Work Text:
—🐥—
Sat, Nov 23 at 7:30am
[Dr. Abbot]
I’m so sorry for leaving
I didn’t want to leave
Samira, please let me know when you’re up. I wanted to make sure you were okay and remind you to drink lots of water.
[Samira]
Dr. Abbot, I really wanted to apologize for being so unprofessional yesterday. There’s no excuse except I didn’t know my limits. Thank you so much for making sure I got home safe.
9:17am
I drank a bunch of water 👍 sorry again
9:35am
[Dr. Abbot]
No worries, I’m just glad you’re okay.
9:36am
Could you come to your door in about 20 minutes?
9:59am
—
[Samira]
Thank you so much for the coffee and bagel!!! You really didn’t have to.
10:29am
And thank you so much for dropping off the flashcards, they’re going to be so helpful for Keystone 2
10:31am
[Dr. Abbot]
Don’t sweat it, kid. Enjoy your break!
10:32am
Samira loved “Don’t sweat it, kid. Enjoy your break!”
—🐥—
Sun, Nov 24 at 1:04pm
[Samira]
Hi, Dr. Abbot! I hope you’re doing well. I wanted to ask about one of the flashcards.
do you think that I should focus on Clinical implications and diagnosis questions? There’s a lot of anatomy and metabolism and Keystone 1 had a lot of case studies. I’m not sure what would be a better use of time.
[Dr. Abbot]
The fundamentals are the only way to build to case studies and diagnosis. I wouldn’t discount the importance of having those down. Try working in reverse and running through cases and if you’re unable to diagnose then noting down what to review.
2:30pm
[Samira]
Okay, that makes sense. Thank you!
2:31pm
—🐥—
Wed, Nov 27 at 9:00am
[Dr. Abbot]
Samira— unfortunately, I’ve been extremely busy lately and will not be able to meet as we’d planned in the coming week.
If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to email or text.
[Samira]
No worries, thank you for letting me know.
9:34am
—🐥—
Fri, Nov 29 at 10:00pm
[Samira]
Hi, Dr. Abbot. I wanted to ask you a few questions about a case study that I read regarding salicylae poisoning.
[Dr. Abbot]
I’ll have to get back to you when I get the chance to read through it.
11:01pm
[Samira]
thank you!
11:01pm
[Dr. Abbot]
I sincerely hope you’re not still studying, Samira. You need to be taking time to meaninfully rest and relax. How will you be in the proper mental space to get back to school if you’re physically exhausted?
11:02pm
[Samira]
I’m in bed. Totally resting!
11:05pm
[Dr. Abbot]
Please take care of yourself.
11:02pm
—🐥—
Sat, Nov 30 at 9:59am
[Samira]
[image]
I’m at the park, walking! Very healthy of me!
Dr. Abbot loved an image.
[Dr. Abbot]
I hope you’re wearing a jacket, it might rain.
10:01am
[Samira]
🙄
10:01am
[Samira]
[image]
Very healthy breakfast!!
11:37am
Dr. Abbot loved an image.
[Dr. Abbot]
Looks good!
6:30pm
—🐥—
Sun, Dec 1 at 10:30pm
[Samira]
I watched Spider-Man
I liked it!
[Dr. Abbot]
Knew you would.
11:03pm
—🐥—
Mon, Dec 2 at 6:30am
[Dr. Abbot]
Good luck on your exam, Samira! You’ve got this.
[Samira]
Thank you!
I hope it’ll be okay!!
8:30am
It wasn’t bad, I think.
Not sure
1:13pm
[Dr. Abbot]
I’m sure you did well.
🎉
5:30pm
—🐥—
Wed, Dec 4 at 8:57am
[Samira]
When would I be able to drop off your flashcards?
—
[Samira]
??
12:22pm
[Dr. Abbot]
Keep them, I have no use for them anymore.
3:10pm
—🐥—
A bad shift is a bad shift, he tells himself. Can’t dwell on it. On them.
S’not healthy or productive. But some were stickier. Some were familiar. And those small threads of familiarity caught on his mind, liked to stick. To linger. There was only one solution in those cases.
He was on his second beer and was just barely starting to remember why he hasn’t killed himself yet. With his mind a little numb, a little slow, he could almost pretend that the woe wasn’t so heavy on his shoulders. That it really would be all okay.
This bar stool had seen him through many nights like this; paralysed with feeling, stuck moving through air that felt like molasses. They happened more often than not these days and slowly became harder to snap out of.
What was the point of it all, really? Death came marching in a steady beat. There was no way around it, no way to postpone it. There wasn’t a single useful thing to do in that face of that inevitability. Nothing a fancy medical degree could do, really. There was no bandaid big enough. There was no balancing the scale. No scale, even. No one was taking score, there was no God. Only life and death.
Jack was tired of death. It was too much to constantly be faced with, to be asked to deal with. He goes to work: death. He comes home: an empty house, haunted by death, nightmares about bloodshed. Rinse and repeat.
He takes another sip of his beer, lets it sit in his mouth, sour and carbonated, while he ignores the thought that’s been floating on the horizon. He can’t think about her and the kind of hope she brings him because she wasn’t his to think about. And she was, all the same.
It was too mixed up, was the problem. She was too… perfect. Too good. She’d pulled him in and in and in. Effortlessly. Her smile, her mind, her questions, they were a siren call and he was a weak man. And now his desires and wants battled against reality. If his life was all death, she was a spot of life. Light.
His fingers drum against the wooden bar-top. He can still feel how small and soft her hand had felt in his, can see the shape her lips made around his name, can hear the way she’d asked him to stay.
when I wake up you’ll be gone and that’ll be for the best, I think
He’d felt indignant when he’d heard that; like he’d been challenged. He’d had the urge to stay there, on her couch, so she would see him there when she woke and knew that he was there for her. But, she was right, was the thing. It was for the best to stay away.
He’d seen her apartment, had learned more about her, and felt stuck on the idea that he really didn’t know her all that well, but still felt so incredibly… entangled. Like he’d truly fallen deep in it. And then she’d looked at him, had drank the water he handed her, had tucked herself soft and comfortable into bed; holding his hand, looking at him like he was good.
And he’s not. Good, that is. He’s not a good guy, even if he pretends to be. He’s a damaged, selfish, spiteful, grieving, open wound of a man. Annie had died and taken any modicum of goodness with her and all that was left was Jack. Shivering cold and angry. The way she looked at him felt good and terrifying in equal measure. He’s not sure if it really was truly equal, though.
Jack was a selfish man. He wanted to be illuminated by her, to feel her goodness warm him like rays of the sun. He wanted her to need him and want him, to prove that he could be of any modicum of use. It was pathetic. And even worse was his urge to flee the second she really did want his company. Or even need it. He was scared of which would win; the instinct to run or the need to sink into it.
It had just been— It was all so ridiculous, really. He knew what he should do. Doesn’t know what he will end up doing though. He was bad for her, there’s no world where he’s a good influence, but at the same time she needs him. Or maybe just anybody that could help and he’d positioned himself in that slot perfectly.
The bell chimes behind him, heralding another group entering the bar. He hardly registers it, could feel the space slowly filling out around him, but wasn’t even slightly bothered by it. There’s a sound that grabs him though, it feels like ice-water splashed on him. Samira’s laugh; the kind where she throws her head back and falls into the amusement, the eager sort-of youthful joy that he loves in her. His head whips around, finds her instantly.
Dark jeans and a tight little pink top. Laughing. With a tall, floppy looking boy beside her. Jack turns back around, finds himself curling down into the stool, regretting not choosing the booth in the back. He doesn’t want her to see him, not after he’d been ducking her for the past two weeks. He’s not ready, is the thing. Hadn’t decide what to do just yet.
Time seems to slow after that and he becomes acutely aware of every sound around him. He flinches when chairs scrape against the ground, scrunches his eyes shut when a laugh echoes through the space, ducks his head down when a body gets too close. He wants to leave, but finds himself paralysed, terrified that he would catch her eye on the way out, catch her attention in some way. It’s all very… pathetic. And futile, of course.
A hand taps his shoulder and his body practically locks up. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. Regardless, Jack turns. He turns only his head, rather than spin on his stool. He doesn’t want to keep her; she probably noticed him and thought it rude not to come say hi, the sweet, polite girl that she is.
Jack blinks at the woman in front of him, confused. She’s tall and blonde and staring back at him expectantly.
“Hi,” he offers, voice pulling up in question. She’s got a bright blue top on, tucked into jeans. She’s pretty.
“Hey, I’m Sharon,” she drawls, leaning onto the bar and popping her hip. His eyes jump, to her hip and back, without thinking. “You looked lonely over here,” she adds with a coy smile.
His heart is still racing, adrenaline spiked at the idea of Samira seeing him. He swings his head around, checking, but doesn’t catch a glimpse of that pink shirt in his periphery. Sharon’s still looking at him— checking him out, would be more accurate. He’s acutely aware of the bulk of his body, balanced on the stool when he watches her eyes trace the line of his shoulders.
He coughs, then puts on a polite smile, “yeah, well, long shift.” He’s not usually opposed to flirting, but there’s a sharp awareness of his surroundings that has him trying to cut this interaction short, to shrink back into the spot he’d been occupying silently.
Sharon tilts her head, “and what is it that you do, cowboy?” Each syllable is slowly enunciated, enough of an accent that has him curious, glancing down at her lips to watch them stretch over the letters.
“I work at PTMC,” he answers curtly, takes a sip of his beer. He wonders if the dismissal in his voice is clear, doesn’t want the hassle of making a scene. He couldn’t see Samira in his periphery, but the idea of her seeing him has his back sweating a little.
Sharon nods, leans a little closer, “a doctor, hm? That’s kind of sexy.” Her eyes roam his body again, jump to his hands and back. When her gaze returns to his face, they jump over her shoulder and she makes a face. He’s not sure how to read it, really.
“Can I help you..?” she asks, still looking past him. Jack frowns, turns around to follow her eyes.
And there Samira is, standing there, rocking on the balls of her feet. She’s got a blank look on her face, but it quickly pulls into that perfect charming smile that he has no defences against. The shirt is pinker and tighter up close. He doesn’t look. His eyes only flicker, briefly. Enough for him to wonder if she’s warm enough.
“Dr. Ab— Jack!”
His lips pull up reflexively. Jack, formed on her lips. It had sounded like a hallucination before and a gift now. He’s never liked the sound of his name more. “Samira,” he greets with a low voice. His smile warms considerably. The effect of saying her name, of watching her eyes flicker around with nerves or curiosity or both.
Her eyes flick to the stool beside him a few times, clearly waiting for an invitation. Jack knows now that he might be incapable of denying her anything. He turns a little more, his shoulders opening to her.
“I guess I’ll just go,” the woman, Sharon, mutters behind him. And he suddenly remembers the woman that he’d been talking to. He starts to turn back when:
“Where’ve you been?”
Jack blinks at Samira and forgets about the other woman entirely. He hums, taps his fingers on the bar. “Workin’,” he decides on. “It’s been busy.”
Samira nods, ever so understanding. “Of course,” she agrees, “it's just been a while, I guess,” she mumbles.
“What happened to your little friend?” His face does a thing when he says it, he can feel it, but he can’t control it.
Her head tilts in confusion, like a puppy, “Wha— oh! Austin?”
Jack shrugs. “Tall, lanky, handsome?”
Samira scoffs, face twisting up in irritation, “don’t you recognize him? He was in my tour group. He won’t leave me alone about suturing techniques.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, it makes his chest feel warm.
Jack laughs, “yeah? You guys here scrounging around for patients?” He can feel the smile on his face, unable to stop it even if he tried. He missed her and her attitude, finds himself charmed all over again and feeling light and giddy with relief. He turns a little more.
Samira blows out a long breath. Shrugs. “Figured I’d lose him at the bar,” she adds, turning to look around. She squints, “I think it worked.”
He was hoping a joke would lead her farther away, but the way she leans an elbow against the bar casually tells him that she intends to stay. To talk. Jack turns to look and finds the floppy looking kid leaning against a wall chatting up some blonde. Jack’s eyes flick back to Samira and finds her already looking at him. His eyes flick down, catching on the pink fabric, then back up, and back again.
The air is still suddenly and heavier. He pulls away, knocks his knuckles on the bar. “What’re you drinking?”
“Gin?” She says, plopping herself down onto the stool. It twirls with her force, turning her towards the bar, but she turns back to him.
Jack hums, lifting a hand to wave down the bartender. It takes a moment before the man sees him, approaching in a few wide steps. He eyes Samira before settling on Jack.
“Another?”
Jack nods, waits for Samira to order. She’s looking at the side of his head. Waiting, almost. He ignores the feeling that it brings to his chest.
The bartender starts to look impatient, tapping his fingers, “and for your girl…?”
Samira seems to jerk in place, “Oh! I’m not— We’re not— it’s. He’s married,” she explains away, voice light and breezy and completely out of place. She even laughs, a small innocent thing, like the idea is beyond absurd. He’s just her mentor, who is married and normal and well adjusted and would never memorize the shape of her barren apartment just to imagine all the ways he could fill it for her.
Jack stares at the side of her head. The bartender is staring at him, but he can’t look away for a second, stunned. He can’t stop blinking.
Samira stares back at him, tilting her head in confusion.
"A gin and tonic, please,” he says, eyes sticking on Samira before, finally, turning back to the bartender.
He rolls his eyes, muttering, “right,” before walking away without a second look. God, he can’t imagine the picture they paint. What a mess. He watches the man walk away, stop to talk to another patron, turn to wipe the bar, tries hard not to look at Samira again so he wouldn’t have to deal with the conversation to come. He can feel her eyes on the side of his head.
“What?”
Jack sighs, braces himself, and then turns to look at her. She’s got such an earnestly confused look on her face, that he feels his shoulders slump. “I’m not,” is all he manages to say.
“Not… what?”
He feels his hand clench into a fist then release. “Married.”
Her eyes drop to the ring on his fingers, squint, then jump back up. “Oh.”
Jack looks away, almost feels amused at her obviousness despite the conversation. His eyes drift to the bartender again, eyes the gin and tonic on the counter as he pours a beer. “Cancer. Stage III pancreatic,” he says and finds the words fall out of his mouth inelegantly. Clumsy and dry. When was the last time he’d talked about this? Had he ever? It feels like the first time he’s ever said it, but that can’t possibly be true.
Samira gasps when the words register, her hand jumping up and then flailing. “I’m sorry,” she says finally, voice quiet and incredibly serious. He turns back to her and finds her looking sadder than he’d ever seen. He hates the way it looks on her.
“How long?”
He clears his throat, “2 years… since— um. 2 years.” Jack finishes his beer off and pushes the glass aside.
The bartender grabs both drinks and walks back over. He drops them off and the second the gin and tonic hits the counter, Samira grabs it and throws half of it back like a shot. Her face scrunches and her whole body flinches with it, but she goes back for another gulp and finishes the glass off. Some of it spills down the side of her mouth and the glass thunks when she drops it. Jack eyes her, brow raised, not really sure what to say.
“Can I get another?” She asks the bartender and he gives her a disbelieving look and a nod before walking away again.
She makes a face and then sighs. “I get it,” is all she says, fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on her glass. “I don't think about it when someone asks about my parents — never know how to say oh, well, actually my dad’s dead. Doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to flinch. He feels his eyebrows try to jump in surprise, but schools his expression as if he were talking to a patient. Something in the back of his mind clicks into place.
Finally, she looks back at Jack. “Sorry,” she mutters, “I made it weirder, but I’m shit at death and I get how you feel because you’re clearly weird with it, too.”
Jack stares and after a second, he chuckles. She looks so put out that any of the self-pity that’d been plaguing him sort of swirls away. He ducks his head, craning his neck in a way that invites her eyes. Waits for her to make eye contact.
“I’m sorry, Samira,” he says sincerely. Losing a parent was the ugliest thing in the world; so destabilizing, especially so young.
Samira snorts. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she parrots, mocking his serious voice.
His mouth flattens in dry amusement. “Brat,” he scoffs before taking her in again. Her posture is stiffer, more rounded, like she was curled in a little. He wonders how many times she’d had to tell this story, wonders if she had at all.
Jack shrugs off his coat and wraps Samira in it. It’s huge around her, almost clouds her entirely. (Definitely covers up the slips of pink fabric that he can’t seem to stop fixating on).
“Thanks,” is all she mutters, shuffling her arms to put the coat on properly. He stalls for a second, struck by how small she looked wrapped in his coat. The same tan canvas that he wore all the time. She could keep it for all he cared, she could have everything he owned.
He clears his throat, turning away, back to the bar. He feels awkward, both by the warm affection and familiarity and by the conversation at hand. His eyes flick up to the TV in the corner, squints at it. Football. God, he hates football. He can still feel her eyes on the side of his head, feels them on him like a brand.
He turns back to her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She tucks her chin into her chest, “I was thirteen. Heart attack. Doctor called it indigestion,” she delivers in a matter-of-fact way.
Jack ducks his head, shakes it slightly, “that’s awful, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it is. So is cancer.”
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up, but he’s stopped from responding by the bartender who returns with her second drink. He watches her reach for it, bring it to her lips, and drink down half of it. He grabs his own beer, takes a long sip. So much for avoiding her. He takes another sip, feels himself gulping down more.
“That why you like emergency med so much?”
She hums, head nodding ever-so-slightly. The fondness in his chest at the sight of her awkward blush feels enormous and ill-fitting and entirely incapable of being contained.
“That’s admirable, Samira,” he murmurs, head craning to find her eyes. She doesn’t look, ducks her head away instead. Without thinking, he puts a hand on her shoulder, slips it a little higher, spanning the back of her head, then down to the back of her neck and squeezes.
“I mean that,” he confirms, “I really do.”
Samira huffs, wiggles a little. That movement is enough for Jack to realize what he’d done; how forward it was. He takes his hand back abruptly, coughing once. She doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t flinch or sigh in relief or do anything at all. She’s still looking down, at the drink or the bar or nothing at all. He can’t really tell. Her hands are tucked together on her lap, her spine still bowed.
After a moment, she lets out a breath that sounds shaky and props an elbow onto the bar to look at him. “Yeah, well,” she starts, eyes finally meeting his again, “you should tell my mother that. She thinks I’m working myself to an early grave and can’t take care of myself or whatever.”
He can feel his mouth pull to the side, less amusement and more disdain. So her mother did know about the support she needed. He wonders at their relationship, but finds himself uncaring regardless. What good did it do if Samira was still left floundering without help? He turns his body more, chest facing her squarely.
“That’s okay,” he says, fondness flooding through him. It’s okay because he would make it okay. It’s okay because he could teach her. “You’re still learning. No one has it all figured out at your age,” he adds, smiling a little.
Samira looks at him then, long and considering. Then, she cracks a coy, little smile: “Do you have it all figured out?”
Jack huffs and can see the victorious little glint in her eyes.
“You’re a brat,” is all he says in return. It sounds flat to his own ears, flat and lame. A desperate grasp for any shred of dignity. He didn't have anything figured out and that was the problem.
Samira laughs, turning in her stool, carefree and sweet. It's contagious, is the thing. Basking in her joy made his problems feel so distant. Samira’s knees thump solidly against his left thigh, now fully turned towards him, knees tucked into the v of his thighs. He doesn't think about the intimacy of it, or the fact that she pushed herself into this space.
If he thinks about it, then he'd be forced to acknowledge the same clawing panic that sent him out of her apartment in the first place. That sent him spiralling.
A laugh sounds out, booming and echoing through the small space. The both of them flinch towards it. Samira’s soft, warm hand comes down heavy on his thigh, a push for balance as she investigates.
Jack doesn't spare more than a second for the blonde cackling in the corner when he could feel the perfect outline of her palm and fingers, searing into his flesh. His eyes flick down to it, then away, back to the TV. He can’t do this, is all that repeats in his mind, followed almost immediately by, he wants her.
Samira turns back and it seems like her disposition switches to something softer and calmer. She doesn’t move away from him, allows their legs to remain slotted together, but withdraws her hand to reach for her glass again.
“So,” she says, drinking down the remnants of her drink, “What’re you doin’ here?” Her eyes are deceptively sharp when she asks, eyeing him with a critical quality. “I’ve been watching you this whole time and you’re just sitting here all lonely and brooding. Austin said you’re probably sad or something,” she drops her glass back onto the bar, drums her fingers, “… are you?”
Jack forces a smile and pretends that he can’t still feel the warmth of her hand on him. “Just got off shift and needed to unwind, hospital’s not too far,” he grabs his beer, shaking it a little punctuate his sentence. Puts it back down without sipping it. He wasn’t tipsy, could hardly feel the alcohol after having sipped it in miserable silence, but Samira’s presence had him affected in other ways.
“Yeah? You know what’s a great way to unwind?”
He raises a brow.
“Pool!” She exclaims, like it’s the most obvious conclusion, “the table just freed up.”
Jack can see the way she’s about to hop up and drag him along, can see the beginnings of excited movement. He drops a hand onto her knee heavily, “actually kid, I think we should call it, hm? It’s a Thursday and you’ve got class in morning.”
“It’s 9:30,” she whines, “you go, I’ll just play with Austin.”
Jack eyes her, hand squeezing down, “and what about class? You’ll miss that? What kinda mentor would I be if I let that happen?”
There’s an aching in his chest that thumps in time with his heart. He needs to stop, to let go of her, to run far away. He can’t be this person, this good, helpful guy, not when he looks at her and wants to wrap himself in her.
Samira pouts at him imploringly, and at his unamused frown, she huffs, standing up. “You’re lame,” is all she says as she watches him put their drinks on his tab, then lead her out with a hand on her back.
When they get outside, it’s brisk, and he’s glad that she’s already got his coat. He takes out his phone, but pauses, thinking.
“Give me your phone,” he murmurs, sticking a hand out. She watches him for a second before handing it over unlocked. “I’m calling you an Uber,” he explains as he grabs it. He opens up her Uber app and starts inputting her address. He opens up her setting, scrolls to payment options.
His eyes flick up to her furtively, checking that she was distracted, then he enters in his card details, choosing it as default. It’s fine, he assures himself, it’s for his peace of mind. If anything, it would be rude to make her pay for her own Ubers. With the car requested, he locks the phone and looks up, finds her leaning against the brick wall and smoking a skinny little cigarette.
Her back is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, and she’s looking off into the distance. The streetlight catches on the long length of her neck, on her curls, on the bright red cherry of her cig. He can’t help but watch silently, struck by the way she looks in the moment. She looks perfect, like something out of a movie.
He approaches her in two long stride and leans into her space, “it’s 5 minutes out,” he murmurs. Her eyes finally drift back to him, slow and ambling. When they reach his, he’s not sure how to define the look in them.
“Did you ever read that case-study I sent you last week?”
He nods, “I did.”
Samira frowns, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. She blows the air out quickly, undiscerning for how the smoke fans into his face. He breathes it in. Wonders about the history of her habit.
He reaches forward, plucks it out of her hand, “shouldn’t smoke these,” he mutters. He brings the cigarette to his mouth, placing his lips over the stain of her lipstick. With his eyes on her, he takes a long drag, drops it onto the ground and crushes it under his boot. He smiles at her immediate frown and blows the air out slowly, head pitched up and away from her.
“You didn’t text me,” she complains, “I still have questions.”
Jack nods, “I have answers, I hope.” He doesn’t address his absence, unsure of how exactly to explain it— or if he planned to really change it.
Her phone makes a ding, but she continues to stare at him, brow raised. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. Staying away sounds like such a good idea in his head, sounds so easy too, but looking in Samira’s face, trying to answer for his squirrelly behaviour feels impossible.
He grabs the phone out of her hand, holds it up to her face. She huffs, finally looking away to read the notification, “Mark will be here in a minute.”
Jack hums, “good, it’s bedtime for you.”
Samira laughs, grabbing the phone out of her hand and shoving his chest. He doesn’t move an inch, making her frown at him. She tucks her phone into a pocket of the jacket and crosses her arms, snugging in.
The winds starting to whistle around them, cutting through the space. He can feel himself working up to a shiver, but forces himself still. Jack moves, trying to shield her a little more.
She watches him move, eyeing his shoulders. “Not gonna tuck me in this time?”
The question lands squarely in his chest, makes him feel warm just at the image. He wants to, he so wants to.
The car pulls up to the curb behind her.
Jack puts a hand on her back and leads her towards it. “Not this time,” he murmurs as he tucks her into the car. The pout that blooms on her face makes him feel beyond wretched, but he holds strong in his conviction. He makes eye-contact with the driver and nods.
“Goodnight, Samira,” he offers with a smile and she frowns at him.
“Text me back,” is all she says before she grabs the handle and slams the door shut.
Jack watches the car drive away slowly, watches it stop at the stop-sign and then turn right, out of his line of sight. If he was a good man, this would be the last of it: he would walk away and leave her alone, leave her the space to become her own person. If he was a good person, he would’ve just ordered the damn Uber on his own phone, let it be one and done.
But Jack wasn’t a good person and maybe he never was, because he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t pull his phone out and check in.
—🐥—
Fri, Dec 6 at 9:40pm
[Dr. Abbot]
Please let me know when you get home and please make sure you drink some water.