Jack Who?

CHAPTER 22

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ASTONISHMENT CROSSED HIS face, maybe because she would even say such a thing to him.

     Suddenly, it felt strange to her too, that she could respond with such hate after reacting with the degree of love and passion that passed between them minutes ago. Part of her was sick at the evil words that she had just flung between them. Did this make her as cold as him? Still, she rationalized; like a mother lion, she was fiercely protecting Tristan, even if she had to take a tiger by the tail.

     “I explained that to you.” He seemed hurt by her words, disappointed in her, and ashamed this thing was a part of his past. “It’s not true, and you said you knew.”

     “You should go.” Unable to look at the mixture of emotions on his face, she turned. Unfortunately, she faced the mirror, so she didn’t miss the slow fury infusing his face.

     “That’s always your answer isn’t it?” he taunted nastily. “Distance.”

     “You don’t know anything about me.”

     “I know how to make you scream.”

     A shocked breath lodged in her throat, and she wrestled with her gaze, trapped by his dark challenge.

     The soft answer used as sarcasm instead of seduction heated up her insides and inflamed her fury. It was corroboration that he could be intimate in her bed and indifferent out of it.

     As she eyed the various things on the dresser, choosing what she wanted to throw, he went on with the argument, nailing in his point.

     “You wouldn’t tell me about Tristan because you felt safe with this secret living so far away. When you got mad at the hospital you wanted me to leave, and now you’re saying it again. You run away from problems or push them away from you.” Softly, “I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

     “You think you’ve got me figured out after knowing me for a couple of weeks?”

     “No, I do.” His voice was low with an underlying something that she could not identify. “I do have you figured out–at least, the only part I need to know–”

     “Momma?” The tiny voice whipped her around, and protectively, she advanced on her little boy, who was peering into the slit of the door. “Want to see what I can do?”

     A pull of the doorknob swung the door in, and she grinned seeing his mischievous smile wondering what it was concerning this time. Bally was on his heels minus any pranks on her fur.

     A piece of her wanted to glance at Jack, to see his proud smile, yet she was so hurt by his deceit and accusations that she couldn’t.

     “Ready?” Standing in the doorway, Tristan left them hanging in suspense as he drug out the moment.

     “I’m ready!” She accompanied the enthused exclamation with an equally excited smile.

     “I know I’m ready!” Jack’s deeper voice agreed.

     Dramatically, Tristan held his arms slightly up, and his crutches raised like wings. Watching the floor, he took one step, then another, then another! Swaying some, he caught himself on his crutches, then turned his eyes to hers, seeking her reaction.

     They reached him at the same time, their knees doing a synonymous guitar-solo-type slide the last couple of feet across the floor. Enfolding the tiny body in a bear hug, she dabbed her damp eyes on one of the soft tee shirt sleeves of his tiny shoulders. Jack’s fingers brushed hers as he participated in the hug the best he could, and realizing she was being selfish, she passed Tristan his way. Her eyes emotionally filled again while watching them wrapped together.

     Despite every fear she had about Jack entering their lives, she knew that it was best that Tristan grow up with his father in his life. But dammit, she was his mother. He needed her too, and Jack needed to understand. Full custody was not in anyone’s best interest, especially Tristan’s.

     Jack went with Tristan to the kitchen for the chocolate milk and Teddy Grahams the tot requested. She flopped face down on the bed, by sheer will power holding in her tears. Tears of happiness. Tears of fear. Tears of sadness and betrayal.

     From the den, the television noisily came to life with one of Tristan’s shows and then Jack was back with her. The mattress dipped with his weight, and she stiffened but remained with her face comfortingly in the comforter. It could be her imagination, but it smelled like Jack.

     “I don’t fly out until Friday. And since my schedule is going to be busy for a couple of weeks after that, I don’t want to change plans and miss out on time with Tristan just because we had a fight.”

     A fight? The two words were hysterical. Her whole life was culminating into one giant train wreck, and he called it a fight?

     “We didn’t have a fight.” Rolling over, she glared into his face. “A fight is something eventually over and done with after a few apologies.”

     And, makeup sex! Her mind tormented with sensations barely passed.

     Jack quietly studied her face, and she could not find even a trace of guilt in his features. Oddly, mirrored in his expression seemed to be every emotion she was feeling–the biggest of those being betrayal.

     Choosing not to respond to her words, he looked away. “All I’m saying is, I can spend my time with Tristan here, or take him to the hotel every day. So figure it out, and let me know. Also, before I fly home, we are telling him.”

     When he stood, she propped on her arms, incredulously inquiring, “You would really do that?” Deepening her voice, she ridiculed, “I’m your father, and by the way, you’re living with me from now on!”

     “You know that’s not what I meant.” Offended by her words, he exited the room, heading down the hall to the den. Grudgingly, she watched his departure with as much interest as she ever had, the way his jeans molded to his backside, and the stretch of his tee shirt on his shoulders.

     Retreating to her cry zone, a hot shower, she continually adjusted the water until the hot water tank bled empty, and only then did she step out.

     Jack was teaching Tristan a drum beat when, with pruned fingers, she twisted the door open and passed the two of them in her trek to the kitchen. Foraging the pantry to figure a meal from the ingredients on hand, she gave herself over to some sort of numbness.

     Confused and conflicted, she listened to his interactions with Tristan. A piece of her felt that she should demand that he leave, and a part of her felt that she should not deny the two of them any time together.

     Jack stayed for jambalaya, and Tristan did not seem to notice they were not speaking. After reading him a book for bed, before his bath rather than after, Jack hugged the little boy and promised to him to return the following day.

     From the kitchen, where she had been a cleaning maniac, she again indulged her favorite pastime, running her eyes down his backside. Her heart physically hurt when, without a word, he let himself out.

     The second Tristan heard her story and was in bed, she texted Olivia, asking her friend to call her, adding a code they had created between them. 9-1-1 combined with ‘call me’ was a real emergency and had been used twice, once when she was in labor and once when Tristan busted his chin open on the patio. 9-1-0 was an emotional emergency, used moments after Kel cheated on her, and now. Secure in the knowledge that her friend would call on her first work break, she curled miserably into a ball in the bed.

     The phone was still in her hand from Olivia’s late night consolation, when the doorbell pealed the next morning. In a panic, she jumped from the bed. Again, she had overslept on one of Tristan’s physical therapy days. Yanking a brush through her hair, she peered down at yesterday’s jeggings and wrinkled shirt still on her body, and hurriedly fit a fresh shirt on.

     Jack, not the young professional woman, stood just beyond the peephole. Dressed in his usual attire, his appearance, unlike her, was groomed. His hair, hanging long and loose, was still damp. The only sign of stress was slight shadows tinting the area beneath his eyes.

     “You’re early,” she mumbled, stepping back so he could come inside.

     “Didn’t know I had an appointment.”

     “Speaking of, Tristan’s PT will be here in a half hour.” From down the hall, she heard Tristan’s tv meaning that he was awake but not yet out of his room. “If I get a shower and dress, can you make sure he gets dressed? And there are some blueberry muffins on the–”

     “Sure, no problem.” His eyes ran sweetly over her, and although he moved on down the hall, for a moment, the atmosphere felt intimate.

     The shower restored her state of mind as well as energy level. Soon she was trying not to laugh when the young woman went all fan girl upon seeing Jack.

     “Oh!” With a twirl of the girl’s hair she blurted, “Did anyone ever tell you– you look like Jack Storm?”

     “His name is Jack,” Tristan helpfully imparted.

     “Wait, you ARE Jack Storm? Oh my Go–” With incredible control, she halted the curse, replacing it with a simple breathless “Oh!” The coos continued as Jack, horrified, continuously shook his head with cautionary glances at Tristan. But, his arms colorfully inked with music bars, notes, a guitar, and more, all captured in photos on the internet and in magazines, were a dead giveaway.

     Even more amusing was Tristan’s take on this. His wide eyes took in the scene, but he said nothing as his father signed the hem of the young woman’s scrub top, and his mother snapped a picture. Jack posed behind the girl, his hands resting companionably on her shoulders.

     During the therapy session, the young woman’s eyes were more on Jack than Tristan, and this was a shame, because Tristan took a half a dozen unaided steps. Marissa’s heart paced with happiness, and Jack moved against her lacing his fingers with hers. Despite the animosity and anger fogging her heart, she leaned against him, mutual with this momentous moment.

     “I did it! I’m walking like you!” Tristan happily sang to them, but he was exhausted and leaning heavily on his crutches once more.

     Jack saw the PT to the door buying her silence with the promise of an autographed print of the picture taken on Marissa’s phone. She listened as he took her name and number for passes to the next show of her choice. All in all, it was brilliant to subtly withhold the picture until he was safely out of town. He later explained that when his publicist contacted the girl, the VIP package would come with the stipulation of her silence. Marissa wondered how many ruses he had, and how many times he had to use them.

     Tristan was having his own thoughts, because he asked, “Why did you write on Miss Dana’s shirt?”

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