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There wasn’t much to this. Dave had moved out at 17 after a strife turned bad, after he scarred you up pretty damn good. While you were getting stitches, he was shoving everything he could into a school backpack and two suitcases. He was gone when you got home.
Like you said. There wasn’t much to this. You’d been out of Texas for about three months. It didn’t take long for you to realize he wasn’t coming back, but you’d stuck around for about six months until he turned 18 anyways. You needed to be there, just in case. You needed to be there because you hadn’t been in the way he needed you, and now you could irreparably not take it back. Nine months, it had been, since you saw him. Nine.
Jack tried, God knows he tried to tell you that you did the best you could. You were still grieving.
The coffee was more like water than anything; you downed it just the same, leaning against the kitchen counter with a bathrobe hanging off your hip.
“Good morning sweetheart.” Your counterpart was so warm to you, even after these months moving in, while you still hadn’t unpacked the last box, still wouldn’t talk about your younger brother. Didn’t even say his name, and snapped hard once when he’d tried to push you to open up.
“G’mornin’, love.” You tried. Shit, did you try. That’s all you ever did. He wrapped his arms around you, slid them under yours and held you close and all you could think was I don’t deserve you. That thought was waved away as he pulled back, looked at you seriously. Jack was worried. He always was- one thing John had never seen before moving out was how much his father worried. Over money, over him, and now you.
“I’m bringing home takeout tonight. I was thinking about stopping by Coldstone. What do you think?” You softened enough to kiss his forehead, mutter something nice.
“Yeah, Jackie. Sounds good.”
You had today off, luckily. You’d woken up badly. Something you hadn’t told Egbert about yet- the text. Fuck, that text from a number you didn’t recognize but instantly knew; Dave had changed his number soon after moving out.
happy birthday
You hadn’t replied and you wouldn’t. Not today. Dave was a day late and you would be, too.
~~~
“Hey darling!” Jack was so damned proud of himself, coming home today. He’d brought you a pretty thing, another few birthday cards from some of his co-workers and a minicake he’d picked up on the way home. He’d already baked you enough to fill a pastry shop, and you were convinced you put on a good six pounds from all the sweets. He relieved his armload on the coffee table, before settling in next to you on the sofa. You had your feet crossed on the cushion, but put them down as he neared. He was about to ask you what was wrong, and you braced yourself to tell him. Instead, though, the man just scooted near you and grabbed you up, pulled you in. Your head was resting on the crisp fabric of his button-up chest very suddenly, and just as quickly you were overwhelmed by the situation. You melted into his arms. Your fingers found their way to his hands, laced together, one brought up to your mouth so you could kiss his knuckles, a silent I love you.
Jack would let you talk when you were ready.
“Y’know how you called me all in tears n’ shit when John moved out? While I was still living in Texas?” You asked it like he might’ve forgotten, as if. The corner of your lips grazed over the cotton of his shirt, but you didn’t mind being held like this right now.
“How could I forget?”
“This feels kinda like that, I think. Only, a mix between that, and the way a parent feels when their kid goes missin’. That’s what this is like.” Rose had run away a couple times, and you could empathize with Roxy in how it felt. Dave and Rose were probably moved in together somewhere in California for all you knew.
“You were okay yesterday, love. What happened?” Jack cut straight to the point, didn’t he. He did tend to push when he knew something was wrong on the surface; years ago he’d take a much more passive way about things, but John had eventually needed some questioning to open up properly and now you were victim to that. That was okay. You still loved the shit out of this man, thinking there was no one else on the face of the planet you’d rather have making you feel guilty right then.
“I got a text. Dave wished me a happy birthday this mornin’. I guess he didn’t want to ruin yesterday, so he sent it late.” It comes out flatly, anticlimactic, realistic and bare. For a minute, you don’t feel anything, just deliver the words bluntly and dryly. Then it hurts. Kinda like the shock of the sword through your shoulder in that last strife; took a few seconds to feel it.
“Oh.” He sounds sad for you. “Damn.” Jack’s looking for words, and you close your eyes instead of staring at the coffee table.
“Yeah.” Before you felt it, a tear found its way into the seam of your lips. Apparently it was bringing a party, because once you realized it was there, there were more- until you were sobbing, burying those pathetic sounds into Jackie’s shoulder. You’d only cried once since Dave left, and that was on the night. Now, you were broken. It was a flood; like you were going through a damn breakup, reliving every argument and bump before he’d left and trying to think of a way you could have done better; sloppily and haphazardly telling all of this to poor Jack who tried his best to be there, petting your hair, hushing you, telling you it was okay. You couldn’t live with yourself, you’d said, you hated what you’d done to him, he used to look up to you but what you’d done to him was fucking abuse and you didn’t understand why you let it go on. You kept asking what was wrong with you, and kept hearing that you had done your best-- ”My best wasn’t good enough!” You sobbed it, as if you were pleading, and you’d never quite cried so hard. Maybe when your parents died. Maybe when that boy Jake left you after the engagement, maybe when you realized that you didn’t know how to take care of a baby at seventeen. And now.
“Sometimes, that’s the way it is. We try our hardest, and it’s not enough. And we have to live with it, Dirk. God knows I tried my best with John, and he still needed therapy for three years. You did your best, my darling, and you still are. Nothing makes you qualified for adulthood, or children, or heartbreak. We just get older, and we’re expected to know what to do. Sometimes we don’t. That’s not our fault.” Somehow, that helps.
Not very much, but enough for your breathing to slow, enough for you to loosen your grip on his knuckles and try to laugh it off; awkward, deflective. Jack kissed your hair. You sobbed again, choked, and you loved him more than the world itself right then. He was older than you, gentler, more affectionate. It was in the way he murmured a few pet names against your scalp that it showed; how he cared so softly for you. Instead of telling yourself how horrible you were, how you didn’t deserve him, you’d try to just shut your head up and be thankful. Appreciate that you had him. Your breathing slowed until you were tired, sleepy against him and cried-out like a child.
It was a week before you texted back.
Thank you. Miss you, li’l man.
You did it without crying.