Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 46
STRESS-STRAIN CURVE

March 16, 1995

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
…

Jackie woke to the ring of her telephone. She groped for the receiver and said a groggy, "Hello?" into the mouthpiece, but her eyes popped open before anyone responded. She should have let the answering machine pick up or her housekeeper. No one good could be calling at seven on a Thursday morning.

"Jackie, it's Hyde."

"Steven?" She sat up fully awake, heart beating wildly. This was his first call to her from Australia. "What time is it where you are?"

"Two a.m., Friday—where I should be." He sounded tired, but static obscured his voice a little. "Where I actually am? It's Thursday, seven a.m."

"Where you actually are...?" She glanced at her bedroom window. The sun hadn't yet risen. "Where are you, actually?"

"Hillsdale Boulevard. Callin' from a payphone."

"Hillsdale Boulevard!" That was in Foster City, a few minutes' drive from where she lived. "You're you're back in the U.S. You're here?"

"Yeah. Thought we could hang out..." He paused, as if considering his own words. "But if this is too creepy, I'll drive back to the airport and catch a flight to Milwaukee."

Her heart seemed to stop, but it was pumping even faster. "No. No, you can come over—and take a nap. You sound like you need one."

He laughed, and her chest fluttered. "Cool. Be there in a few."

Jackie dressed in record time, threw on a blouse and pair of jeans. Applied mascara and some lip gloss, but no other makeup. The doorbell rang, and she rushed downstairs. Patricia, her housekeeper, was purposely out of sight, and Jackie opened the front door herself.

Steven stood before her, appearing dead tired. "Hey," he said. His denim jacket was rumpled, and his hair was stuffed into his Brewers cap. "Hope it's okay if I parked in your driveway."

"It's fine," she said, grinning. Her whole body was grinning. "Come in."

He entered the living room and sat on the closest of her two sofas. They formed an L around the coffee table, where Patricia had laid out Jackie's silver-plated coffee set. He poured himself a cup, and life sparked in his eyes. "Goin' all out for me?"

"You do for me." She poured herself a coffee and sat on the other sofa. She didn't want to crowd him. "What happened? Why did you leave the tour?"

He pulled off his Brewers cap. His hair was a mess of thick, frizzy waves, and he made a half-hearted attempt to comb it with his fingers. "Scotty," he said. "Took me too long to figure it out."

"F-figure what out?" She put her cup down on the coffee tray, not trusting herself to hold onto it.

He ran his finger down the bridge of his nose. "He's the one who hurt you."

She glanced away from him, toward her television set, and pushed her toes into the floor. The latter was a grounding technique. She was wearing socks, no shoes, and she prayed Steven didn't notice her effort. "What about Ro? Donna? How are they taking your absence?"

"Ro's pissed. Donna's fine, deep into writing articles for Bad Radio Magazine. First one should come out on Tuesday. Magazine's putting that together real quick."

"You and Ro..." She looked at him again but focused on his stubbly chin. "You're not in trouble are you? Because of me?"

"Nah. Me and her have ups and downs like this all the time. It's what we do. She'll miss me, and she'll get over it."

He fell silent and drank his coffee, and Jackie did the same. The significance of what had brought him here whirled in her mind, but he said, "I couldn't keep breathin' the same air as him, man. The guy who did that to you, made you scared of bein' touched. Made you forget who you are."

"It wasn't him." She clutched her cup with laced fingers. "He didn't help, but it wasn't him."

"He didn't break your nose?"

"That he did do, but I was already touch-averse by then." She inhaled deeply and pushed her toes harder into the floor. "I don't know how I survived that marriage, having sex with him—" She stopped, expecting the usual fear at revealing too much, but it didn't come. "He's not the reason I'm like this. Why I have panic attacks, why I'm anxious most of the time."

Steven said nothing, and she risked gazing at his eyes. They were devoid of judgment and full of empathy, compelling her to reach for him. He grasped her hand, transferring his compassion into her skin … but it felt like more than compassion. It was love.

Blood heated her cheeks, and her voice trembled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." He scooted toward her until he was flush against the sofa's armrest. Their hands, still clasped together, occupied the air between them; and the intimacy of it, their connection, sent hot chills into her stomach. "Scotty and me," he said, "our friendship was condemned from the start. I just didn't know it."

She nodded, attempting to absorb his view of the situation. But Patricia walked in, informing her breakfast was ready, and Jackie released Steven's hand. "Thank you, Patricia."

Patricia left for the kitchen, and Jackie said to Steven, "She made us cheese omelets."

"Us?" He scratched his cheek. "You really did go all out."

"Patricia deserves the credit."

She led the way from the living room. They had to go down a narrow hallway and through a door. Beyond it, her too-large dining room opened out before them. A glass table stretched from one end of the room to the opposite. It could seat fourteen comfortably, and Patricia had set Jackie and Steven's places across from each other.

"How're things goin' with your ma and your 'friends'?" he said once they sat down.

She took a moment to answer. Patricia's omelets were some of the best she'd ever eaten, creamy and seasoned perfectly. "I've been wearing your sunglasses a lot," Jackie said, "but I've enjoyed watching everyone squabble. It's nice not being the scapegoat for once."

She tapped her fork on her plate, unsure if she should speak her next thought. "Paparazzi have been stalking my house."

"Shit."

"The good news is, they might be getting bored. I didn't see one yesterday. Then again, maybe they're getting better at hiding."

"Jackie ... man, I didn't mean to mix you up in this."

"You didn't. It wasn't my birthday party." She savored her next bite of omelet and followed it with a sip of orange juice. Despite the unpleasant conversation topic, breakfast was enjoyable. "You have a leak, Steven. It has to be someone who knows you. I've been keeping track of the tabloid stories. Some of them have facts they shouldn't have. Maybe an old high school classmate's making his fortune off you."

"Couldn't guess who."

"At least no one expects you to be back in the U.S. Otherwise, tomorrow we'd see the headline, 'Steven Hyde Is a Cheater!' with a picture of you at my door."

"We'll probably see that one eventually anyway," he said, "unless we quit spending time together. Which we can do if you're sick of bein' part of this crap."

"I've been through tabloid hell before, with Ralph. But I have nothing to lose here. It's not about me. It's about you."

He tore his knife through his omelet at her statement, and his face showed annoyance as he chewed. "Tabloids can say what they want. If the people around me take their word instead of mine, they're not worth keepin'."

He sighed after his next swallow and slumped back in his chair. "I've got pretty much everything to lose," he said, "but it's my own fault. You make choices, and it doesn't matter how deep they're buried. They'll rise up, rip you apart, and shove you into the grave you dug for 'em."

"I know," she said as fear shone his eyes. She ached to comfort him, but they both had secrets they weren't sharing. Not that she was equipped to explain hers or offer a tour of her inner cemetery.

But he sat up straight, as if physically letting the subject drop, and said, "How's about going on a little vacation? Get away from your ma's drama?"

"Are you offering to take me somewhere?"

"My home turf. Minnesota."

She shivered, imagining the cold. "I'd have to pack a winter jacket."

"And a couple of sweaters. Maybe some thermal underwear." He picked up the pitcher Patrica had left and poured himself more orange juice. "My place isn't as fancy as this and stinks like thousands of cigarettes. But it's got a few guest rooms—" He laughed sheepishly, and the sound vibrated in Jackie's chest. "Maybe a hotel would be a better idea."

"Let's see how bad the smoke stink is. Then we can go from there."

"So you're up for this?"

She shrugged, but it was a teasing gesture. "I've got nothing better to do."

Hyde and Jackie would arrive in Minnesota in time for dinner. They'd caught an afternoon flight, traveling first class. She'd offered to cover the whole price, and so did he, and they agreed to pay for their own seats.

On the plane, she asked him about the Australian tour. He obliged, telling her about singing in front of twenty-thousand people. "Never thought I'd do somethin' like that."

"I wish I could've seen it," she said.

"You will. It'll be a while, but I'll sing a song for you next tour. Your choice."

She shook her head no, and he didn't get why. She stared out the airplane window. Nevada was below them according to the pilot, but it was unseeable from their height.

"Scotty," he said, realizing what he should have immediately. "He won't work the show that night. I'll make that happen, man. Make it safe for you."

"Steven—" she turned back toward him—"thank you."

She rubbed his upper arm, the way she used to when they were dating. His gaze must have lingered too long on her hand because she withdrew her touch, crossed her arms over her chest, and hid her hands in her armpits.

"I haven't forgiven him," she said, "but I understand his anger. Ever since I told you what happened between him and me, and after what you shared about you and—Cheryl?" He indicated yes, and she continued. "I've started looking at my relationship with Ralph differently. I didn't think it was possible, but I feel lighter, more able to breathe."

"Same here, about what went down with Cheryl. Don't really discuss that stuff with anyone."

"What about Ro?"

Hyde used the closure of his Brewers cap to scratch his forehead. Jackie probably spotted the tell, that he was physicalizing his emotional discomfort. "We don't talk much about our pasts," he said, "which has its benefits. Me and her share it a different way." By share, he meant they fucked their pasts out of each other, but that was a detail he'd keep to himself. "Our relationship's more action-based."

"So you found your perfect match."

Their conversation ebbed and flowed from there. He managed to take a short nap from Wyoming to South Dakota. Then he told Jackie about Minneapolis, answered what questions he could, and her interest didn't wane once they were on the ground and in a taxi.

They reached his neighborhood of Seward, passing by both modern skyscrapers and houses built in the nineteenth century. The area had enough restaurants, stores, and art galleries that Jackie said, "Glad to see you didn't move back to a colder version of Point Place."

The taxi dropped them off a few blocks from where Hyde lived. It was a safety precaution, but for once, paparazzi weren't staked out on his property. His departure from the tour wasn't public knowledge, and Ro wouldn't sell him out—no matter how pissed she was.

He led Jackie to his house, up the paved path to his front door, and the security guard posted there did a double-take. "Mr. Hyde? Welcome home, sir?"

"Thanks." Hyde didn't explain his return or Jackie's presence. Whatever he said could easily be misinterpreted. Instead, he unlocked the many locks of the door, dropped off his duffel bag and guitar case inside, and hurried to the alarm system keypad. It was on the wall near the door, and he input the shut-off code.

Jackie followed him inside, rolling her carry-on suitcase behind her, and her nose wrinkled. "Oh, wow. Are you growing a tobacco farm?"

"Warned ya." He shouldered his duffel bag again and picked up his guitar case. "Before we get too comfortable, let me show you where you'd be sleeping."

She went upstairs with him, and he brought her to the guest room farthest from his bedroom. He and Ro kept the guest room doors closed most of the time and the windows slightly open. His own nose smelled nothing but fresh air, but it was desensitized from his smoking.

"This isn't too bad," she said. "I can stay here."

"You sure? I can change the sheets and pillow cases. Should help."

"I'm sure." She rolled her suitcase to a corner of the room. "I like how you've decorated. Reminds me of your dad."

"Most of the stuff in here is from him." Photographic prints depicted famous golf courses on the wall, and African art was displayed on the shelves, alongside books by—among others—James Baldwin, Frederick Douglass, Shakespeare, and a copy of the Bible. "This is where he sleeps when he stays with us."

He offered to give her a tour then, and she agreed. But as he took her from room to room, down the stairs and back up, the world around him brightened. His connection to Jackie no longer had a frayed, sparking end. It was spliced to the love she felt toward him, and the current between them was alive, evolving.

Even so, tension was a clear constant inside of her. She'd kept some distance from him during the house tour. Her fingers tugged on the fabric of her pants, and her comments were short.

"You okay?" he said when he brought her in front of the jam room. He'd saved the best place for last.

"I was just wondering if there's any food in the kitchen. I'd rather have dinner here, if that's okay. I'm not really in the mood to go out tonight."

"No problem." He reached for the jam room door but stopped short of grasping the knob. "Is that all that's goin' on? 'Cause your mood kind of went from here—" he held his hand at his neck then lowered it to his stomach—"to here."

"I'm just overwhelmed." She gestured toward his bedroom. "Your house is full of things I have no idea about. This is your life, Steven, and..." Her gaze rose to the ceiling, and she shook her head, as if staving off tears. "It's stupid."

"Nothin' you have to say is stupid. If something's bothering you, I want to hear it." His arm twitched with the impulse to touch her, but he stuck a piece of gum in his mouth instead. His jaw ached with the amount he'd been chewing since boarding the plane in Australia, but better a sore jaw than a lung transplant.

"She's known you longer than I have," she said. "Knows you better than I do."

"Ro?"

"Yes." She smiled, but it was full of pain. "See? I told you it was stupid." She dabbed the wet corners of her eyes with her long sleeves. "I was right, what I said when we first met at Kim's funeral. We didn't know each other, not then. You're so completely different, but you're still … you have the same soul."

She glanced away and pressed her hands the sides of her head. "Oh, God, am I making any sense? Because I don't even understand myself."

"Loads of sense, man. It's like we're each occupyin' different ends of a rubber band. The farther we get from each other, the more the rubber band tries to snap us back together." He demonstrated what he was saying, using his index fingers to represent her and himself. "Doesn't matter what we've become. Or maybe it's because of what we've become that we're bein' pulled toward each other now."

"Rubber bands break if you stretch them far enough."

Theirs wouldn't. He needed to believe that and opened the jam room.

Jackie made a beeline for the picture window inside. "The Mississippi River," she said. "You can really see it from here."

"The view makes for good inspiration." He pulled Ro's '85 Gibson Flying V off the wall and plugged it into an amp. He sat on the faux-leather sofa while Jackie admired the river, and he attempted the riff for "Against".

She turned toward him. "What's that supposed to be?"

"A song I have no clue how to play." He got off the sofa and and put the guitar back on the wall. "Wait here a sec." He darted into his bedroom and returned with a cassette tape. He put it into the sound system, and Degenerate Matter's demo of "Against" played from the speakers. "New song we recorded in Sydney," he said.

"The music, it's so dirty—not in a bad way."

"It's got a dirty groove to it, yeah."

He and Jackie sat on the sofa together, and they listened as Ro sang the lyrics he'd written. Jackie's eyes closed. Her fist pressed against her chest, and her head bobbed with the music. The song must have corkscrewed its way inside her, and after it ended she said, slightly breathless, "Who wrote it? The words."

"Me. That's the one I sang in Canberra."

"You sang that? How? It's so … it's angry."

"So am I." His hair had fallen into his face, and he pushed it behind his shoulders. "Wrote it after I figured out your ex-husband, Ralph, and my ex-bud Scotty are one and the same."

"It's about me?" She pointed to the tape deck behind him. "You wrote that for me?"

"Wrote it for myself. To myself. About myself … and you." Then, because elaborating on the subject seemed a bad idea, he said, "You write anything for the song I gave you?"

"Not yet."

"Let me know if you do."

Her posture slumped. "What are the benefits?"

"Of what?"

"Of not talking about your past?"

"More like not dwelling on it." He debated saying more. His thoughts on the matter could send her fleeing for California, but he had to risk it. "You've been so focused on your past, on your mistakes—on what didn't go well—that you're depriving yourself of the present. Of building a future."

She didn't bolt, but she looked down at her hands, and her voice became hard to hear. "My future's running out."

He stiffened. In all their time together, he hadn't asked about her health. "Are you sick?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Then who says your future's running out?"

She continued looking down. He waited for the declaration that she had to go home, that spending this much time with him wouldn't work. But her hand moved from her lap, and her fingers slid into the spaces between his. "The only person who's opinion counts," she said with some amusement. "Just me."