Saturday night
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Jack pulled into a narrow, deserted street, barely illuminated by an old streetlight. The industrial area he found himself in was silent, the kind of place where no one passed through after dark. He killed the engine. The headlights went out and suddenly everything was dark and silent. The phone was still in his hand, Audrey's missed call staring back at him.
He hit Call and listened to the steady ring. His mind wandered—if she had called fifteen minutes ago, she was either still at the ball, stealing away for a moment, or she'd just gotten home.
When Audrey picked up, she didn't say hello. Instead, she said his name, and Jack felt a jolt of concern. It was subtle, but the tremor in her voice was unmistakable. She'd been crying.
"Hey," he said softly, trying to keep his voice calm. "How are you?"
He wasn't asking for the sake of it. He genuinely wanted to know, and Audrey knew it. But her response came quickly, trying to mask her emotion.
"I'm okay," she sniffed.
"Audrey," he said her name with quiet firmness.
The way he said her name sent a shiver through her. It was like he was right there with her, close enough to see her face, to know exactly that she was hiding something. His voice, steady and low, was pulling her toward honesty, urging her to stop pretending.
"I don't wanna bother you," Audrey said, her words shaky. She was caught in her own thoughts, feeling conflicted. How had it come to this? Here she was, part of the wealthy Washington elite – was she really seeking comfort from someone who had truly hit rock bottom? A junkie, a guy without even a job? It suddenly felt like he was now the one offering her strength. How could she even ask him to bear her problems when he had already been through so much?
"You're not bothering me," Jack's voice came through with a certainty that left no room for doubt. "After all the times you've been there for me..." He trailed off, but the weight of his words was clear. He owed her. She had been there when he'd been at his lowest. And after the past evening, he felt like he had passed the lowest point of that valley. If it weren't for her, he wasn't sure he'd even be here now. "Tell me."
Audrey hesitated, her throat tightening. "I don't know where to begin," she admitted, her voice faltering. Should she really bother him with Paul? Should she really talk about Paul, after she had tried so hard, during the last hour, no to think back to her failed marriage, to get him and that evening out of her mind?
Jack knew that feeling well. The uncertainty of where to start, the weight of everything pressing down so hard that the words didn't come easily. He had been there, more times than he could count, lost in his own head, unable to find a way to talk about the things that weighed him down. The feeling that talking about it would mean living through it again, making it even worse.
"You almost sound like me," he said, a trace of understanding in his tone.
"Why?" Audrey asked, caught off guard.
"I'm okay. I don't wanna bother you. I don't know where to begin," Jack repeated her words back to her. These words felt natural. They came easy, because he'd said them so often. To Teri. To Kim. To anyone who had ever asked. "That's what I used to say all the time."
Audrey listened to him, and she felt the truth hit her. She was making excuses—just like Jack had once done. She had hoped for him to pick up the phone, to be there for her, but now she was giving him the same deflections he used to give her. Why? Why couldn't she just admit it, let herself be vulnerable?
"You called me," Jack reminded her, his voice steady but pointed. He wasn't going to let her slip away from this conversation.
"Maybe," Audrey began, searching for words, "maybe I was just hoping to hear someone's voice. To take up where we left off this afternoon."
Jack couldn't help but smile a little, though the situation was far from light. "So you think hearing me talk about the worst times of my life is gonna make you feel better?" he teased, his tone laced with a bit of sarcasm but without any anger. He understood this too well. He knew what it was like to drown one kind of pain with another, to bury it under something just as bad, if not worse.
Audrey fell silent. He was right. She had wanted him to keep talking, to take the attention off her, to keep her from facing the real reason she was upset. She thought maybe hearing his struggles would help distract her from her own. But that wasn't what she needed.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was full of unspoken understanding. He didn't push her, didn't demand an explanation, because he knew just too well. He simply waited, giving her the space to sort through her thoughts. In that moment, Audrey realized just how much she'd been avoiding her own thoughts and feelings throughout the past months, if not years.
"There were times I had hoped for someone to be there," Jack began slowly, his voice steady but with an edge of vulnerability. He decided to bare his soul, because right now it felt right. Talking to her felt safe—the kind of safety that came from being 2,000 miles away, knowing she wouldn't judge him, just a voice with clearance level 9 on the other end of a secure line. It was that distance, that anonymity, that had allowed him to open up so much in the past few days. "And when that moment finally came, I did everything I could to avoid talking about what was really bothering me."
He thought back to those long stretches overseas, deep in missions where death and violence were constant companions. In the quiet, between the firefights and chaos, his thoughts had always drifted to Teri and Kim. The image of coming home, the idea of being with his family again, was something he had clung to in the darkest moments. But the closer he got to home, the harder it became to actually face the people he loved most.
"Why?" Audrey asked, her voice soft but genuinely curious. She wanted to understand why he had shut out the very people he longed for.
"When you're far away from the solution, you idealize it," Jack explained. "The closer you get, the more you realize how painful it can be to actually confront what you're avoiding. Like when I was in Mexico... I was telling myself I couldn't wait to get back home, to finally have a reason and the chance to quit, to leave all of it behind." He paused, the memories flooding back, his tone heavier. "And then I came home, and... I just didn't manage to stop. It was too painful to even talk about stopping."
Audrey hugged herself as she listened, Jack's words hitting her harder than she expected. These were the most honest words he had spoken about his addiction, more open than he had ever been before. She'd always known, but hearing him admit it like this was different.
"You should have called me," she said quietly. It wasn't a reproach. She had given him her phone number all those months ago, hoping that if he ever needed someone who understood, someone who wouldn't judge, he would reach out.
"I didn't want to bother you," Jack replied, echoing her own earlier excuse.
Audrey recognized the deflection, the same phrase she had used just minutes before. "You wouldn't have bothered me," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
Jack sighed softly, knowing exactly how those words felt to hear. "Same as hearing your story wouldn't bother me either," he added gently, offering her the space she had just given him.
Audrey felt a lump form in her throat. She had known this moment would come—the moment when she'd have to tell him about her failed marriage, about trying to have a child, and the crushing sense of failure that had haunted her ever since. She honestly wanted to tell him all that. She had always wanted to have somebody who she could talk to. Who was not her father, who'd look at her through the lens of a father who wanted grandchildren. Not through the eyes of a friend who'd just be keen on hearing her story to tell all the other friends about it. Someone who wouldn't judge. Who was far enough away from her life so that it would feel safe to share.
But saying it out loud, even to Jack, felt like admitting that she had failed not just as a wife, but as a woman. Half an hour ago, she'd begged for him to pick up the phone and when he didn't, she hadn't even confessed to herself how relieved she was that she didn't need to put everything in words and say it out loud.
She hesitated, but then the words began to spill out. Slowly at first, then faster, as though once she started, she couldn't stop.
She told him about meeting Paul at Yale when they were both 21, how they had fallen in love and married by the time they were 25. Paul had started his first company while they were still in college, and over the years, it had grown, along with his absences. He had been gone more and more often, but despite her doubts about their relationship, she had never thought of leaving. She'd convinced herself it was just part of their life. She had married a successful man. She'd live with it.
Eight years ago, they had decided to have children. She had been 32, older than most of her friends who had already started families, but she hadn't wanted to put her career on hold earlier. Audrey's voice trembled as she spoke, tears welling up in her eyes.
Audrey's thoughts drifted back to the first time she had lost their baby. The memory still felt fresh, the pain as sharp as it had been all those years ago. Two years later, she had tried again, only to face the same devastating outcome. She could still hear the doctor's voice telling her that her body wasn't able to carry a child to term. The words had left her feeling shattered, broken, and useless, a failure in the one thing she had longed for most. Tears streamed down her face as the weight of it all pressed down on her once more.
Audrey choked on the words, trying to hold herself together. She had cried frantically back then, in the sterile rooms of the doctor's office, and even now, she wept as she relived those moments. The pain of not being able to do what she thought she was meant to as a woman had never left her, and even now, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had somehow failed.
Jack listened in silence, every word pulling him deeper into her world. He hadn't interrupted, but now, as he thought back to everything he had shared with Audrey over the past days, guilt crept in. He'd told her about the good times with Teri and Kim, about their last trip together when Teri was pregnant, moving in as a family, and the day Kim was born. He had shared stories of Kim's childhood, moments that had filled his heart—holding his daughter for the first time, playing with her, reading her bedtime stories. He realized now how much those stories must have hurt Audrey, even though she had never shown it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice heavy with regret.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," Audrey replied, though Jack could hear the strain in her voice.
"I didn't realize how much I must have hurt you, talking so much about Kim."
"I'm happy for you, Jack," she said, her voice trying to sound steady, sincere. And she was, as much as she could be. But deep down, she couldn't stop herself from feeling the familiar pang of envy. As Jack had recounted the happiest moments of his life—holding Kim, watching her grow—Audrey had tried to push back her own bitterness. She tried not to hate the people who got to live the life she would never have. Tried not to envy the happy couples and mothers who had what she didn't. And yet, despite her best efforts, those feelings clung to her, nagging at the edges of her thoughts.
Jack knew. He didn't need to ask; he could sense it in her. He had seen it enough in himself, in the people he had lost. "It's alright, Audrey," he said softly, "it's alright to grieve."
Audrey's breath hitched slightly. "It doesn't feel like grief," she admitted. "It feels like envy. Anger at the people who have what I don't."
"It's grief," Jack said, his voice low but sure. "That usually turns into anger." He had walked that path, lived through every stage of it. He knew what it felt like to carry that weight and only now, after years of struggling, he felt like he was nearing some stage of acceptance.
Audrey let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I can't hate the whole world around me," she said sarcastically, a bitter edge to her words.
Jack's heart ached for her. He understood the frustration, the helplessness that came with grief that had no outlet. "You don't have to," he said. "But it's okay if you do. Let yourself be angry." He paused for a moment, then added, "You need to find to let it out before it fully consumes you."
Jack's heart ached for her as he heard the tears flowing freely. She had never let herself be angry, had always told herself she had no right to be. It wasn't the fault of the parents with happy families, or their beautiful children. Audrey had convinced herself that she was fine without children, that she could lead a perfect life even without that dream coming true. But now, in this moment, all of it was crumbling.
And then, through the sobs, five quiet words slipped out before she could stop them: "I wish you were here."
Audrey froze, startled by her own confession. Had she really just said that? She had promised herself to keep things between them from crossing into dangerous emotional territory, from addressing the unspoken connection that had grown between them over the past days. Yet here she was, letting those words escape, betraying what she had been carefully avoiding.
Jack heard her, and though she tried to pull the words back, he couldn't deny feeling the same way. He had wanted to be there, to hold her, comfort her—anything to stop the pain she was going through. But he stayed silent, knowing better than her that it wasn't what she needed. She was just beginning to face her emotions, moving past denial and stepping into anger. He knew enough about the stages of grief to recognize what was happening. She was right where she needed to be.
"Where are you right now? Are you at home?" Jack asked.
Audrey wiped her face, momentarily confused by the question. Was he coming? "Yes," she replied.
"Alone?"
"Of course." Her voice came out sharper than intended, a flicker of the anger beneath the surface.
Jack wasn't fazed. "I want you to try something. Put the phone on speaker."
Still seated on the floor, Audrey complied, switching the phone to speaker and standing up. "Done. Can you still hear me?"
"Yeah. Now, go find something you hate."
"Something I hate?" Audrey sounded puzzled, her eyebrows furrowing. "Why?"
"Don't ask why. Just find something. A gift from someone you didn't like, something you've wanted to get rid of for years—anything that doesn't fit."
Audrey looked around her room. She could name a dozen things she hated, everything in this place felt like it was suffocating her. "I hate the furniture," she muttered.
Jack chuckled. "Let's start smaller."
Audrey finally realized what he was telling her to do. Her view wandered through the apartment, her eyes landing on a glass vase with an orchid she had received from Janice, a kiss ass gift she'd never liked. "I found something," she said, holding the vase. "You want me to smash it against the wall?"
He laughed, but his tone was knowing. "Not enough. It's not about the result, it's about letting it out. Got a baseball bat?"
"Nope."
"A rolling pin?"
"Wait." Audrey put down the phone, the vase now sitting on the table, and grabbed a rolling pin from the kitchen. When she returned, she stood there, her face still wet from crying, the rolling pin gripped tightly in her hand, staring at the orchid.
She hesitated. Could she really do this? It felt so unlike her. "You're crazy," she said, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, addressing Jack through the phone.
"Do it," he said, the calm encouragement in his voice urging her forward. "It'll help. Trust me."
"I can't," she said, thinking of the mess, the noise, the cleanup, the pointlessness of destroying something, that the ugly black furniture might get a scratch. Was she really concerned about a piece of ugly furniture she couldn't stand?
"Do it, Audrey. You'll feel better," Jack said again, gently, but with certainty.
Audrey stared at the vase for another second, then with a quick swing of her arm, the rolling pin collided with the glass. The sound of shattering filled the room, followed by a brief silence. Then, without warning, she burst into laughter—loud, uncontrolled laughter that shook her to the core.
Jack sat in his car, smiling, listening to the sounds on the other end. He'd known this would happen. She hadn't just shattered a vase—she had shattered the restraint that had kept all her anger and grief bottled up inside. And sure enough, he heard another crash, then another, and then one more.
He could picture her now, standing in the midst of broken glass, more free than she'd felt in years. There was something healing in the act of release, something words couldn't capture.
The noise stopped, and a few seconds later, he heard her switch off the speakerphone, bringing the phone to her ear. Her breathing was heavy, but she didn't say anything for a moment. Jack knew she didn't need to.
"Everything alright?" he asked, a smile still tugging at his lips.
Audrey looked around at the chaos she had just created—the shards of glass, the mess on the floor. "You're crazy," she said, her voice light with a hint of laughter.
Jack smiled to himself. She had said it with a smile, and that was all he needed to hear.
"You are so crazy," she repeated, louder this time, and Jack could hear the relief in her voice. She didn't need to explain. He knew exactly what she meant.
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Audrey lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, Jack's words still echoing in her mind: "I'm the go-to guy if you want crazy." She smiled to herself, shaking her head slightly. Yes, he was. That much had been clear from the moment they first met, eight months ago. Jack must have lived on the edge for so long that the line between normal and extreme blurred for him.
Audrey had never met anyone like him before. He wasn't just damaged; damaged would be a mild understatement. She had never imagined herself being so drawn to someone like him. Someone openly contemplating to start heroin like Jack had been when they first started talking. She had been shocked, horrified even, but she couldn't just hang up and walk away. She understood his reasons behind everything. Though they were crazy.
She had never thought she'd become a person who would call someone just to see if they were still functioning after shooting up. Methodically increasing a tolerance level. It had scared her to see him again, seven months later, because she'd immediately realized how close to the edge he had come. She hadn't been able to walk away. Something told her to stay. To see him again. To care and to pull him back. Everyone of her friends would have told her she was crazy.
And then there was that one night, a month ago. It was supposed to be a one-night stand—a mistake, really. Actually she had just wanted to kiss him, but she hadn't been able to stop at just that. Even now, weeks later, the memory of it lingered like a quiet fire beneath her skin. Audrey told herself she wasn't the kind of woman who did things like that, especially not with a man like Jack. Yet there she had been.
She had never touched an illegal gun either. But then there was his, cold and heavy in her hand. She remembered burying it in the sand not far from the rehab where she'd taken him two weeks ago. Crazy.
And smashing things? That had never been Audrey's style. She had been so composed, so controlled her entire life. But tonight, she had broken free, just for ten minutes. She had smashed Janice's vase first, then moved on to a set of expensive porcelain Paul had bought for some forgotten occasion. Why had she even brought it with her when she moved out? It wasn't like she ever entertained guests, much less the kind of dinner that would require a giant platter. The absurdity of it all made her laugh.
She had laughed with Jack for the past half hour, the tension, the memories and the pain draining from her body with each passing minute. Their conversation flowed easily, as it always did, but now it felt even lighter, freer. She had left the phone on speaker while she cleaned up the mess, to pick up the pieces of broken glass and porcelain. It hadn't even been that hard to clean up—fifteen minutes later everything looked normal again.
As she worked, she realized something had shifted inside her. All the sorrow, all the pain—it had loosened its grip on her. The act of smashing something, of destroying it, had given her a kind of freedom she hadn't felt in a long time. She wasn't sure if she had cleaned up all the pieces, and a part of her hoped she hadn't. Maybe she would find a shard of glass or a bit of porcelain weeks from now, and when she did, it would remind her of this night. Of Jack. Of feeling alive again. Of being crazy, if just for ten minutes.
Audrey leaned back into her pillows, her breath coming easy now. She hadn't felt this light, this… free, in so long. And it wasn't just about smashing things or talking to Jack. It was about letting go, about accepting that her life didn't have to follow a certain path, that she could let herself feel—really feel—without holding back or shutting down. And somehow, she knew that whenever she'd find a stray piece of broken glass, she would smile and remember this moment. A night where she had chosen to let go of her failed dreams, let herself feel the anger and come closer to accepting that her life wouldn't be the way she had planned it to be.
She glanced at the secure line cell phone on her bedside table, the screen dark and silent. Jack's voice had been the last thing she heard before his battery had finally died. He hadn't brought a charger along, and after the second battery low warning they had known the call would eventually end. Lying there in the quiet of her apartment, she already missed him.
There was something comforting about their conversations, though they were often filled with painful admissions, tangled emotions, and the heavy weight of their shared but different pasts. Hearing about Jack's decisions, his pain, his failures—it made her feel less alone. It wasn't about finding solutions or offering comfort. It was about knowing that someone else understood what it felt like to live with the weight of regret, someone who didn't judge her for feeling broken. Not like Paul who'd instantly offer her money to solve her problems, or who'd try to have her sent off to some doctor, shrink or god knows what to have her problems solved.
She reached for the phone, holding it in her hand for a moment, hoping it would ring. But she knew that wasn't going to happen. His battery was dead, and he couldn't go back to his room tonight—the doors were locked after 5 p.m. He'd told her that. She wondered where he might be driving to now. Was he roaming the empty streets, trying to escape the thoughts that kept him awake at night? Or was he parked somewhere, staring out at the city lights, lost in his own mind?
For a moment, fear gripped her. What if he was driving to a dealer? What if the temptation was too strong tonight? But she quickly pushed the thought away, telling herself that wasn't the case. Jack wasn't in that place anymore—not tonight, at least. He wouldn't do that. She glanced at her wristwatch: 2:30 a.m. here in D.C., which meant he had the whole night ahead of him on the West Coast. Audrey imagined how he'd spend it alone, wrestling with his demons in the dark.
She sighed, setting the phone back down. How had she gotten here, with a man like Jack? He was nothing like anyone she'd ever known. He was unpredictable, reckless, and yet, somehow, he grounded her in a way that no one else had. Maybe it was because he didn't try to fix her or tell her how to feel—he just listened. And he understood.
Audrey closed her eyes, letting the memories of the night drift back through her mind. Their laughter, the mess she had made in her apartment, the way the weight of her grief had lightened, if only for a little while. She hadn't felt this alive in so long.
But there was always another side to it. A darker side. She couldn't shake the fear that he might not call her again. The day would come, eventually, when they would both realize that whatever they had, it didn't have a future. Jack's life was so far removed from hers. He hadn't once talked to her about his future. Would he go back again? Do another mission for some three letter agency? That was who he was.
She thought of that gun, the one they had buried together in the sand, not far from the rehab facility. She hoped it would stay buried forever, a symbol of the past he was trying to leave behind. But she had also caught a glimpse of Jack's kind of craziness—she feared it wouldn't stay buried for long.
Audrey rolled onto her side, her gaze lingering on the phone again. She wondered if he was thinking about her too, if he was out there somewhere in the night, lost in thought. She hoped he was crazy enough not to try to make sense of what they were doing—these late-night calls, the confessions, the laughter. Maybe it didn't need to make sense. Maybe it just was.
I miss you already, she thought, though she knew she couldn't say it. Not yet. Most likely not ever.
She lay there in the silence. She let her mind drift to the thought of Jack being here, lying next to her. She could almost feel the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath as she imagined him close. It was just a fantasy, she knew that, but it was enough for now. Enough to let her fall asleep.
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