgets that, oh, yeah. People are this way.
"Well, some guys like the idea of a legacy, or whatever. You know. If we have kids."
"I like the idea of you," Jack answers after a brief pause, considering her. He takes her hand to his lips, kisses her fingers, staring ahead as he drives. "And what you're comfortable with."
He does this, often; gives her these incredibly sweet moments, offered up out of nowhere, so simple yet so deeply touching. Annie falls into silence, feeling warm and safe, and very lucky.
* * * * * *
"Annie Porter-Traven," Annie says, a few weeks later, laying on top of Jack in his bed, arms wrapped around his neck. They're settling in for sleep now, after an evening in of watching one of those dumb cop shows that they love, enjoying each other on the sofa. In the end, they'd moved to his bed; they always did. "What if I hyphenated it?"
Jack squeezes her thigh from beneath her, but his response is as even as ever. "What if I was Jack Porter?"
"Ew, no," Annie scrunches her nose in an immediate visceral disgust. "That's my uncle's name. No."
"I kinda like it," Jack's grinning, and she knows he's not serious by the look on his face, but there is a part of her that wonders. It'd be just like him, to suggest something like that, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "Kinda makes me sound like an expedition leader somewhere."
"Kinda makes you sound like the guy that always showed up to family barbecues on the 4th with 12 guns." Annie nips at his ear, and then runs her fingertips up and down his toned arms, sighing happily. "But you do you. Officer Traven. Officer Porter-Traven. You know what? I'm just gonna keep my name, I think. Annie Porter-Traven is too long. And weird."
"Whatever you say, ma'am." Jack pulls her close; she presses her cheek against his ear, humming.
"I love you," she says suddenly, and it's a surprise, but it's right. Jack tilts his head, pulls away from her for a moment, looks into her eyes. "I'm just messing with you, you know," Annie follows up with, quickly, because she feels exposed after her admission. "We don't have to get married. I never really cared about getting married that much. I mean, this is only if you wanted to marry me."
"I love you too, Annie," Jack returns, and he kisses her on the neck, pressing her body into his own, his palm against the small of her back. "Of course I'd want to marry you. If you wanted to."
"I do," Annie confesses, and laughs at the stupidity of her own joke.
"Cool," Jack says, and they kiss, long and deep and sincere, tasting like home.