Jack Who? Perfect Storms

by Lisa Gillis

  “Yeah.” Catching his eyes in the mirror, her reply was neutral. “I was just thinking about some stuff. We need to talk.”

  “Okay. About what?”

  “Just stuff. It can wait.”

  “Okay, if you are sure.” With a lingering sweet hug, he was gone, and a piece of her hoped he would stew on whatever was waiting. Actually, it would give her time to bring her emotions under control.

  ~♫♪♫~

  “So you really want to talk?” Jack closed the distance between them on the couch later that afternoon as soon as Tristan was napping in his room.

  “Not when you put it like that!” She curved a smile into his hair and when they adjourned to her room, happily put the talk off for a hushed half hour or so.

  “I need to talk to you too, but you go first.” His fingers gently brushed over the line of her cesarean scar as he spoke.

  Oh great. How was it he always bested her at her own games. Now she was the one waiting anxiously. Pulling away from his hand, she twisted, reaching for the glass of iced tea she had brought to the room. “I need to schedule the paternity test and I guess I just wondered how long you were staying. Because it has to be done by– ”

  “Paternity test?” Propping on an elbow, he shoved hair from his eyes.

  “I have to do it since I cashed the check, right?”

  “What?”

  Slinging out of bed, she stalked to the dresser, jerked open a drawer and pulled out the fearsome folder. Flinging the long legal sheet into his lap, she kept walking and closed herself in the bathroom.

  When she returned, dressed, he had also pulled on everything but a shirt and shoes. The paper lay abandoned on the bed beside him.

  Softly, his eyes searched hers, “You know this was before...”

  Crossing to the door, she cracked it to better hear down the hallway, then in pacing the room she came too close to him and he reached for her hand.

  “I remember signing this letter. But after that I tried to call you to find out when the surgery was. If Tristan was mine,” here he slowed at whatever he saw in her eyes and proceeded carefully, “and I was beginning to have a feeling he was, else you wouldn’t have called, right? I wanted to be around for this surgery, to make sure he didn’t want for anything. To just be there. Anyhow, like I told you at the hospital, I had the lawyer figure out the details of the surgery, and ever since, I’ve never thought of this,” he rattled the paper, “again.”

  “So?” With that sarcastic rejoinder, she snatched the paper that weighed so hard on her heart and head; the paper that he had ‘never thought of again.’ “That doesn’t change the fact that I have to do it right? That Tristan has to do it.”

  The last part of that sentence was added as a correction when she considered, for the hundredth time, this test that Tristan would not even know was an indignity; a test done on kids whose fathers were reluctant to claim them.

  “No, honey.” His dark eyes were as sweet as the endearment. “I will get it straightened out. I will call the first thing in the morning,” he promised of Monday.

  “So...” This time the word was hesitant, and she paused wondering if she dare speak the next thorn in her soul– her real fear within the words of that letter. “So, are you going for custody or not?”

  Standing, he moved to the chair where his shirt had been flung, and she tried not to hunger over the decorated arms and sinewy shoulders that shrugged into stretchy cotton. Not able to sit through this deliberate hesitation, she surged to her feet and with a tip of her chin glared into his eyes.

  This man had loved her all over. Was he now going to commit the ultimate hate and fight her for the only thing besides him that meant the world to her?

  “Jack?”

  “I’ve missed five years of his life. And they were hard years for him...”

  His words may as well have been chipped in bricks, because as each one hit, she flinched with pain and sank back to the bed crushed by the weight.

  “You are a great mother.” His words were soft. “And I know my life is probably not the life for him.” Before she could breathe easier, he continued, “I would, of course, change what I’m doing. Stop touring. I was already in the process anyway of some huge changes in the music. That’s what these meetings have been about.”

  Her cell came to life with the ring tone Clayton had set up at lunch one day, a recording of himself in a crazy voice saying, ‘Missy pick me up.’ Jack glared at the device. She ignored the ring tone as if it hadn’t happened and demanded, “What are you saying?”

  Tearing his eyes from her phone, he met her gaze, and she saw sympathy, as well as some type of determination, in their dark depths. “I’m saying I don’t know yet. I guess I’m saying that I do not want six states between me and my son. And I’m still trying to figure out what to do about that.”

  Her breath felt sucked out in a suffocating second, and she sought sanity. Maybe this wasn’t as sinister as it sounded. It was expected that he would want some time– perhaps weekends and holidays. She recalled her own childhood.

  The next level, joint custody, would rip her in two, but if it happened, she was beginning to see how great of a father he would be. As for full custody, she couldn’t even think it without tearing.

  “What then? Holidays?” Studying his stoic face, she pushed out the words seeking clarification. “Joint?”

  Finally, he spoke, but it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I want more than that. So much time has been wasted. I want it all–”

  “Noo!” The word growled out of her mouth as more than one syllable, and she felt like she was going to puke. “No.”

  She wanted to scream every curse she knew and call him every ugly name. She wanted to cry. She wanted to take Tristan and run. Instead, a plea squeaked from kiss swollen lips. “Don’t do this...”

  “Listen,” Before she could blink, he was across the room kneeling beside her, but the harder she hurt, the harder her heart became.

  How could he have shared a passion so hot and all along had this agenda simmering on the back burner. There is no way he gave a damn about her, and if he was this cold, there was no way he ever would.

  ‘Did you tell her? I can’t wait to meet him.’ The text flashed into her mind. She supposed he had just been told. And the next text, the beautiful Leanna Miranda Gavin, ‘Sugar, sugar, sugar...’

  Are WE banging as friends? Her thoughts took that ugly turn. Is that all Jack was capable of? What if Leanna Miranda silently loved him too?

  Phase three: ‘Make Jack love me as much as I love him’. Epic fail.

  Putting as much distance as possible between them, she swore, “I will fight you on this. And I may not have money. But don’t forget, I know things.”

  “What do you know?” Getting back to his feet, he seemed slightly crestfallen but also amused as if it were one of their word games. Defiant dark brows arched. “That I sit at home with my dog most nights? That every chance I get I spend it with my family? A stable family I might add. Parents who are loved by the public and who have been married for more than half their lifetime. A grandmother who hasn’t missed a church service in twenty years. A sister who is the newest sensation of the surfing culture, and an uncle and grandfather that–”

  “You have a rape charge that was never resolved!” Interrupting his accolades, she spat the threat.

  CHAPTER 22

  ASTONISHMENT CROSSED HIS face, maybe that 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 that this thing was a part of his past. “I
t’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 are 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 know.” His voice was low with an underlying something that she could not identify. “I 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 could not.

  “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 the soft tee shirt 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 that 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, and she fell 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, and she grudgingly watched that departure, the way his jeans molded to his backside, and the stretch of his tee shirt on his shoulders, with as much interest as she ever had.

  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, and 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 peeled 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 fresh. 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 t.v. 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, and 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 Jac
k,” 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, 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 Marissa took a picture of Jack standing 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?”

  CHAPTER 23

  NOT KNOWING HOW to field that one, Jack looked to Marissa. Tristan’s rapt gaze did not waver, so Marissa gave it a go. “Well, she knows your–” Quickly, she clamped her mouth closed before resuming, “Jack. She knows Jack. I guess she thought it would be funny. But don’t you write on anybody’s shirt!” With a wink and a warning, she looked to Jack to see if he noticed the slip she had almost made. ‘...she knows your father…’