22. A Hundred Roads Lead to Goodbye

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…"

My heart is racing so fast that I'm having trouble taking in what he is saying. I'm finding it hard to even believe that we are here. But of course we are here. I've driven us here, haven't I? Into a corner we both want to get out of.

"Jack, come on," I say. "Nothing has happened with Elliot. I'd never do that to you. To us."

"This isn't about Elliot. I mean, it's certainly not helping anything, but I'm not threatened by him," he says. "And I get it. All the loss. Your mom blew a hole through you. Fuck, it blew a hole through me. And now your father too. It's too close together. It's all too close together for anyone to know how to process it."

"So your answer is to leave?"

"My answer is to give you some space," he says. "Because it's not working for you with me here."

"That's not true."

"Maybe it will make it easier for you to be on your own… or pivot. Or to start fresh."

"So this is about Elliot?"

He doesn't answer. But I feel him pushing up against it—what he won't allow me to deny that I'm doing, what he won't watch me give away.

I fight the tears that are filling my eyes. He walks around the counter, sits down beside me. And when he starts talking again, his voice is low, even lower and gentler than usual, as if it's taking all his energy to say it. For both of us.

"What do you want, Nora?" he says. "Because I want you to have it. Honestly. Whatever it is."

Time. That's my honest answer. I want time. Except I don't just mean I want time to feel better, to feel like the world isn't slippery and lonely. I also want the time he can't give me, that no one can give me, the time I'll never have again. With my parents, here again. With Jack, when loving him, when loving anyone, felt lighter. When I didn't simultaneously feel it in my bones, the fear of it primal and real now. The moment I'll lose him too.

"I want to believe that we're just stuck," Jack says. "At least that's what I've been telling myself. But I've been telling myself the wrong thing. Because it doesn't matter, either way, if I can't get to you anymore."

"Jack, I'll work on it," I say.

"I don't want you to have to work on it. I want you to want it. I can't do it another way."

It isn't a threat. It's the opposite of a threat. There's no guilt, no shame. It's just a promise.

He reaches out and takes my hand, his fingers crawling their way through mine.

I look down, my eyes too fogged with tears to know which fingers are his and which are mine.

"I really don't want you to go," I say.

"That's not the same thing as wanting me to stay."