July 28th, 1984
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Audrey listened carefully as Jack recounted the time between leaving Marilyn's house and eventually meeting Teri again. This period in his life seemed especially aimless, unmoored. He didn't want to return home—sure that after talking to Ron, his relationship with his father was beyond repair. The couch in the office, which he had crashed on more than once after long nights, was out of the question. The oil fields, with their small restrooms and dirty couches, weren't an option either. Over the years, Jack had slept in so many different places, and it became clear to Audrey that he never cared much about where he slept. But now, with the Williams' residence off-limits and no other options left, he had successfully cut himself off from everyone, making himself homeless.
And that left him wandering. Alone.
Even 25 years later, Jack was reluctant to admit just how lost he had felt in those moments. He didn't know where to go or what his next move should be. The lack of direction gnawed at him, but he told Audrey that at the time, being homeless hadn't bothered him. He recalled riding out to a lonely spot in the hills, where he parked his bike and just slept beside it, using his bag as a makeshift pillow. The night wasn't cold, but the memory of that first night—on the hard ground, under the stars—lingered.
What Jack didn't share was how he had lain awake for half the night, his mind spinning. It wasn't the uncomfortable ground that kept him from sleeping—he had endured worse conditions many times since then. His thoughts drifted to Iraq, to Afghanistan, to Yugoslavia, and to all the other remote places where he'd spent sleepless nights on unforgiving terrain or had tried to catch at least a few hours of sleep in a trench while artillery fire was going down all around. Impossible. That night in the hills, however, had been different. It was the first, but certainly not the last.
As he had lain there, staring up at the stars, Jack's mind had circled around the uncertainty of the future. He thought about money, about jobs, about the strange new path ahead of him. As an airplane crossed the sky far above him, the roar faint in the distance, a part of him missed the life he had left behind. Ron's Cessna and the freedom it brought. The Bell Jet Ranger over at Van Nuys. But no amount of money, no job, no status could make him go back. He had finally broken free. And yet, in that newfound freedom, he realized that it came with its own set of problems. But he had faced worse—at least, that's what he told himself. It were different things, that he had had to face in his earlier days.
Before he finally dozed off, he mentally made a list of things he needed to settle. One thing, in particular, gnawed at him. He had to retrieve something from the oil fields—something personal, locked away in a locker he'd had since he was six years old. It was behind the office container, near where the security guard's station was, so he couldn't just slip in at night, that would be too obvious.
His gun was in that locker. And a few things that had belonged to his mother.
"You had a gun?" Audrey interrupted, her voice full of surprise.
"Yes," Jack replied simply.
"Why?"
"I don't know. Everyone had one." To him, it seemed like a non-issue, just a part of the life he had lived.
"Well, I don't have one," Audrey said pointedly, bringing his casual statement into stark contrast with her own life.
"Everyone I knew had one."
Audrey still couldn't quite wrap her head around it. "Why didn't you just leave it behind?"
Jack hesitated, his voice growing quieter. "It was an illegal one," he admitted, a touch of hesitation creeping into his tone. How many things had he confessed to Audrey over the past few days? He had lost count. It was as if talking to her peeled back layers he wasn't used to exposing, and part of him wondered when—if—she'd hit a point where she'd finally say that it was too much, that she didn't want to have anything to do with a guy like him.
"Why did you have an illegal gun?" Audrey's curiosity was piqued, but it was laced with concern.
"I got it when I was 14. Dad didn't allow it, but I knew a guy." Jack's mind flickered back to those years—those wild, reckless days spent around the motorcycle track. There were always 'guys' around for whatever you needed back then. He could have bought a lot worse stuff.
But there was more he hadn't yet told her. The gun was just one item in the locker. It just was the one he wanted to retrieve, because it could get him into trouble. The real treasure was the collection of personal things he had stored there over the years, away from the house in Glenn Canyon Drive—everything that had ever mattered to him. Memories. The copy of Bill's journal. A few precious belongings that had once belonged to his mother. Things too dear to leave behind. His room in his father's house was basically an empty shell, filled with clothes and school books.
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Jack hoped to blend into the morning traffic. Around eight, the shifts at the oil fields began, which meant dozens of men—about forty in total—were arriving, scattered across the various teams. It was an endless stream of cars, and he hoped to slip in unnoticed. The security guards at the entrance knew him, and though the first clash with his father had happened three days ago, the final clash had only been yesterday. Jack hoped the news hadn't reached the oil fields yet—that he had quit and was no longer part of the team.
He planned to pass through the gates as usual, exchange the routine hellos, head straight to the lockers, and grab his things. As he neared the fields, Jack's thoughts drifted to the men who had been fired. Were they still there, working until the end of the month? Or had they left two days ago when the axe had fallen? What did they know? He could drive further into the fields, towards their station, saying hello, but actually he didn't have the heart to face them. Despite the camaraderie he had once shared with Sergio and his team, the idea of looking into their eyes and having to say goodbye now filled him with dread.
Turning off the main road onto the familiar gravel path, his back still aching from a night spent on the hard ground, he spotted the familiar cluster of Greenpeace protesters.
Teri had seen him from a distance. She had joined her friends today, standing beside the road, holding her sign, though she hadn't even dared to hope she'd see him again. Yet there she stood, her eyes suddenly widening with joy because of the red and white motorcycle she saw in the distance. Jack.
His speed looked almost reasonable today, and without thinking, she stepped forward, throwing her new sign to the ground and waving her hand.
Jack saw her late, his mind tangled with the worries of the day ahead. Despite the fact that he had spent a good portion of the previous night thinking about both the breakup with Marilyn and also couldn't get that girl out of his head, whose sign he had rammed into the pot just outside his father's office, the worries of going back to the oil fields had pushed all other thoughts out of his mind as he approached, his view glued to the gates ahead.
He hit the brakes hard, bringing the bike to a sliding stop that kicked up a thick cloud of dust, engulfing both of them. Jack pulled off his helmet and immediately started coughing. Teri was coughing too, waving her hands to disperse the dust around them. But her presence immediately cheered him up.
Finally, they looked at each other, both smiling through their laughter and the occasional cough.
"Sorry," was all Jack managed to say between the laughs and gasps for air. He hadn't meant to cover her in dust again, but he had seen her too late, and the quick stop had been inevitable.
"Late for work?" she asked, teasing him about why he was here again.
Jack shook his head. "No, I'm just clearing out my locker," he explained. "I hope they still let me in."
She sensed his unease, how uncomfortable he felt about being here. With a grin, she grabbed her sign, tucking it under her arm like a lance in some knightly joust as though preparing to charge toward the gates.
"I'll pass this time," Jack remarked with a slight smile. He wasn't about to show up at the entrance with a protest sign in tow. He wanted to get in quietly, grab his things, and leave without attracting any attention. In quickly, out quickly.
"Will you stop by on the way back?" Teri asked, her voice soft with anticipation.
His simple "okay" made her heart leap, and she watched him ride away, already looking forward to his return.
At the gate, the security guard barely glanced at Jack as he passed through. They knew the red and white bike and the man who rode it—the boss's son. No one stopped him, and he went straight to the lockers. But as soon as he walked in, he froze.
Sergio and two other members of his team were there, clearing out their own lockers. The moment they spotted Jack, the men fell silent, exchanging brief glances before returning to their packing.
Jack felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He wasn't sure what to do—whether to say anything at all. Finally, he spoke up. "No debería haber ocurrido de esa manera." (It shouldn't have happened that way.)
Sergio nodded but said nothing, turning back to his locker, continuing to pack his things. The other men followed suit, the silence heavy between them.
Jack opened his mouth to say more, but before he could, Sergio raised a hand to stop him. "No queremos oírlo. Tenías tus razones." (We don't want to hear it. You had your reasons.)
"¿Tenía mis razones?" (I had my reasons?) Jack was taken aback. He could hear the hurt in Sergio's voice, it was more than just hurt because of having lost his job. "¿Qué quieres decir con eso?" (What do you mean by that?)
"Tu hermano nos contó sobre tu decisión de despedir a todos los trabajadores mexicanos."
(Your brother told us about your decision to lay off all the Mexican workers), one of the other men said, his voice thick with bitterness.
The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. He felt a sudden wave of fury rise inside him, and before he could stop himself, he drove his fist into the metal door of his locker, leaving a large dent. His hand throbbed from the impact, but the physical pain barely registered. What hurt more was the lie Graem had fed the men. His brother had twisted the truth, telling them that the decision to fire them had been Jack's.
Sergio sensed something wasn't right. He muttered something to the other two men before stepping closer to Jack, speaking in a low voice. "¿Por qué has venido a vernos?" (Why have you come to see us?)
"Yo no vine a verlos," (I didn't come to see you), Jack said, still seething. "Solo estoy vaciando mi casillero. Igual que ustedes." (I'm just clearing my locker. Same as you.) He glanced at the dented door, punched in his code, and was relieved when it opened normally. He had hoped for a little privacy to gather his personal things, but now he felt rushed, watched. He opened his bag and hurriedly shoved everything in—his mother's keepsakes, the small wooden box that held his gun, the ammunition, his personal notes, and an old pair of leather gloves.
"¿A dónde vas?" (Where are you going?) Sergio asked, curiosity in his eyes. He figured Jack was done with the oil fields, probably heading off to college or taking a cushy job at the headquarters, leaving the dirt and the grit behind.
"Dejé el trabajo" (I quit), Jack said simply.
Sergio didn't quite understand at first.
"Me voy de la compañía" (I'm leaving the company), Jack clarified, his voice soft but final.
Sergio stared at him, wide-eyed. To Jack, Sergio had once been like a second father. He remembered all the moments they had shared—how Sergio had helped him fix his dirt bike after his first crash, age seven, how he had taught Jack to weld, age nine. He remembered Sergio's wife's chili, the drives home, the tin cans Sergio saved for Jack to use as shooting targets out in the desert. Sergio had known about the illegal gun, but he had never said a word.
"Nunca quise que despidieran a nadie" (I never wanted anyone to get fired), Jack said, his voice barely above a whisper as he bit down on his emotions. He wasn't sure what hurt more—Graem's latest betrayal or the pain of leaving behind the people who had been like family to him.
Jack couldn't stay any longer. The emotions were too raw, the memories too heavy. He turned on his heel and left without another word. Shouldering his now even heavier bag, he mounted his bike, and rode away, leaving everything behind.
When Jack left the gates of the oil fields, he drove at an uncharacteristically slow pace. It was only about two hundred yards to the exit where the main street met the protesters' camp, but the short distance was longer the more he dragged it out, thankful for each second he had to gather himself. The encounter with Sergio and the men had rattled him more than even his dramatic exit from his father's office. Leaving the company, his father, and the house on Glenn Canyon Drive had made him feel liberated, unshackled. But losing Sergio and his friends from the oil fields felt like a real loss.
Losing wealth, status, the company—none of that mattered. It was the loss of personal connections, of trust and friendship, that stung. Even more than losing Marilyn. That realization unsettled him. Maybe he had been too hard on her. In his mind, she had become part of the game, tied into the manipulation orchestrated by Philip and Ron, and that had definitely changed his feelings towards her. And though she was part of it all, it wasn't her fault. She hadn't asked to be caught up in that web.
As he reached the Greenpeace protesters' camp, the small, abandoned house near the exit came into view. It was locked, but in it's shade, that's where they kept their bags, the surplus signs, and parked their old, beaten-up cars. Jack veered his bike off the gravel road and through the open field, parking next to the house that he had passed a few hundred times in his life, but never stopped at. He quickly removed his helmet, ran a hand over his face, and slid on his mirrored aviator sunglasses to mask the sadness—just in time, before Teri reached him.
"Hey," she greeted him, her smile warm and genuine.
Jack returned the smile, though it felt forced, and got off the bike. "Hi."
Teri had brought a second sign, clearly intended for him to join their protest, but the moment she looked at him, she knew he wasn't in the mood. The lightness and the fire that had been in his eyes yesterday was absent now.
"What's up?" she asked, her tone soft, tinged with concern.
Jack heard the genuine worry in her voice. His smile hadn't been convincing enough. He placed his bag down next to the bike and tried his usual response: "Everything's alright."
But it wasn't, and even he knew the words rang hollow.
"Did they let you in to get your stuff?" Teri asked, glancing at the bag, trying to gauge his mood.
He nodded, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him. "Yeah."
She watched him closely, clearly noticing that nothing was alright. Whatever had happened to Jack in these last twenty minutes was weighing on him heavily, far more than he was willing to admit. She wanted to help, to offer something, anything to make him feel better.
"Do you want something to drink?" she asked, trying to sound casual but searching for a way to ease his tension.
Jack attempted a smile, throwing out a half-hearted joke. "You got beer?"
She grinned, catching the joke but sensing the truth behind it—he probably wouldn't have minded something stronger. "Nope. Got 7 Up's. In the cooler."
The offer sounded better than expected. Jack realized he hadn't had anything to drink or eat since the day before, and suddenly the idea of an ice-cold 7 Up seemed like more than okay. He nodded, his smile more genuine this time, appreciating the small gesture of care.
As Teri turned to grab the drinks, Jack glanced down at his bag. That was all he had left. A strange accumulation of things – a few photos, clothes, some things that had belonged to his mother, a gun, his documents. And of course, his bike. Probably a man didn't need more than that to start a new life. He'd have to find out.
Jack shrugged off his leather jacket and sat down on the dry, cracked ground beside the abandoned house, finding shade in its shadow. The heat of the day was already creeping up. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, trying to shake off everything that had happened.
Sitting there, Jack became aware of how gritty he felt. He hadn't showered since yesterday morning, and his white t-shirt, now streaked with dirt from sleeping on the bare ground, clung to his skin. His hair was a mess, like always, but now even sweat and dust were mixing in. It was a far cry from the life he had left behind.
He glanced over at Teri, who was pulling two soft drinks out of a cooler. She moved with such ease, and Jack instantly knew she wouldn't care about all this. It didn't matter here. This wasn't like going home, where Marilyn would have been horrified at the sight of him, pushing him to get rid of the stench and re-enter the polished world he had never really belonged to. He'd barely managed to fit in there.
Out here, though, he suddenly realized what freedom also meant. Freedom from the polished constraints of a world he'd always resented. Here, there was no need to adjust, no pressure to be someone he wasn't. For once, he felt like he could just be.
Teri returned soon after, carrying two chilled 7 Ups. She handed one to him with a soft smile, sitting down beside him. For a while, they sipped their drinks in comfortable silence. Teri asked for how long he'd been riding bikes, and Jack mentioned some stories from his youth, about how his love for motorcycles had started when he was just a boy. It was light, easy conversation, but Jack's mind was never too far from the heaviness that still lingered in the back of his thoughts. He left out the parts that would have connected him to his father, to the company they were protesting against, to the polished world that he had just exited.
As he stared off into the distance, something caught his eye. Far down the road, he saw an old pickup truck rumbling towards them, kicking up dust on the gravel road. Jack's chest tightened. It was Sergio's truck, the same battered vehicle Sergio had driven for years. It hadn't changed at all—Jack remembered it well. Back when he was younger, Sergio would drive him back to the city in that very pickup, Jack's bicycle loaded into the bed. It was strange to see it now, realizing that this might be the last time he ever saw it, the last time Sergio would ever exit the gates to the oil fields.
The truck didn't just drive by.
Sergio slowed down and pulled to a stop at the side of the road, because he had spotted Jack's red and white motorcycle parked by the house. Jack, aware of the situation, without a word set down his drink, stood up, and walked across the open field toward him.
Teri stayed back an watched from a distance, sensing the weight of the moment. She saw the tension in Jack's body as he approached the truck, his steps slow and deliberate. The other protesters also stood back, not wanting to interfere.
When Jack reached the truck, Sergio was already standing outside of it, waiting for him. The two men stood face to face for a moment. Teri watched them from far. She could immediately see they were friends, good friends. Whoever that guy was, he seemed to mean a lot to Jack. She didn't hear the exact words they were saying, but she could make out they were speaking Spanish.
They exchanged words—quiet, honest, filled with the finality of everything left unsaid until now. Sergio shook his head. He couldn't believe Jack was leaving the company. He had pictured a future in which Jack would be leading it. Jack told Sergio that he hadn't wanted any of this, that he had never wanted anyone to get fired. That he still believed Manuel's death, a month ago, wasn't their fault: it was an accident, caused by an organizational weakness. It wasn't about blame anymore; it was about parting ways with respect. Finally, after all the talking was done, there was nothing left but a long, heartfelt embrace.
Teri watched Jack stay by the roadside, still, as Sergio climbed back into his truck. The engine roared to life, and Jack stood there, unmoving, as the pickup slowly rolled away, disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust. Even after Sergio had driven out of sight, Jack remained there, staring into the distance, lost in thought.
The other protesters remained quiet for once, not harassing Sergio with their signs and slogans. They just let him go – he seemed to be the friend of a friend (Jack) of a friend (Teri).
Finally, Jack turned and walked back to where she was still sitting, his strides even slower now. He was grateful for the mirrored sunglasses, grateful that they could hide the sadness in his eyes. But when he sat down next to Teri again, she could see right through him.
She spoke to him in Spanish, a soft attempt to connect, to offer comfort in what she – right now – believed to be his own language.
"¿Estás bien?" she asked, her voice gentle, filled with genuine care.
Jack, surprised by her perfect Spanish and touched by her effort, responded simply, "Sí, estoy bien," though they both knew the words didn't quite match the truth.
Teri didn't press any further for now. She didn't need to. The silence between them felt enough for now. Jack leaned back, sipping the last of his 7up, grateful for this small, quiet moment of peace.
After a while, she quietly slipped a little closer to him, her movements gentle, as if not wanting to disturb him too much or invade his privacy. She just rested her head on his shoulder, offering the only comfort she felt he was ready to accept—nothing more. It was a simple gesture, but one filled with understanding.
She lifted her gaze slightly, glancing at him before speaking softly, her voice low and tender in Spanish. "Parecía un buen hombre." (He seemed like a nice guy.)
Jack nodded, his voice equally soft, as he let his memories of Sergio float by. "Lo era. Fue como un padre para mí." (He was. He was like a father to me.) As Jack spoke Spanish with Teri, a rare sense of comfort settled over him. The language reminded him of the good old days, back when life was simpler—before the chaos, before the betrayals. It felt familiar, like slipping into an old, well-worn jacket. It had always been his secret code, the language he used to write notes that his father and Graem wouldn't be able to read, the language reserved for the good times at households of his earliest childhood friends and the workers on the oil fields.
Teri shifted slightly, still leaning into him but looking up with curiosity. "¿Era un compañero de trabajo?" (Was he a colleague?)
Jack hesitated for a moment, not wanting to explain the full truth. He altered it just enough to simplify things. "Nos despidieron a todos." (We were all fired.)
Her brow furrowed as she processed his words. "¿Por qué?" (Why?)
Jack let out a small sigh, glancing away as if the answer had worn him down. "Dije lo que pensaba." (I spoke my mind.)
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"So you and Teri spoke Spanish?" Audrey's voice carried a hint of surprise. "Why? Always?" It raised so much more questions than it answered.
"No, usually not. I don't know why," Jack replied, pausing for a moment as he thought about it. He had never really questioned it before. "When I came back over, she just started to." He paused again, reflecting on Teri's reasons, even if she had never explained them. "She had this… sixth sense about people. She always knew when someone was feeling off, and she'd somehow figure out exactly what to do to make it better."
His words hung in the air for a moment, the memory pulling him back to that day. That had been the exact right thing at the time. She had managed to catch him off guard, to break through the outermost layer of the wall he had been building around himself. Her instinct had been uncanny—just when he needed it most, she knew how to reach him.
"Teri wasn't like Marilyn," he continued, his voice softening. "Marilyn… she focused on herself, on society, on being perfect… blending in. Nothing of that mattered for Teri."
Jack dismissed the thought quickly, as if just mentioning Marilyn's name brought a heaviness to the conversation. He didn't want to dwell on that now—not after talking about Teri, who had been the complete opposite. It wasn't Marilyn's fault either. They had just been different, like day and night.
Audrey was quiet for a moment, absorbing everything he said. Jack's reflections on Teri were soft—already looking back at that day through the lens of the affection he later shared for her—and Audrey could immediately feel the depth of what Teri had meant to him, early on.