It was three hours until midnight. Jack hated that heâd been watching the clock, waiting for Gwenâs answer. Heâd even restarted his stupid flip phone to make sure it was really working.
He scoffed at himself as he made himself a late dinner: frozen lasagna with a beer. Jackâs house was barely a house: it was one room, with a little kitchen nook, a rickety dining table and two chairs, along with a bed in the corner. There was a small bathroom with a shower. Jack had built it himself, mostly because he hadnât been able to afford anything else at the time.
Now, apparently âtiny homesâ like his were all the rage. Heâd even had a few random tourists showing up on his doorstep for a tour in the last year, like his place was some damn museum. Heâd shot one black look at them, and theyâd scurried off to their rented Priuses.
His lasagna was cold in the middle, but he couldnât find the energy to care. ~Pathetic, Benson~, he told himself.
If Gwen didnât want him, fine. Heâd find another woman. There was plenty of fish in the sea, which as a fisherman, he could attest to personally.
~Smile, Jack. You look so scary when you make that face.~
Jack heard his momâs voice in his head. An old memory surfaced, of bringing home his school picture and his mom, Debra, hating it. How old had he been? Six? Seven? He couldnât remember.
He did remember that his mom had been high, and sheâd taken one look at Jackâs frowning, childish face in the photo and had started crying.
âWhy do you look like this? Everyone will think youâre unhappy.â His mom sobbed, tears running down her face. She never bothered to get a tissue. She just let the tears, the snot, everything drip down her face and onto her shirt.
âI am smiling,â protested Jack. And he wasâkind of. Jack had been distracted by another student. The photographer had caught Jack in that moment, which resulted in the weird, lackluster smile on his face.
âYou donât look good when you do that. It scares people. Youâre already so big for your age,â said his mom.
She went to the kitchen. The counters were covered in clutter that included wine bottles, dirty cups, old magazines, prescription bottles, and dog food for the dog that had been hit by a car six months prior. Jack had never seen any surface in their apartment clean. When heâd gone to a friendâs house and had seen the bare counters, heâd asked what had happened to all their stuff.
His mom knocked off two of the liquor bottles onto the floor. Although neither broke, she let out a wail like they had. She clutched one to her chest, the photos wrinkling in her grasp, as she cried hysterically.
Jack just stared at her. He was used to this. Sheâd get tired of crying eventually. More than likely, sheâd drink and fall asleep on the kitchen floor or get high off the pills she had stashed around the house. Jack had stashed a blanket in one of the lower cabinets to drape over her when she fell asleep on the floor.
His little brother Danny, only four years old, hated when their mom cried. He went and snuggled next to her on the floor, but she eventually pushed him away because he was too warm. âGo play in the living room,â she said tiredly.
âWhat are we having for dinner?â asked Jack.
âIâm going to bed,â was all their mom said, leaving them to find their own meals.
Jack had had to grow up quickly. Heâd been the one to watch out for Danny, to make sure he was fed, that he did his homework. Jack would forge their momâs signature on field trip forms when she was too drunk to hold a pen. Jack lent her money when sheâd needed to buy booze. It had been easier than hearing her crying from the withdrawal.
Jack forced himself to shake off the memories. But despite his best efforts, they clung to him, wanting to pull him back to the past. He hadnât spoken to his mom in ages; he only talked to Danny once or twice a year. Heâd distanced himself from his family because heâd gotten to a point where it was easier.
But the guilt still ate at him. Even now, he wondered if heâd just tried harder, he couldâve helped his mom. Heâd left her, and his brother, to rot. He was the man of the family. It had been his responsibility to take care of them.
Jack had never been bothered by being alone. Heâd had company when heâd needed it, female or otherwise. When heâd needed sex, heâd found it. Heâd lived his life how heâd wanted to live it: unencumbered by other people.
Yet as the years had passed, the loneliness had crept in on him. Would he live in this tiny house until he was old and gray? Would he die here, all by himself, no one to care about his passing?
He growled under his breath. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â he muttered to himself.
He thought of Gwen. He remembered how sheâd felt under his hands, the way sheâd felt pressing against him. Her warmth, her sweetness.
She made him long for something he hadnât known heâd wanted. And despite his best efforts, he checked his phone, hoping sheâd give him the answer he wanted more than he cared to admit.
The sun had long since set, the night settling around him. Jack was surprised that Gwen hadnât given him any answer. That wasnât like her. She wasnât flaky. Had something happened?
Before his anxiety could reach panic levels, there was a knock on his front door. Who the hell was out here at this time of night? He just hoped it wasnât a tourist whoâd gotten lost.
Opening the door, he braced himself to see a bunch of confused old ladies with maps. Instead, it was Gwen herself.
âGwen,â he said, staring at her.
She took a deep breath. âYes, Jack. My answer is yes.â