Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All recognizable The Bold Type characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to Freeform. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: I don't usually do prompts, but this is what was asked of me by blue4:

"Could I be cheeky and ask if you would write one that deals with Jacqueline's revelation in the episode "Carry the Weight" [season 1 finale] and how she deals with the aftermath of it being made public, the attention on it and having to relive it with Jane's support. It would be interesting to see how their relationship develops even a friendship from that point where they don't know each other as well as they do in later series. Even better if Ian doesn't know how to support Jacqueline or if he can't handle the attention."

I hope this story rises to the challenge. –dkc

The Weight We Bear

The three friends stood transfixed. I felt their eyes on me almost at the point in which I took Kat and Sutton's wrists to separate them and make a path. As I stepped onto the wooden platform and accepted the weights, scales really, Jane seemed to notice what was happening. The look I shared with Mia as the weights passed into my hands was one of sympathy, but also sisterhood. A sisterhood of shattered lives, eroded trust, battered bodies, destroyed confidence, and shared survival. The three women watching me were not a part of that. What I felt in that moment was uniquely mine. However, I was there because of Jane. We had shined a light on Mia's art because what she was doing mattered and Jane recognized that. I fought her on it, afraid she could never do it justice when she couldn't personally grasp what was at stake. I underestimated the young writer. She would never have taken it lightly, but I didn't have enough faith in her ability to tell a story that wasn't hers. Sometimes that is exactly what being a writer is—telling a story that isn't your own. And, telling it well. Good writing weaves the writer's life experiences into the narrative even if it is veiled by the magic of fiction. I wish I hadn't told her that writing about herself was one thing and writing about someone else's trauma was another. I should have trusted Jane with this story as easily as she has trusted me with her own life. She was willing to write about her inability to orgasm. She wrote that for me. She came to me when she learned she had a gene that predisposed her to breast cancer. She learned that because of a story I assigned her. It nearly broke her and when it did, she came to me. When she looks at me with those soulful, almost desperate hazel eyes, I am willing to do anything for her. Why couldn't I trust her with this story? I wasn't blindly putting my own story in her hands. But now I am. I know I can.

The live stream brought many people to the park. It wasn't long until the weights were taken from me. I stepped off the platform and toward the women who had inspired me to be here. Kat hugged me in a way only Kat would—tears in her eyes and a grin on her face. Sutton offered my forearm a squeeze. Jane and I exchanged a look. Her eyes glistened. Tears had fallen while the weights were in my hands, my own pain and trauma dawning on her alongside the recognition of why this story mattered so much, and that sheen may have previewed what was to come. I stepped beside her so that more women could join in this deeply human ritual, a testament to the sins of men. My shoulder touched Jane's. I don't think it was purposeful. It wasn't on my part, at least. As I watched woman after woman step forward and release the weight they have carried, Jane took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Glancing at the writer, I noticed how beautiful she looked under the nigh time lights. The tears she held back made her eyes sparkle with green and gold. Time stilled. It was when I looked ahead once more that I realized not only had I missed an entire woman taking her turn, Jane was still holding my hand.

When a young man stepped forward and took the weights, I noticed Kat whispering something to Sutton and knew they were ready to leave. Jane's eyes were on the young man, nodding slightly to express to him, a complete stranger, her unwavering support. He nodded his gratitude. Looking at her as this occurred, I found myself lost in her aura of empathy. I had been so hard on her about this story, fighting my own internal war that she knew nothing about, and I felt terrible for it. I tugged on her hand and used a tilt of my head to suggest we step away. She released Kat's hand and followed.

"Jane, I owe you an apology," I spoke softly to not be overheard by the now thinning crowd.

"No, you don't. I understand."

Having released her hand when we walked away, I immediately missed the comfort and warmth of it. I continued to need the strength offered by it as it had held mine tightly.

"I should have trusted you with this story."

I could feel tears in my eyes and I willed them to remain there. Whatever my pausing suggested to Jane, her response was to pull me to her, embracing me. I felt the tears reach my cheeks. She held me for a long moment until, I suspect, she lost her confidence.

"Thank you," I hummed against her cheek as we parted.

"Jacqueline, you look elegant tonight," she nodded at my black gown and touched her lips to signify my dark lipstick. "The way you looked at Mia when you arrived is something I will never forget. It was heavy but right. I hope you know that Kat, Sutton and I hold you in the highest esteem. We have nothing but gratitude and respect for you."

Holding back tears, both of us paused to breathe.

"Tonight you were fierce and brave. That is admirable."

"Thank you, Jane. Can we sit down on Monday?" I spoke with what must have sounded like reservation in my voice.

"Incite needs an answer…" she looked at her feet.

Without thinking, I put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up to look at me. She was genuinely surprised by the action. I was too exhausted to think twice about it.

"I will support your decision. You will be a star wherever you go. Will I miss you? Absolutely. But you have to fly, Jane," I smiled and released her chin. "Monday, you and me, my office. I want to tell you my story. I want you to write it."

Jane looked stunned. She was at a loss for words and she had tears welling in her eyes.

"I don't think I'm the right—"

"You are the only person I trust with my story."

Still stunned, Jane nodded her agreement.

"I need to go now. As you can imagine, it has been a taxing day, mentally and emotionally. I will talk to you on Monday," I said.

Leaning forward I pressed a gentle kiss to the young woman's cheek. If I could have held it there for longer, I would have.

"Goodnight, Jacqueline," she hummed.

"Goodnight."

The car ride home was quiet and gave me time to reflect on this unexpected occurrence in my life. For a brief moment I felt lighter than I had in twenty years. That brief moment ended when I arrived home to my husband.

###

"What were you thinking? Didn't this warrant at least a discussion?" he spoke with anger. "You decided on a whim to go where there would be cameras to step headlong into the #metoo movement? And if the boys read about it on TMZ or the New York Post's website? What will you tell them?"

"It is my story to tell, Ian. I have always controlled when and how. I haven't joined any movement or picked the timing to coincide with one; I have decided it is time to own my truth. The boys will understand. James, if not Connor. They are bright, compassionate, young men who I would like to think have been taught to respect women."

"You are going to tell them what happened to you?" he snapped.

"If they ask for details, yes. I will give them the best age-appropriate description I can."

I filled a glass of water and swallowed some with something for my headache as well as a sleeping pill. It has been years since I had experienced a nightmare, but admitting to my trauma may well have triggered something. I wasn't going to take the risk.

"Jackie, I don't understand. You told me when we met that you wanted to put it behind you—behind us."

"Honey, I listened to this young woman ask if she would ever feel normal again and I couldn't in good conscience say nothing. She needs to know that nothing will ever be normal again. That she will carry her assault with her for the rest of her life. But it is not the end of her life. Once she accepts it, there is a life out there. Once she does the work, it can be a fulfilling life. I have had that life."

"Don't you think it will affect your career?!" he snapped again at me and I was taken aback at his anger. I knew from past arguments that having this conversation now would amount to nothing but words we couldn't take back.

"Look, I didn't expect for this to happen. I didn't plan it. I took a leap. And I don't regret it, Ian. I am going to bed. We can talk about this some more tomorrow."

I left my dumbfounded husband standing in our kitchen. I didn't offer him a kiss or even a simple 'goodnight.' Not everyone deserves such treatment.

###

I hope you aren't regretting carrying the weights, the text read.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was hiding out in my home office after an awful argument with Ian. Taking off my reading glasses and pinching my nose, I recognized I had been reading too many articles noting my appearance at Mia's art performance. Too much screen time had made for a nasty headache.

Much of what I could find was extremely positive. There was always one jackass who had to leave an ugly comment, but I had been in the publishing world for far too long to let that get under my skin.

I wasn't expecting to receive a text from Jane Sloan. In fact, I couldn't recall ever receiving a text from Jane. Calls and emails, yes. This felt much more personal and quite comforting.

The only thing I regret is not trusting you from the beginning with Mia's story.

Way to dodge the real question, Carlyle, she countered.

I laughed out loud at this. It has been a very long time since anyone had called me by my surname alone. My last editor and mentor used it when she summoned me to her office for a tongue-lashing. Adele Ritter was a force of nature. I couldn't have asked for a better mentor.

Perhaps I should, but I don't.

It was the best I could do. I couldn't look at the full picture without seeing Ian's anger. When he saw the numerous stories in the press, he seemed to lose whatever understanding he once had for my being the one, the only one, who had the right to tell my story.

Somewhere across the boroughs of the city, she knew she had frustrated a curious writer who would want to know what she should read into my answer. She would simply have to wait until Monday.

To be continued…