Saturday evening (Jack's take)
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It was just short of 5 p.m. Jack stood outside the rehab facility, his breath still heavy from the run. Sweat clung to the fabric of his t-shirt. He didn't mind the discomfort. In fact, he welcomed it—anything to keep him from thinking too much.
He stared at the building, hands resting on his hips, debating with himself. Should he go back in? The thought of being trapped inside that small room, with nothing to look forward to, felt unbearable. Like every night before Audrey started calling.
But tonight, she wouldn't call.
She had already called earlier. They had been talking for almost three hours—before she said she needed to get ready for the charity ball with Paul. That had stung. Jack had tried not to let it bother him, but the thought of her going out with Paul twisted something inside him. They'd said their goodbyes around 2 p.m. Audrey had to take a shower and get dressed for the evening.
And now, she was probably with him, in a cab, sitting next to him, or dancing with him at the ball, doing what people expected of a normal couple. Jack pushed the thought aside. He shouldn't care. But he did.
He glanced at his watch again. Almost 5 p.m. He knew if he didn't go inside now, the doors would lock from the inside. The rehab center had a strict policy—doors were locked after 5, and once locked, you were stuck for the night. Jack understood the reasoning behind it. The lonely evening hours, the long, sleepless nights—they were the worst. The temptation to give in, to erase the boredom and the emptiness with something stronger, could creep up on you in those hours.
But going back into that room? That small, suffocating room? The thought of it made his skin crawl.
He rushed inside, only four minutes left, to get out again. His legs ached from the run, but he moved quickly through the hallway, heading toward his room. His eyes landed on the phone sitting on the bedside table.
He hesitated. He should leave it. He should leave Audrey behind for the night… no, forever. She was out with Paul, and he had no right to expect her to call. He had no right to expect anything. She was married, even though she was separated. He knew too well what that meant—he had been separated from Teri once too, and it hadn't felt final. A marriage wasn't over until it was really over.
He quickly changed into jeans and a black t-shirt, not bothering with a shower. He grabbed his car keys from where he had hidden them—no one knew he had a car in reach. He had parked it a mile away, hidden in the wilderness.
He looked at the phone again. He should leave it. But then, his hand moved almost automatically, picking it up. He told himself it was because it was a DoD secure line phone. Protocol said those shouldn't be left unattended, though a small voice in his head mocked the excuse. The possibility that an enemy broke into this exact room to get a hold of a secure phone was neglectable. Did he really care about protocol? Had he ever?
He shoved the phone into his pocket and left the room, slipping out the front doors just a minute before they could no longer be opened from the inside.
Outside, the cold evening air hit him. He inhaled deeply. Freedom. And yet, it felt empty, aimless. His steps were fast in the beginning, to get out of the view of anyone who might watch, and then slow as he walked the mile toward where his car was hidden. Each step reminded him of something he hadn't let himself think about in years.
1984. The last time he had felt this aimless. He had left his father's company, left his family behind, Marilyn too. He'd had nothing back then. Just his bike and the clothes on his back. And then, soon after, he'd had Teri. She had been his anchor, filling the void.
But now, he was alone again. And that same aimlessness, that same void, seemed to stretch out in front of him.
Jack's pace slowed as he reached the spot where his car was parked. He hadn't thought about Marilyn in years. Ron's daughter. His first real relationship. She had been a part of that world he left behind—the world he hadn't been able to stomach anymore.
But that had been a long time ago.
He unlocked the car and got inside, sitting in silence for a moment. His thumb brushed over the phone in his pocket, and he almost took it out, almost checked it. For what? A message that wasn't coming? A call that wasn't going to happen?
He laughed at himself and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel. He had no destination in mind, no plan. Just like in 1984. But back then, he'd found Teri. She had given him direction, purpose.
Now, the future seemed again uncertain, almost as back there. The starting point was different. He had money, enough to start over again. Back then, he had gladly left his past behind. Now, it didn't feel that easy. He had over forty years of a past that he couldn't just shake off. He started the car, the engine breaking through the stillness of the evening. His thoughts kept drifting back to Audrey, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the road ahead.
They'd spent the last few days talking, getting to know each other in ways he hadn't expected. These thoughts are useless, he told himself. She was 2,000 miles away, living a life he didn't belong in. What were they? Friends? Something more? He didn't know. And tonight, she was with Paul, living her life, going through the motions of being a normal couple in Washington. Why did he even care?
He shifted the car into gear and started driving, the lights of the city faintly visible in the distance. He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere felt better than sitting still and letting the silence take over.
Jack drove through the quiet streets. His eyes drifted to the center pedestal, where a crumpled pack of cigarettes sat. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd bought them—maybe three weeks ago, during the worst of his addiction. Back then, he hadn't cared about much of anything. Everything was a haze of desperation and self-destruction.
It had been years since he'd really smoked. He thought back to the first cigarette he ever had, at fourteen. One of the grown-ups at the motorcycle track had handed it to him, and he'd taken a drag out of curiosity. The bitter, acrid taste had turned his stomach, in a way that made him feel sick. He hadn't touched another cigarette after that, not for years. It just wasn't for him.
It wasn't until Ranger training that he had picked it up again, and even then, it wasn't because he liked it. Smoking had been a distraction, something to do when the physical and mental strain became too much. The long days of training, the hunger, the exhaustion—it was overwhelming. The nicotine helped take the edge off, even if just for a few minutes. It had been the first time he'd been separated from Teri for so long, and the distance weighed on him. He would have never admitted it back then.
When he finally returned home after those months, there was still a half-full pack of cigarettes in his bag. Teri had found it right away. Her concern was immediate, especially since she was pregnant with Kim at the time. She was right. Teri was always right when it came to those things. For her, and for the baby, he'd quit.
But years later, during a tour in Iraq, smoking had found its way back into his life. He couldn't say exactly why. Maybe it was the loneliness, or the need to fill the empty hours between missions. Maybe it was the way a cigarette steadied his hands after the close calls, the life-or-death moments that could have gone either way. Whatever it was, he had started up again, slowly, one cigarette at a time, until it became a ritual.
When he returned home, Teri had noticed immediately. She always did. He hadn't smoked in the house, and he certainly hadn't done it in front of Kim, but the smell lingered. Teri had confronted him, upset but not angry. "Not in the house," she had said. "Not in front of Kim." Once again, she was right. So, he'd stopped, or at least tried to. But sometimes, he'd steal away for a quick cigarette, hoping it would calm his mind.
He thought of the men he had shared those cigarettes with – if he could still remember their names. Tommy, Hank, Skid, the one guy from Alabama who'd always be mocked for his accent. One more whose name he couldn't remember. They had all been part of the same unit. Two of them hadn't made it back.
In Mexico, cigarettes had been the least of his problems. He'd gone through packs without a second thought, using them as one of many crutches to get through the nightmare he found himself in. The cigarettes had been harmless compared to the other things he'd done down there.
Jack's eyes lingered on the pack in the center pedestal for a long moment. He pulled one out, rolling it between his fingers, as he drove aimlessly through the streets. He searched the glove compartment, finding a lighter. But as he brought it to his lips, flicking the flame to life, a memory stopped him—Teri's eyes. That look of disappointment when she had caught the faint smell of smoke on him, even though he had tried to hide it. She didn't have to say much. Just that look was enough.
Jack stared at the cigarette for a moment longer, then threw it and the pack out the window. He tossed the lighter after it.
Why did she still have such a hold on him, even after all these years? She was gone, but her influence, her presence, was still with him. She had always made him better, pulled him back from the edge when he started to fall.
The light ahead turned red, and Jack slowed to a stop. A street sign caught his eye—an exit leading toward Silver Lake. Marilyn. She had lived out there, back when they were young. Back in the early 80s, he'd taken that exit more times than he could count, visiting her. He hadn't seen her in years. Not since Teri's funeral.
Teri's funeral.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He felt a knot tighten in his chest. The signal turned green, and he pressed the gas pedal, letting the car move forward. He couldn't think about that now. Not today. If he had to rank the worst days of his life, that one was in the top five. No, top three. The worst was the day she died. Nothing could ever come close to that.
After the funeral, he had come home and collapsed on the couch, numb. Kim had been there too, but she had disappeared into her room, avoiding him. He didn't blame her. Part of him had been relieved; he couldn't face her either. Another part of him had wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he didn't know how. He had failed her, failed Teri. How could he comfort his daughter when he was the reason her mother was gone? He could almost hear her accusing him, blaming him. And she would have been right.
He had sat there for hours, unmoving. Kim had eventually come out, but they hadn't spoken. They didn't eat for days, living like ghosts in the same house. The only thing that had stopped him from reaching for a bottle of whiskey, or his gun, was the knowledge that Kim was there. Her presence had kept him tethered to this world, even if it was only by a thread.
In the weeks after the funeral, he had visited Teri's grave every day. It had been the only place that felt like the right place to be. Jack now realized he hadn't been there in months, not since before Mexico. It didn't feel right to visit her when he was high. He couldn't stand the thought of standing at her grave, knowing what he had become.
What would she have said if she knew? Would she still look at him with that same disappointed gaze? She had hated the cigarettes. What would she think of the heroin?
He wondered if she was still watching him, somewhere up there, shaking her head at all the awful choices he'd made.
It wasn't far to the cemetery in Santa Monica. He made the decision quickly.
Pulling into a small flower shop, he bought a single red rose, like he'd always done.
Jack sat at her grave, the red rose lying in front of the polished stone. It was a contrast to the ugly memories that usually accompanied his visits. Hours passed, but he didn't move, lost in thought, his eyes fixed on Teri's name engraved in the stone. The weight in his chest felt different this time—not as suffocating as it used to, not as crushing. It wasn't that the grief had disappeared. It never would. But something else had slipped into the space between the pain and regret: the good memories, the ones that had been buried for so long under layers of guilt and loss.
For years, whenever Jack had thought of Teri, his mind had instinctively gone back to their later days—when Kim had been growing up, and their marriage had started to unravel. The fights, the distance, and his own mistakes. It always circled back to that terrible day—the moment he found her lifeless body in that server room. The day he could never forget. Those were the memories that haunted him, the ones that dominated his every thought when it came to her.
But lately, during the late-night phone calls with Audrey, something had shifted. Audrey had asked about the early days, about the time before everything had gone wrong. She had made him remember a version of his life that he hadn't allowed himself to think about in years. And now, sitting at Teri's grave, those memories came flooding back, softening the pain.
He thought back to the first time he'd talked to her, in front of his father's company headquarters, a Greenpeace protester with a fire in her eyes and determination in her stance. That day, he had marched out of the building, taken the protest sign from her hands, and rammed it into the potted palm tree right in the middle of the executive floor. A final act of rebellion before leaving everything behind. It still felt like freedom.
The day after, by some twist of fate, he had run into her again. And that evening, they had talked—for hours. He could still remember the warmth in her smile, the easy way conversation flowed between them, like they had known each other for years instead of a single day.
He thought of the cabin in Indian Springs, where she and her Greenpeace friends had been staying. He could still feel the rush of that first kiss, the first night they spent together.
There had been so many good times after that. Riding on his motorcycle with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, as they sped down empty roads. The thrill of those days, the freedom they shared.
And then, the day she had told him she was pregnant. That had been a shock, no doubt about it. Their financial situation had been precarious at best, and the thought of raising a child had filled him with fear and uncertainty. But that fear had quickly turned into joy, into anticipation. The early years with Kim had been some of the best of his life, full of love, laughter, and moments that, for a long time, he had been too afraid to revisit because he'd feared they would be too painful.
Jack's gaze softened as he stared at the rose, thinking of those memories. How had he let them fade? How had they been drowned out by the bitterness, the anger, the guilt? If it hadn't been for the conversations with Audrey, he might never have remembered these moments at all. She had unwittingly opened the door to memories that had been locked away for years.
He was grateful for that now.
For once, he wasn't sitting here thinking of the mistakes, the bad times, or the day she was killed. For once, he wasn't drowning in the pain of their final years together. Instead, he was thinking of the love they had shared, the life they had built, and the joy that had come before everything fell apart.
Jack closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. He whispered into the stillness of the cemetery, the words barely audible, "Thank you." It was meant for Teri, for all the good memories, for all the happiness they had once known. He sat in silence for a few moments longer before adding, just as softly, "I'm sorry." He had said those words so many times before, but this time, they felt different. They felt quieter, softer. Less about guilt, and more about closure.
Jack continued to sit there, the hours slipping by unnoticed. He wasn't in a hurry to leave. For the first time in a long time, he felt a strange sense of peace, as if the weight of all the bad years had lifted, even if just for a moment. The red rose lay still on the grass in front of him, and beyond it, Teri's name.
Somehow, for the first time since she was gone, he felt a little closer to her again.
It had long since gotten dark when Jack left the cemetery. The night was quiet, and for a moment, he stood by his car, unsure of what to do next. The hours spent sitting by Teri's grave had been strangely peaceful, his mind drifting back to better times. But now, the silence of the night brought him back to square one—driving aimlessly through the streets with no real destination.
His apartment in Pacoima didn't feel like a place he wanted to return to. The door didn't even have a proper lock anymore, just a padlock. The thought of sitting there in that small, rundown space felt suffocating. It'd forever remind him of the drug dealers nearby. The times he'd lain at the bed, fully wasted.
Instead, he found himself driving south, heading toward a place he hadn't visited in years—the intersection where his mother had died.
The memory of that night had been buried deep in his mind, locked away like so many other painful moments from his past. He wasn't sure why it resurfaced now, but it did. Maybe it was because of the calls with Audrey. She had a way of making him think about things he hadn't allowed himself to remember in years.
When he had been nine, he hadn't known exactly where the accident had happened. Not even the general area. And that stayed the same for a very long time—that their car had been struck somewhere by a truck, killing his mother instantly. He'd been unconscious by the time they pulled him and Graem out of the wreckage. He could have died that night too, if they had been there a second earlier. The truck had crushed the front of their car, narrowly missing the left side where he had been sitting.
It wasn't until much later, during a rough period in his and Teri's marriage, that he had sought out the exact spot. It had been a night much like this one, of driving around aimlessly, after a particularly harsh argument with Teri back when he worked for the LAPD. He had needed a distraction, something worse to focus on than the pain of their fight. He'd looked up the old police records, searching through the database until he found the report from 1975. It had surprised him that the records went back that far.
East Chestnut Avenue and Grand Avenue, down in Santa Ana. He had taken the printed sheet with him, knowing he wouldn't be able to read it in the office without breaking down. That night, he had driven there, just as his mother had driven aimlessly through the city that rainy night, trying to get away from his father.
He slowed the car as he neared the crossroads now, parking at the curb. The dashboard clock read 10 p.m. He got out, locking the door behind him, and walked the last fifty yards to the intersection. The area looked different now—newer buildings had replaced the older ones, and the streetlights seemed brighter. The place had changed, but in his mind, the scene was as vivid as ever. The rain, the darkness, the traffic lights, hardly visible. He could still see their car, the rain-slicked road and imagined the truck barreling toward them.
Jack stood at the edge of the intersection, waiting for the pain to hit, the way it had the last time he'd been here over fifteen years ago. But it didn't. The memories were there, the images clear, but the pain wasn't. Instead, other memories began to fill the space—the good ones. His mother's smile, the days when his father was away in Vietnam, and it had just been him, Graem, Uncle Jack and their mother. Those had been the happiest times of his childhood.
The longer he stood there, the more he realized how much things had changed. The pain he had expected didn't come. Maybe it was because, in recent days, he had allowed himself to remember the good times, the memories he had kept buried for so long. He felt the change inside him now. It wasn't something he had planned, but something had shifted.
After a while, a police car pulled up beside him, and an officer rolled down the window, asking if everything was alright. Jack nodded, giving a vague explanation about visiting an old spot. Satisfied, the officer drove off, leaving Jack standing there in the cool night air.
It was time to go. He turned back to his car and slid into the driver's seat, glancing at his wristwatch. It was 10:30 p.m. Still a long night ahead.
As he drove away from the crossroads, Jack felt something settle in his chest, a realization that had been building for some time. He had spent years looking for pain—constantly searching for something else to replace the something he couldn't handle. Whenever life became unbearable, he had sought out missions, dangerous situations, or memories that would hurt him. Replacing pain with more pain had become his coping mechanism, a way to push away the things he wasn't ready to face.
But tonight, it hadn't worked. He had visited the places that usually brought him to his knees with grief, but instead of the familiar pain, he had found something else—good memories. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened.
He shook his head slightly as he drove, trying to make sense of it. It had to be the conversations with Audrey. She had unknowingly pulled those memories out of the darkest corners of his mind, made him think about things he hadn't in years. Audrey.
His gaze flicked to the phone lying on the passenger seat, still and silent. He should leave it. He should leave her behind for the night, maybe forever. She was out with Paul, attending a high-society ball that was as far removed from his life as possible. He didn't belong in her world, and she didn't belong in his. It was ridiculous to even think about calling her, or hoping she would call.
But he couldn't help himself.
Jack picked up the phone, telling himself he wouldn't check it. She was busy. She wouldn't call. But something gnawed at him, a curiosity he couldn't ignore. He glanced at the screen, expecting nothing. Hoping for something.
There it was. "1 missed call." Fifteen minutes ago.
His breath caught for a moment, and he stared at the screen. Audrey. She had called. Reading the words "1 missed call" sparked something inside him. A warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing the feeling down, refusing to acknowledge it fully. He hesitated, the phone still in his hand. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but these calls with Audrey had changed something inside him. They had opened a door he had long since locked. She'd made him look at his own life in a different way.
Jack had sworn off love. After Teri, after everything that had happened, he had made a silent vow to himself. He would never allow anyone to get that close again. Loving again would feel like a betrayal—to Teri, to her memory. She had been everything to him, and even though their marriage had seen troubled days, she had always been the center of his world. Letting someone else in, caring for someone else, it felt wrong. It would be like admitting that her place in his heart could be replaced, and Jack knew deep down that wasn't possible.
But here he was, staring at his phone, feeling something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time. The warmth that spread through him when he saw that missed call—it wasn't something he could easily explain. And it couldn't be because of Audrey. She was just a one-night stand. No. That was impossible. She was thousands of miles away, living in a world that was light-years from his. She belonged to Washington's upper echelons, to the dinners, the charity balls, everything that reminded him of old days, his father, the golf club, the business partners, the stiff events, Ron, Marilyn. To a world he despised.
But the feeling was there. It gnawed at him, refusing to be ignored. Jack leaned back in the driver's seat, gripping the phone tightly as his mind raced for other explanations. Maybe it was just the conversations. Talking to someone again—that was what was making him feel better.
The memories she had made him unearth these past few days, the good memories—they had been locked away for so long, buried beneath painful ones that would always jump the queue. And somehow, through the phone calls, he had managed to find them again. That was why he felt lighter, wasn't it?
The warm feeling lingered, despite his denial.
He couldn't shake it, couldn't pretend it wasn't there. He looked at the phone again, at the simple "1 missed call," which was enough to break walls that had been there for years.
Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head, as if trying to shake off the thoughts crowding his mind. He glanced at the phone again, then focused on finding a spot to park the car.
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