These aren't very long. Just a forewarning. I don't own, and so on, and so forth.
The feeling of flying was something Jack had never completely gotten over of; it was exhilaratingly terrifying, and not necessarily in the good way. London was unusually quiet and dark. There were few foot-passengers in the street. Jack knew the house where they stopped. It was his parents', the place where he'd grown up. Simon dropped them at the door, and, without a word, opened it and went inside.
The family room was illuminated by the candles his mother had lit, and a sugary smell filled the room. His five-year-old self was playing on one of his mother's prized Persian rugs, pushing a toy train around a track. Something caught his attention, and he looked to the door before getting up and padding across the carpet.
Simon took Jack's wrist, and they followed the younger boy. Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Merridew opened the oven. The smell that filled the house instantly doubled. Jack felt his mouth water.
"She always made the best sugar cookies," Jack told Simon. A grin appeared on Simon's face, and he nodded.
Mrs. Merridew, brushing a strand of her strawberry blond hair back, handed the little boy a cookie, receiving a toothy smile. She giggled and kissed her son's forehead. Little Jack ran from the room, and Mrs. Merridew went after him, her high heels clicking on the floor.
"You had a great mom," Simon told him.
Jack nodded. "Yeah. The lovely Margret Merridew. We were the storybook family. A successful husband, a pretty, doting wife, and their ideal son."
Simon, quiet as he had always been, only nodded. He snapped, and immediately chatter and laughter met their ears. Jack frowned and turned to Simon. Not waiting on him, Jack strode back into the living room.
It was one of the Merridews' Christmas parties. Sophisticated guests—ladies with French twists and pearls, and men in expensive suits—mingled about the room, glasses of champagne in hand.
Mrs. Merridew floated from group to group, charming as ever, champagne glass in hand. She laughed and talked easily with everyone there. Mr. Merridew was standing with a group of men by the fireplace.
Their son was a different story. He sat dejectedly at the foot of the stairs, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm. While the rest of the party went on with smiles, Jack Merridew glowered at the world.
"Jack, dear," his mother sighed, stopping by, "I wished you'd socialize with us."
"No," he growled.
Mrs. Merridew stared him down for a moment before sighing and going back to the party.
To Simon, Jack said, "I was thirteen. It was the Christmas we got back from the island."
"I know," Simon agreed, again nodding. "How about this one?"
"Which one," Jack asked. Simon pulled him to the front door, but instead of stepping out onto the Merridew lawn, they were in town.
"Oh, mother of—" Jack muttered, running his hands through his hair and spiking it up. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Afraid not, Jack," Simon replied. Jack turned away, but Simon spun him back around. "Watch."
Jack led a blindfolded girl down the sidewalk. She held her free hand in front of her, the other interlocked with Jack's. The girl giggled. "Jack, where are we going?"
"Just wait," he answered, chuckling in response. He lifted her hand to his lips.
When they stopped, he untied her blindfold and slowly peeled it away. The corners of her lips twitched in a grin. "I don't understand. What's going on?"
"You said you'd always wanted to go ice skating. Well," Jack shrugged, "I pulled a few strings and got the rink."
Her mouth dropped, and her steely eyes became the size of saucers. She shook her head. "J–Jack," she stammered.
"C'mon!" He took her hand again, and they went for their skates.
They weren't the best, and fell often at first. As the two got the hang of it, they were able to skate freely across the ice. Towards the end, Jack twirled her around and pulled her in for a hug.
"I hope it's ok," he started, kissing the top of her brunette head. Her confused look made him continue. "I mean, I hope it's good enough for a present."
"Jack, it's more than good," she laughed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Jack leaned down to press their lips together. "I love you."
"I love you too," he whispered, kissing her again. When they finally broke for air, he said, "You know, my parents aren't home either."
"Seventeen." Jack said. There was a distant look on his face. "I was seventeen that year."
"And," Simon pressed, but Jack didn't need it.
"Lydia. She was beautiful. Gosh, I loved her. So much. It was one of the best times of my life. I lost it with her."
Simon blushed. "I think we should go now."
"No," Jack protested. "Not yet."
"Jack—"
"Can't we go to tomorrow morning?"
Simon put a hand on his shoulder. "We have to go."
Jack casted a final forlorn look over his shoulder at his younger self as he walked away from the ice rink, hand in hand with Lydia, back to the empty Merridew house to an evening that currently haunted him.