Chapter 29
That night, the alcohol numbed Jack's thoughts, dulled his pain, and blurred the lines between right and wrong.
He barely registered Clara helping him up the stairs to his apartment, her arm firmly around his waist as he fumbled with the keys. When the door finally swung open, he nearly fell inside, catching himself against the wall.
"You're a mess," Clara teased, slipping the keys from his fingers and closing the door behind them.
Jack chuckled, though it came out more like a groan. "You're kind." His words slurred slightly, his body swaying.
Clara smirked, guiding him toward his bedroom. "I've always been kind," she murmured. "You were just too blinded by that girl to see it."
Jack turned to face her, his vision hazy. Their eyes met in the dim light of the room. Clara's hand rested lightly on his chest, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, before he could fully process it, her lips were on his.
The kiss was slow at first, almost hesitant, but then something desperate took hold. Jack's hands found her waist as she pressed closer, the warmth of her body seeping into his own. His heart pounded in his chest, the alcohol dulling his better judgment, making everything feel distant—except for her.
Before he knew it, their movements became more frantic. Fingers fumbled with buttons, fabric fell to the floor, and reason slipped away entirely.
Jack wasn't thinking about Rose.
He wasn't thinking about war.
He wasn't thinking at all.
The room was spinning slightly, or maybe it was just Jack's head. The warmth of the brandy in his veins blurred his thoughts, dulled the weight of everything that had been pressing down on him—Rose's anger, the war looming ahead, the uncertainty of his future. But Clara was here, solid and steady, holding onto him like she had always been waiting for this moment.
He didn't resist when she guided him toward the bed, her fingers slipping under his coat, helping him shrug it off. The fabric fell to the floor with a dull thud.
"You need to lie down before you collapse," she murmured, but her voice was softer now, her fingers lingering against the buttons of his shirt.
Jack let out a breathy chuckle, swaying slightly. "You're kind," he mumbled again.
Clara tilted her head, her dark eyes searching his. "I've always been kind," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were just too blinded by that girl to see it."
The words hit something deep inside of him, but before he could process them, before he could even say Rose's name, Clara leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
Jack inhaled sharply through his nose, startled. But he didn't pull away.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative. Clara's lips were warm and smooth, tasting faintly of wine. Her hands slid up his chest, gripping his shirt as if she was afraid he would stop her.
But he didn't.
Because for the first time in weeks, the chaos in his mind quieted.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. Clara let out a small gasp, her fingers slipping into his hair, tugging gently. The sensation sent a shiver down Jack's spine. His body felt hot, but whether it was from the alcohol or the way Clara pressed against him, he wasn't sure.
Before he knew it, they were stumbling toward the bed. Fingers fumbled with buttons, fabric was pushed aside, and reason faded into the background.
Jack wasn't thinking about Rose's furious voice over the telephone.
He wasn't thinking about the war that would take him far from here.
He wasn't thinking about what this would mean in the morning.
All that mattered was the heat of Clara's skin against his, the way she whispered his name like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
….
Clara sat up in bed, the sheets pooled around her waist as she watched Jack move stiffly around the room. His head was pounding, his stomach turning from the alcohol still thick in his system. His mouth tasted like regret.
"You look as though you regret it, Jack," Clara said, her voice smooth and unbothered, as if nothing about this moment unsettled her.
Jack didn't answer right away. He grabbed his shirt from the chair, pulling it over his head with sluggish movements. His body ached—not just from the hangover, but from the weight of what had happened. He finally turned to look at her, his jaw tight.
"You're married, Clara."
Clara let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she reached for her own clothes. "Married people do stuff like this all the time," she said, as if that excused it. "Besides, my husband is out of town for weeks at a time. He hardly even notices when I'm around."
Jack exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "That's not the point," he muttered. He was angry—at himself, at the situation, at how easy it had been to lose himself in her last night. But mostly, he felt sick about it.
Clara stood, completely unashamed, slipping into her dress with slow, deliberate movements. "You've been planning on this, haven't you?" Jack accused, watching her closely.
Clara smirked slightly, adjusting the fabric over her shoulders. "I won't lie and say the thought hadn't crossed my mind," she admitted. "You were upset. You needed comfort." She walked toward him, placing a hand on his chest. "And I gave it to you."
Jack stepped back, his fingers tightening around the fabric of her coat as he handed it to her. "Now go back to your husband," he said, his voice cold.
Clara hesitated for only a moment before taking the coat from him. "Suit yourself," she said with a careless shrug. But as she reached the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Jack. Last night wasn't just me—you wanted it too."
Jack didn't answer. He just stood there, his head throbbing, his stomach churning, as the door clicked shut behind her.
….
The room was full of motion and noise—the rustling of duffel bags, the scraping of drawers being pulled open, the clatter of boots and belts and metal buttons hitting wood. Jack moved around slowly, folding his things with care, each crease more like a delay than a necessity. The excitement that had once lived in his chest—bright and urgent—had settled into something quieter, heavier. The war was no longer a concept. It was a departure. It was real.
Carl and Vincent were arguing over a canteen and a missing pair of socks, but Jack barely heard them. His hands moved mechanically, rolling a shirt, tucking it in next to his shaving kit. His mind was elsewhere—drifting to a memory so vivid it made his fingers pause mid-motion.
He could still see the worn rug of his childhood living room, the faded red pattern frayed at the edges from years of use. He and Maureen were ten, sprawled out like two lazy cats beneath the big bay window, sunlight spilling onto their faces. Summer had crept in through the open windows, thick and warm. They'd spent the afternoon drawing castles and monsters, filling whole pages with wild imagination. When they tired of that, they just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Maureen asked, her voice dreamy.
Jack turned his head toward her. "A painter," he said without hesitation. "A famous one. With huge canvases and my own studio."
Maureen grinned. "I think that's exactly what you're going to be. And you'll marry some famous model who'll sit around all day being your muse."
Jack laughed, rolling onto his side. "Famous painter sounds great. But married? I don't think I ever want to be married."
"Me neither," Maureen said, laughing with him. "But if I had to marry someone…"
She paused.
"I'd choose you, Jack."
He looked at her then. Really looked. The freckles across her cheeks, the gap in her teeth, her big brown eyes full of mischief and sincerity.
"And I you, Maureen," he said softly.
They lay in silence a moment, the promise lingering in the space between them.
"Then let's make a deal," Maureen said, her pinky reaching toward his. "If we're both old and miserably lonely, we'll marry each other."
Jack hooked his pinky with hers. "Deal."
The weight of the memories pressed down on Jack, each one like a heavy stone settling into his chest. He could still hear Maureen's voice in his head, light and teasing, telling him he would be famous. He could still see her eyes, full of that simple childhood hope, as if their futures were set in stone. He could almost feel her pinky wrapped around his own, that simple promise that they would always have each other. But she was gone now, too, her face fading with the years. The faces of all the others—George, his parents and brother—came to him now, like ghosts, reminding him of everything he had already lost. And now, he was about to step into the unknown, with no certainty that he would ever return to the people who still mattered most.
Jack closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, but it was no use. The tears burned at the corners of his eyes. He quickly wiped them away, trying to push them down. He couldn't afford to break down now. Not when he had already made the decision, not when there was no turning back.
Just as he sat there, lost in the swirl of grief and uncertainty, he heard a knock on his door.
"Jack?" Vincent's voice called from the other side.
Jack wiped his face quickly, standing up to answer. He opened the door, and there stood Vincent, dressed in his uniform, his expression serious but not unkind.
"We need to leave for the station," Vincent said, his voice quiet, as if he knew Jack needed a moment. "It's time."
Jack nodded, swallowing hard, trying to push the raw emotion away. "Yeah. I'll be right there."
Vincent gave him a brief look, almost as if he could sense the turmoil swirling inside Jack, but he didn't push. He simply nodded and turned to walk down the hallway, giving Jack the space he needed.
Jack stared at the empty room for a moment longer, the cluttered desk, the drawings on the wall, and the absence of his former life. He thought of Rose, too, her anger, her hurt. He thought of all the promises made and broken, all the love he had once held in his hands.
He took a deep breath, the kind that felt like it might pull the air from his lungs, and then he squared his shoulders. He was leaving. He was going to fight, for a cause that felt distant, detached from everything he had once known.
He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door. The weight of everything he was carrying—physically and emotionally—settled on him with each step, but still, he kept moving forward.
When he reached the stairs, he glanced back one last time, the room behind him now a chapter closed. And as he followed Vincent down toward the street, he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there would be no way to come back from this.
…..
The table was alive with laughter, flickering candle light bouncing off crystal glasses and fine china. The room was filled with music from a phonograph in the corner, the hum of a bustling dinner party floating like perfume in the air.
Rose sat at John's side, her dark hair pinned in elegant waves, a string of pearls resting just above the neckline of her silk dress. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, her laughter polite, if a little distant.
Across the table, a friend raised a glass.
"To our rising star—Miss Rose Williams, in her first motion picture role!"
Everyone cheered. Rose smiled, raising her glass in return.
"Thank you," she said, a little breathlessly. "Truly… I still don't believe it's real."
John leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Believe it, darling. You were made for the screen."
"Do tell us more," another guest chimed in. "What kind of picture is it? Will it be one of those dramatic romances?"
Rose nodded. "Yes. It's set during the Spanish-American war. I'm playing a nurse… a woman torn between duty and love." She chuckled softly. "Seems fitting."
There was another wave of laughter, though John glanced at her, catching something unreadable in her eyes for a brief second. A shadow passing behind the gleam.
He slipped his hand over hers beneath the table. "You're magnificent. You deserve this, Rose."
She looked at him and smiled, softer this time, grateful for the distraction he'd been, for the shelter he'd provided when her world cracked open. She squeezed his hand gently.
As the guests returned to their chatter, Rose glanced toward the window. The reflection of the chandelier shimmered in the glass, but behind it was only darkness. She hadn't spoken Jack's name in weeks—not to John, not to Lucinda, not even to herself. Her days had been too full, too packed with rehearsals, fittings, meetings, smiles that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Dessert had been served, wine poured generously, and the warmth of the gathering had only deepened. The table buzzed with stories and laughter, forks clinking against plates. Rose was leaned slightly toward John, laughing at a story one of their friends was telling when suddenly, the room began to quiet.
John stood from his seat.
"Forgive the interruption, everyone," he said, lifting his glass gently before placing it down. "But I'd like to say something."
Rose looked up at him, startled, her smile faltering slightly.
John looked at her, his eyes kind but serious, and then reached into his coat pocket. Her breath caught when she saw the small velvet box.
"We've all watched Rose grow into something extraordinary this past year. She's the most talented, most determined woman I've ever met." He looked back down at her, his voice steady. "And I've been lucky—so lucky—to stand beside her as she's found her light."
He opened the box to reveal a delicate ring.
"Rose… marry me."
A hush fell over the room. Everyone's eyes turned to her.
Rose froze for a moment. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her mind reeled. She hadn't expected this—not tonight, not like this.
John knelt beside her chair, still holding out the ring. "I love you. I want to build a life with you. Say yes."
There was a pause, her throat tight, but then—slowly—Rose nodded. "Yes," she whispered.
Applause broke out around the table. Someone gasped in delight. Someone else was already crying.
John stood and slid the ring onto her finger, and Rose let him. She let herself be pulled into his arms as everyone cheered and toasted, glasses raised high. He kissed her deeply, then lifted her hand in the air to show everyone the ring. It wasn't only their friends who were roaring with excitement, the whole restaurant had burst out into loud cheers for the couple.
Hours later, the quiet hum of the city settling down filled the air. Street lamps cast golden halos in the misty dark, and laughter still echoed faintly from the last of the revelers lingering behind. Rose and John walked slowly, arm in arm, her heels dangling from her fingers and her hair a little undone from dancing.
She leaned into him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, tipsy and tired but glowing from the evening. The ring on her finger still felt unfamiliar, heavy almost.
John glanced down at her, his smile soft and unwavering. "Ever since I saw you in the dining room that night, I knew I was going to marry you one day."
Rose looked up at him, her eyes slightly glazed from champagne but alert in the way that meant she was still listening.
"You've made me the happiest man in the world, Rose," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She smiled, though faintly.
"You always know what to say," she murmured.
"I mean it. You saved me from a boring, miserable life, you know."
Rose didn't answer right away. She looked ahead, watching the shadows of buildings flicker past, thinking of the different kinds of saving people did. She thought of how John had helped her feel steady when her world felt like it was breaking, how he never asked more of her than she could give. And she also thought of Jack, of the heat in his hands, the ache in his voice, the way he made her feel alive and raw and unmade.
"I'm happy," she said quietly, as if trying to convince herself.
John smiled again and held her tighter.
They reached her building and paused under the awning. Rose turned toward him.
"Come up?" she asked, more out of habit than desire.
John shook his head. "Not tonight," he said gently. "Tonight was perfect. I want to remember it just like this."
She nodded, grateful. She kissed his cheek, then lingered a moment longer before turning to go.
As she walked up the steps to her apartment, she slipped the key into the door, paused, and looked down at the ring. She twisted it once around her finger, staring at it.
Then she stepped inside.
She didn't turn on the lights. She stood in the dark, the sound of the city soft behind her, and slowly, quietly, she stumbled towards her bedroom.