Page 71 of The Night We Lost Him

A Hundred Roads Lead to Goodbye

In the morning, I find Jack in the kitchen.

He’s waiting for me in jeans, no shirt on, his hair still wet from the shower. I feel a surge of love, just looking at him, and the desire to move toward him, run my fingers through his hair, hold close to his skin. But I also feel the weight of last night’s quiet, of his unanswered request that we talk, of the fact that, at this moment, he isn’t moving toward me, either.

I take a seat at the counter and he puts a hot mug of coffee in front of me, a plate of cinnamon toast for us to share.

“I’m glad you slept in,” he says. “You needed it.”

He stays on the other side of the island. But he leans forward as I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, take a sip. He leans toward me.

“Are you still heading into the city today?” he asks.

“The city?”

“Don’t you have Austin’s recital this morning?”

“How do you know that?”

It’s coming out more defensive than it should, probably because I’m feeling defensive.

“Our calendar.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Yeah, I promised him so—”

“You promised Austin?”

It’s a question and it’s not. “Yes, Jack. I promised Austin.”

He nods and starts to say something, but he stops himself. Which is when I feel like I should do it for him.

“The recital’s about supporting Austin,” I say. “Not about Elliot.”

“Is it?”

He says it less with judgment or antagonism and more with curiosity.

“Yes.”

“So what’s the part about Elliot?”

He is waiting for me to answer. An actual answer. But I’m guessing he also knows the answer isn’t going to get us anywhere better. Not now. Which may be why he clears his throat, keeps talking.

“Look, I just needed you to know that I made a decision,” he says. “I’m going to help Becker out.”

It takes me a second to process what he’s saying. Becker is his friend from culinary school, the owner of the two-star Michelin restaurant in northern California, the friend who asked Jack to take over her restaurant while she’s on maternity leave.

Jack has decided to take this on. Three thousand miles away.

“I’ve been trying to find a good time to tell you this, but maybe there isn’t one,” he says.

“How long are you going for?” I ask.

“I don’t know. A while.”

“What’s a while?”

He shakes his head. “She needs to walk me through and properly transition the team, and she’s at thirty-three weeks, so this all needs to happen pretty quickly…”