January 2007

Jen Lindley turned over in bed and looked into Davis Mozell's face.

"Good morning, Beautiful," he said, kissing her.

"Good morning."

He pulled her into his arms.

"We could always take the day off, you know. It's so cold out, wouldn't you just like to stay in?"

"I wish I could. I really wish I could, but I have to give test today."

"Oh, pish posh. No one really wants to know about feminism in poetry, anyway."

She pinched his cheek roughly. "Oh, yes they do, and I have the class roll to prove it."

"I know, I know. I admit it, I have ulterior motives. Come on, stay in bed with me."

"I can't. You know I have to be great at this teaching gig or it won't pay off my tuition."

She had started on her dissertation, titled ‘Feminism in Modern Writing.' Grams hadn't been able to pay for any schooling beyond a master's degree, and her parents had disowned her long ago, so she was forced to teach a class while going to school.

"Oh, you're such a party pooper," he said, pouting.

"Get up," she said, pulling the covers down. "Let's get ready and eat breakfast together."

They sat at the breakfast table next to each other. Davis read the morning paper and Jen read the latest ‘Entertainment Weekly.'

"Honey?" Davis put down his paper and studied his watch.

"Yeah?" Jen replied.

"I better get going. I'm going to be late." He stood up, kissed her forehead, grabbed his briefcase, and walked into the foyer of her apartment.

Jen looked after him longingly. When she was younger, she always pictured the man she would end up with. She would never have imagined that he would be a college professor – *her* former college professor – and twenty years her senior. But she loved him, she did, and she wouldn't have been able to get through Grams death without him.

She needed to head over to his apartment that afternoon, to pick up more of his clothes. He kept his own apartment for appearances sake, but he hadn't slept there in months. Jen wondered if he even kept up the electricity bills.

Picking a pair of his pants off the floor on her way to the bedroom, she sighed like a tenth-grader. The smell of him still made her weak at the knees.

"It is my hope that sometime in the course of our time together, it will become second nature for you to recognize the feminist overtones in works of literature. Believe me, they are there. If you refer to your syllabus, you'll see that your first essay is due on Friday. Come to me for you topic assignments. Thank you for your patience with the test today; next time, I'll try to number the pages correctly," she paused for the few laughs she heard, then went on. "Okay, that's it for today. See you on Friday." She closed her folded and took it down off the podium. As she was gathering her things off the overhead, she Davis walk up behind her.

He telegraphed a "all-business" look and walked toward her.

"Dr. Lindley," he greeted her.

"Dr. Mozell," she smiled as she replied.

This pretending that they were nothing but colleagues, as silly as it was, excited Jen and reignited a childish part of herself that fed off of danger.

She watched the last straggler get his bags together and exit the room. Davis came behind her, wrapped his arms around her back, and pulled her into him. He kissed her head, then turned her around to face him.

"How long are you staying tonight?" she asked.

"Let's see, I have a meeting with a student in an hour, should be home after that."

"Great. Stay out as long as you want. I have got to get that damn dissertation finished, or it'll start making me feel guilty that people are already calling me Dr. Lindley."

He smiled.

"Oh, I just love the sound of that -- Dr. Lindley," she said dreamily. "Well, I better get going. See you tonight, Baby."

"Bye, Dr. Lindley," he said, as if he were a naughty schoolboy.

She had been stuck on the same sentence for the past fifteen minutes. She couldn't make it fit in the paragraph, but it had to be there.

"Damn," she said silently, as she leaned back in her chair and studied the screen doubtfully. "Damn, damn, damn."

She glanced over the paper in front of her. A hell of a lot of good this outline did, she said silently to herself. Giving up for the moment, she got up from her chair. She walked out on the balcony, did a few stretches, and looked out at the downtown Dallas skyline.

That was another thing. She would never have imagined herself living in Dallas. Much less living in Dallas with a man old enough to be her father, working on her doctorate.

In the end, Davis was why her parents had disowned her once again. Throughout the remainder of high school and college, she'd been on good terms with them. They'd even allowed Jack to live with them during his first month at Columbia. After she'd moved to Dallas, found Davis, and began a happy life here, they'd had enough. They continued to want to control her, and she just couldn't allow that. She hadn't spoken to them since Grams' funeral.

She was getting more and more irritated with her paper and it's lackluster progress. She picked up the phone and dialed a number that she knew by heart. She listened through four rings, and was beginning to check her watch, concerned about the time change.

"Hello, Jack McPhee's office, how may I help you?"

"Hi, Lewis, this is Jen. Is Jack there?"

"Just a moment, please," he replied, chipper but official.

"Let me guess," he said, knowingly. "Today is . . . Wednesday. So," he said, thinking. "You took off the day to finish this one certain chapter you just can't get done for some reason, but this particular sentence just wouldn't work – probably had to do with Grendel's mother in Beowulf and why she was an early feminist or something like that. Anyway, Davis isn't coming home for a few hours and if you sit next to the computer for any longer you're just going to die. I bet you're wearing your U of D t-shirt with the paint stains on the sleeves from the time that you helped me decorate my bedroom with those terrible tight shorts that you think are so cute. Am I right?"

"Actually, it was a deconstruction of Woolf's ‘A Room of One's Own.' Beowulf isn't even in my paper. So there!" she told him, playing along.

"Ah . . . details, details." He laughed.

"And how are you, Jack McPhee?"

"I'm good. Great, since you called."

"I'm glad to hear your voice."

"Me too."

"So, tell me what's up?" She hadn't talked to him in over two weeks, and she needed an update.

"With me? Oh, you know, the usual. Just deliriously happy. The Winslow project is going through perfectly, and ‘the New Yorker' just finished an article on yours truly, the up-and-coming architect of the year."

"Color me impressed. Do you have a copy of it to send."

"Are you kidding? I bought out the stand on the corner," he said, laughing.

"Wonderful. How's Paul?"

"Perfect. Perfect and lovely and adorable. I constantly feel the urge to look at him and sigh happily."

"That's so great, Jack. So great," she said, and meant it.

"And how's Davis?"

"Let me just put it this way, Jack. He asks me to stay home in bed every morning. And I promise, he doesn't mean to sleep."

"Wow-wee," Jack said, whistling. "So do you? Stay home every morning, that is?"

"Of course not. I have one more class to pay for."

"Tsk-tsk, Jennifer."

"Oh give me a break. My brain has taken up so much space that my sex drive has become tiny."

"Ha. I doubt that."

There was a moment of silence, then they both started to talk at once.

"So when are you coming to see me?" Jack's voice rose above hers.

"When are *you* coming to see me?" Jen replied.

"When you move out of Texas, that's when," he said, joking.

She laughed. "I'm so busy right now. I doubt I'll be able to get up there until October. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. It's no good to be apart this long."

"No good at all."

"Well, I guess I should get going. I have a little lunch date in Paul's office," Jack said.

"Ooh, have fun."

"You too, Babe."

"Thanks," Jen said.

"Love you."

"Love you too, Jack. Talk to you later."

"Bye!"

He hung the phone up on the receiver at the corner of his desk.

He surveyed the room, then looked down at his watch. Noon. Happiness rose up inside him, and he got up out of his chair, heading down the hall to Paul's office.

He knocked impatiently, and opened the door slightly. Paul, on his fifth phone call of the morning, motioned him in.

"Yeah. Yes. Okay. Uh-huh. No, I doubt it. Alright, let me know. Bye." He hung up the phone and walked toward Jack, kissing him on the cheek.

"Hey there."

"Hey."

"Let me tell Molly to order some lunch."

"Yum."

"Okay, just a second."

Jack took at seat at the leather sofa. During college, Jen had always told him that workplace romances are never good. Now they were both involved in them. He laughed silently, missing her again.

Because he was a partner, Paul's office was the biggest on the floor. It made Jack's own above- average-sized office feel like a cardboard box. This didn't bother Jack in the least because he calculated that he spent most of his time in Paul office, anyway.

Paul reentered and took a seat next to Jack. "I'm glad you could come today," he said, patting his leg.

"I'm glad you could fit me in."

They heard a knock on the door, and Paul motioned for Molly to enter. She held a tray of food, which Paul took from her and set on the coffee table in front of them. They both dug into their pasta hungrily, eating in silence for five or six minutes.

"How's the Morgan account?" Jack finally asked.

"I don't know if we're going to be able to put it on Ninth, which is where they wanted it. I'm talking to them about New Jersey. They're not too interested in being outside the city, though. Who knows?"

"There's no more space in the city. Hasn't been since the late sixties," Jack said.

"I know that, you know that, but they don't know that. They don't understand that no matter how many times I tell them," Paul nodded, disapproving. "Anyway, how about the Winslow account?"

"Seems to be going fine, they're breaking ground on it later today. I have to go out there. Do you want to come along?"

"I wish I could, Babe, but I have a meeting here."

"Oh," Jack replied.

"Do you want me to come over later tonight?"

"Sure," Jack said, getting up from the couch.

"Alright, see you then," Paul said. Jack kissed him quickly on his way out the door.

"Roger, this is absolutely not going to work. Do you see on this plan, it clearly shows the angle right here as fifty-seven, and yet when I measure it, it's only fifty-two. This has to be fixed," he told the contractor harshly.

"Mr. McPhee, you know that if we did that, we would have to totally redo this whole corner."

"That is not my problem. If you don't go by the design, then I can't help you. Call me when you have this fixed."

He walked away from the sounds of the construction and back to the street, where a cab was waiting for him.

"Pier twenty-five," he told the driver, rubbing his forehead. He hated going to the sites, they always gave him a headache. He'd been begging Paul to hire a more reliable contracting service, but Paul hadn't done it.

He rode the short distance to the pier. "Thanks," he said, stepping out of the cab and handing the driver a five dollar bill.

He approached the ticket booth, bought one ferry ticket, and entered the waiting area. He looked out at the river and across to Manhattan. He couldn't imagine that his life had come to this. It was Jen that he had always imagined would live here. In the past three years, he'd become as much of a New Yorker as her, maybe even more so. Even though he considered Capeside his home, he couldn't imagine living anywhere but the city.

The ferry pulled up to the dock, and Jack stepped across the ramp and took a seat near the window.

"Hey, Jack. Have you seen Helen today?" Jack was in the kitchen, making dinner for him and Paul, when he heard Ryan call to him from the entryway.

"No, I've just been home a few minutes."

"Oh." Ryan came toward the kitchen and leaned over the pot of soup. "Smells good. Who are you cooking for?"

"Paul and me."

"Why doesn't he just move in already?" Ryan teased his landlord. "He spends every night here as it is."

Jack looked at him coyly. "That's precisely the reason he's coming over tonight."

Ryan looked up. "I'm shocked! Jack is finally taking action. I like it. Good luck, man."

"Thanks," Jack replied.

Helen had walked up behind them, and announced herself. "Hey, all. What's up for tonight?"

Ryan turned to face her. "Jack here is about to give our little boarding house another boarder," he said.

"Ooh, you go, Jack," she said, slapping his arm. It was something that Jen would do. Maybe that's why he had liked Helen and Ryan from the beginning, they reminded him of himself and Jen.

"What are you guys doing tonight? Preferably going *out* somewhere," he hinted.

"We get it, we get it Jack. We'll make ourselves scarce."

Helen looked at Ryan. "That reminds me, earlier today, Margaret asked me what we were up to tonight. She was very interested in making plans that included you."

Ryan became immediately excited. "Are you kidding? Margaret? The Margaret from the club that night?"

Helen nodded. "The one and only. Say that you love me."

"I love you!"

"Okay, we're meeting her at that Kosher Chinese place on Fifth and Harding."

"I love Kosher Chinese!"

Jack looked at them. "There you go, Ryan, it's a match made in heaven. You both love Kosher Chinese, you're meant for each other!" he said, sarcastically.

"Hey, we're getting out of the house, aren't we?" Helen reminded him.

"Thank the Lord for small miracles," he said, taking them both by the shoulder and leading them out of the kitchen. "I give you no more that forty minutes to get ready and leave, people! Move it, move it!"

Helen whispered to Ryan as the crept down the hall, "somebody's a little over-excited tonight," she said, and giggled.

Jack stuck his head out into the hall. "I heard that!"

They ducked into their room before the flying spoon hit them on the head.

Later, after a dinner of soup and chicken, Jack and Paul sat on the couch in the center of the living room.

Jack reached out for his hand and held it. "Um, I wanted to ask you something."

"Yes."

"Yes what?" Jack looked up, surprised.

"Yes, I'll move in with you."

Jack shook his head slowly back and forth. "Damn you, Paul Lippman. I had a whole, lovely, convincing speech prepared. You ruined it all."

"Oh?" Paul asked. "Well, by all means, don't let me keep you from giving it."

"Well . . ." Jack started, "I was just going to make the point that it's the practical thing to do. I mean, you spend all your time here anyway. I adore you. We've been dating a while now, and I think we're both committed to the relationship. It just . . . makes sense."

"Yes, it does. You're a very sensible guy."

Jack smiled. "So you're saying yes?"

"I'm saying yes for the fifth time in the past two minutes, Jack. Yes, yes I'll move in with you."

"Great," Jack said, getting up and holding out his hand.

"Where are we going?"

Jack looked at him naughtily. "I was just going to . . . show you around."

Paul stood up immediately, and followed Jack.

February, 2007

Jen Lindley sat at her computer, which was temporarily parked on the kitchen table. The dissertation was somewhat closer to being finished than it had been one month ago, but not a lot closer. She'd taken the rest of the semester of to finish the stupid thing, and she wasn't working any faster than she had been when she had a job and classes on top of it. Exasperated and annoyed, she took a long drink of coffee.

She exited her WordPerfect document and opened her accounting software in order to pay bills and take a break from writing. She tore into an envelope with a return address from Capeside.

"Dear Generous Donor:," it read. "We are pleased to announce that the Evelyn Ryan Memorial Halfway House is celebrating it's one month anniversary this week. Any and all donations are appreciated."

She studied the letter, griping it as if it were a personal link to her Grams. The top of the stiff manila paper was emblazoned with the pink and green logo that Jack's then-boyfriend had designed for them. It was a pair of hands, grasped in prayer, set over a rising yellow-orange sun. She knew it was a design that Grams would be proud to call her own. Jen wiped the wetness from the corner of her eyes and tore a check out of her book. When she and Jack had established the halfway house, they'd both given a thousand dollars. The remainder of the money had come from community collections. Today, she wrote a two thousand dollar check. The world had been kind to Jen Lindley in the past few years, and she needed Grams to know that.

Jack had stood by her at the funeral, and they'd both given eulogies. Jack had told the story of coming to live at Grams' house at a seemingly impossible time in his life. He'd talked about how Grams had loved him when his own parents hadn't. Jen watched him cry in front of the whole population of Capeside, and began to think it less and less likely that she would be able to hold it together when it was her turn. When writing, she had tried her hardest to keep the eulogy impersonal. For some reason, she didn't want to advertise her sadness and anger, as if advertising it would make it real.

She remembered seeing Dawson there, and Joey. They were happy, living together with two kids in Ohio. Pacey had been there with his wife and daughter. Andie had called the next day from her home in London.

Her memories were all shadows and sketches, though. The only person she really saw, talked to, or acknowledged on that day had been Jack. The only person who could really share her grief on that day had been Jack. The only person she'd wanted to be with was Jack.

Her parents had come to the wake, wanting to see her. Jack had kept them at bay, sacrificing his own tenuous relationship with them because she had refused to see them. In fact, Jack had organized and handled everything for that funeral. She had been grateful that he hadn't allowed anyone to stay past four o'clock.

After that, the two of them had crawled into her old bed and cried for the rest of the day. When they woke up the next morning, they didn't speak. They packed their belongings, flipped off all the lights in the house, and walked out to the waiting cab.

Leaving him that last time had been nearly impossible. Looking back from inside the airplane tunnel, she had realized that he was all she had now. His eyes met hers, and she knew he was thinking the same thing. Jen had put her hand up on the foggy window, recognizing the moment as every bit the movie-of-the-week scene it was. She watched him do the same, and the plane pulled out onto the tarmac.

The computer beeped, telling her that she had entered a check number incorrectly. Woken out of her reverie, she noticed the time, and got up quickly. She had to make it look like she'd done something today, or Davis would bother her about it all weekend.

"Knock, knock!" he said, as he crept in the door, summoned by her thoughts.

"Hey," she greeted him, kissing his cheek and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"You look beautiful today, my love."

"Are you kidding? My hair is greasy, I'm wearing workout clothes, and I haven't taken a shower all day."

"You look beautiful," he said.

She noticed a look on his face that she'd never seen before. "What's wrong, Baby?"

He breathed in, then out, and patted her shoulder.

"Let's sit down over here," he motioned her toward the sofa.

She looked at him curiously. "Okay . . ."

"Um, I got some -- potentially -- bad news today."

Jen sat up immediately. "What?"

"You know I went to Dr. Yelman today?"

"What? Oh my God. What's wrong?"

"Well . . . They don't know for sure. Please don't go crazy, Jenni. Not yet, at least. They think I may have lung cancer," he talked quickly, not allowing her to speak until he was done. "It's not certain, but it could be. I'll have more tests in a month or so."

Jen looked at him, shocked. It was the typical moment after receiving terrible news. First, she felt like it must be a dream or a hallucination and half expected to turn around and see herself sitting at the computer. Then, she looked at him to make sure he wasn't some stranger. Last she sunk down next to and curled in the crook of his arm.

"Davis . . ." she said, blinking back her tears.

"No, Jen. No tears. Yet," he told her sternly. "I can't handle that."

"We have to wait a month? That's so long." She had moved from desperation to a deep-seated need to take immediate action.

"They say they won't know anything before then."

"Damn. Damn it to hell."

He rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. "I know, Baby, I know."



Near midnight, she pulled the covers off herself violently. She couldn't sleep, and couldn't work on her dissertation. She was worried and angry, thinking about Davis and what might lie ahead of them.

She covered herself in her robe, slipped on her padded house-shoes, and crept out into the living room of the apartment. Sitting down at the computer, she pulled her legs up under her and flipped the on button. It was way too late to call even your best friend in the world. Thank God for technology.

The email program opened with a minimum of hassle for a change, and she clicked the "new message" icon.

To: JMcPhee From: JLindley Subject: Some News 15 Feb. 2007 11:51 PM CST

Jack –

I'm up in the middle of the night because I'm worried out of my mind.

Davis came home today with the news that he may have some kind of lung cancer, but the damn doctors are scratching their asses and doing nothing about it for a month. Apparently they won't know anything til then. The bastards.

I thought it might be a little late to call. I know you have a lot of ‘sleepovers' these days. ;)

I love you lots.

Jen

p.s. Do you ever wish were still living in Capeside with Grams, showing off our big vocabularies and analyzing our small, uninteresting lives around-the-clock?

She pressed "send" without proofreading, exited the program, and flipped off the computer. She wasn't going to pretend to get any work done tonight. She stepped out on the balcony, breathed in the cold air and fervently wished she believed in God.

Jack took his coffee into the bedroom where Paul lay sleeping. He watched him shamelessly, shaking his head at his good fortune. It would be several hours until Paul woke up. While Jack was an early riser, even on weekends, Paul didn't wake up before eleven unless he had to.

It was still partly dark outside and Jack couldn't stand the thought of turning on the television and waking up the whole house. Armed with an idea, he went to his office across the hall from the bedroom, and turned on his laptop. He listened to the whir and buzz of the internet connection, and gulped his coffee. He could thank Jen for his caffeine addiction, he thought to himself, smiling. She always had bad habits to share and he loved for that.

He turned the volume on the computer down before it rudely announced, "you have fifteen new messages."

He scanned over the list of senders. AMcPhee, AMcPhee, PWitter, PLippman, RWinslow, RWinslow, RWinslow, RWinslow, LWitter, JLindley . . .

He had found the only one he was especially interested in reading. Clicking on the subject line, the computer made a few thinking sounds, then presented him with the typically short note. He read the words slowly, taking in their meaning.

"Damn, damn, damn," he whispered.

Jack placed his hands over the keyboard, then stopped. What could he tell her? What could he say that would make her feel better? "Gee, I'm sorry your lover is dying and by the way, mine is happier and more handsome than ever"? No, that's no good.

To: JLindley From: JMcPhee Subject: Re: Some News 16 Feb 2007 5:00 AM EST

Dear Jen,

Are you asking if I wish we still lived together? The answer is: every day. I would give up Paul in a minute to live with you. But don't tell him that, okay? :)

I can't imagine how terrible it must be for you right now. I can't believe I'm even writing ‘I'm sorry' when ‘I'm sorry' falls pathetically below the sympathy I feel. I'm here for you. If you call me at the office, the firm will foot the phone bill. I love you. Hang in there.

Jack

p.s. Tell Davis I'm thinking of him and hoping for the best.

He pressed send, unsure if he'd said not enough or too much. He wavered in self doubt as the machine marked it's sending progress on a blue bar in the center of the screen. It was done before he realized it, and he hoped he had said exactly what she needed to hear, or somewhere close to that.

Jack made Ryan and Helen breakfast in exchange for their help with moving Paul in. He scooped eggs out onto their plates and handed them forks.

"So, Jack," Ryan said between bites. "How come it took Paul a month to move his stuff from two streets away."

"I don't know. He said something about subletting his apartment and finding a renter or something." Jack shrugged.

Helen smiled. "Oh well. He's here now. Right?"

"Right," Jack said, definitively. "Okay, I want you guys to take the moving van over there. I think Lewis is going to unlock the apartment for you. Get the four boxes in the hallway and like three or four suitcases in the kitchen. Leave the rest. Paul's renting it as is."

"Yes, sir," Helen said, saluting him.

Ryan laughed with her, and Jack looked at both of his worthless, hilarious, adorable tenants. And people said he'd never be a father . . .

Ryan picked the keys up off the table, swinging them as he walked to the door. "We'll see you shortly, Jack."

"Okay. Be careful!"

"Yes, Dad," Ryan replied, rolling his eyes.

The front door and bedroom door shut in unison, and Paul walked into the kitchen.

"Hey," he said, rubbing his face.

"Hey. Want some eggs?"

"I don't think so, but the coffee smells good."

"Okay," Jack said as he pulled a cup out of the cabinet. "I sent Ryan and Helen for the stuff. They seemed giddy just to be able to drive. I guess they miss that since they moved here."

Paul nodded, half asleep. "Do you?"

"Miss driving?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I don't know. Not really. I never was a very good driver, anyway. I was always getting the gas and the brake mixed up."

Paul laughed. "That *is* bad. I've never been behind a wheel in my life and I'm pretty sure I would be better than that."

"Yeah, that's what you think until you're sitting there, scared to death, just knowing that you're going to kill some old woman or small animal."

"Ha. Okay, I'll take your word for it."

"Did you find someone to sublet the apartment?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Oh?" Jack asked. "Who?"

"Um . . . no one really. Lewis, from the office."

"Lewis? Lewis as in my assistant Lewis?"

"Lewis as in your assistant Lewis," Paul replied.

"Oh. Okay."

"Jack," Paul said, changing the subject, "did you want to go to that exhibit tomorrow before it ships off to Miami?"

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I do." Jack nodded.

"Great. I'll tell Molly to get tickets."

"Great," Jack said.

"Great," Paul said again.

Jack looked down at the stacks and stacks of mail on his desk, and slipped out of his suit jacket. Digging through them, he saw a tiny emblem that he knew by heart. He picked it up and tore into it.

Thank goodness, Jack thought, he would be able to donate a large sum to the halfway house this year. Grams had always been like a mother to him, and he didn't know of a better way to serve her memory than through giving shelter. That was, after all, what she'd done all her life.

Jack remembered Mrs. Ryan sending him and Jen off to Columbia and Boston University, respectively. She'd given them both Bibles and each of them had gotten a pillow with ‘faith' stitched across the front. Jack had kept both items, but the pillow was the one he used most frequently. He could clearly see her small frame waving and smiling proudly at them, looking at them through the bus window. At the time, he'd made sure to remember that face. Maybe a part of him knew that it wouldn't always be there, maybe not. But in any case, six years later, he could still see it in his mind.

He stepped out into the hall to take a break. He turned the corner near Paul's office, choosing not to go inside. It seemed like the more he saw Paul at work, the less special seeing him at home was. And Jack desperately wanted seeing him at home to be something special.

So much for not running into him at work today, Jack thought, as his eyes rested on Paul's familiar figure down the hall. Paul stood with Jack's assistant, Lewis, chatting amicably. Jack's heart sunk to his shoes, and he backed around the corner, spying mercilessly. One thing Jack could do was read people. He knew he wasn't mistaken in his assumption that Paul and Lewis were very close. Everything told him that, their body language, their gestures, their facial expressions. Yes, they were closer than either of them had made Jack to understand, but just how close? That was what worried Jack.

He looked down, then up, then down, trying to escape the image. He couldn't bring himself to jump to conclusions, and standing here was only making him less and less sure that he could hold it together enough not to walk over and demand an explanation. That's what Jen would do, he admitted without a doubt, but he wasn't Jen, especially when it came to men.

He had never had a huge jealous streak, so this didn't worry him a great deal. He walked back down the hall, deliberately slowly, waving at the secretaries as he passed by. He sat back down at his desk, thought about it for several more minutes, then firmly told himself to put it away until later. After all, he couldn't bring it up to Paul. Talking about it would risk Paul having hurt feelings and Jack having to feel guilty. It was probably nothing. He was just looking for drama, as Pacey would tell him, if Pacey were here.

Jack wrote out a three thousand dollar check to the halfway house, sealed it in an envelope, addressed it, and thought about Grams as he set the envelope gently into his 'out box.'

March 2007

Jen looked around her at the sterile doctors office. The leather under her creaked as he moved back and forth in her chair. Davis reached out, gripped Jen’s hand, and squeezed.

Jen had sat on the front row during Davis’ Brit Lit seminar. He had walked in on that first day, stately and elegant, his white hair shining and thick under the industrial lighting. Davis – he’d been Dr. Mozell to her, then – had stepped up onto the podium, cleared his throat, and begun his lecture. Jen was mesmerized. She watched his lips move as he accentuated particular words. She couldn’t take notes; she was far too interested in the eroticism going on at the front of the classroom. Gazing up at him as if he were a God, she lost control of her notebook and it slid off onto the floor in a huge crash. Jen had looked around, embarrassed. The people sitting around her looked up quickly, smiled sympathetically, and went back to their note-taking. She gathered the pages back onto her desk. Davis hadn’t stopped class or even noticed her. She was excited beyond belief, and she felt the familiar urge of longing inside her. Even without notes, she didn’t forget a word that her professor uttered the whole semester. She made an A.

On the last day of class, she stayed late. Shaking, she moved to the front of the classroom where Dr. Mozell was putting up his belongings. They hadn’t communicated all year aside from the congratulatory comments she received on her essays, papers, and tests. “Brilliant analysis.” “Intriguing hypothesis.” “Very well stated thesis.” Sometimes, just the bland phrase “good job.” But she kept it all. They were love letters to her, and she put them in small wooden boxes like she was some eighteenth century woman whose husband was away fighting a dramatic battle in a far-off place.

He looked up. “Good afternoon, Ms. Lindley” he said.

“Good afternoon.”

He glanced at her, then around the room, then back at her, waiting.

“Dr. Mozell . . .”

“Davis,” he whispered, “call me Davis.”

In that moment, Jen Lindley fell in love.

She found the courage to ask him to coffee, where he’d told her about his daughter and his ex- wife. Davis and Jen had discussed “Wuthering Heights.” Emily Bronte, they agreed, was the most talented Bronte sister. He mentioned that the movie version was playing at an old theatre he knew of, and would she like to go with him? And the rest was, as they say, history.

She heard a door slam behind her, and all thoughts of that first date were shoved to the side as her worry began to mount.

The doctor took his hand out of his crisp white lab coat and greeted both of them with a handshake. He went around his desk and sat down in a plush leather chair. Very appropriate for a doctor’s office, Jen thought.

She looked closely at the mole on his chin. It took all her concentration and it kept her from thinking about the real reason they were there.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I was in with a patient,” the doctor said, breaking the silence.

Davis nodded stolidly. He turned to Jen, squeezed her hand, and looked back toward Dr. Yelman.

Dr. Yelman nodded in response, and began. “Well, Dr. Mozell. Your chart says that you haven’t been to see me -- or any other doctor -- in twelve years, until you came last month.”

“No,” Davis said sheepishly.

“Okay. The test was positive, as it is in most cases where there is such a high reading on the initial examination.” Dr. Yelman spat this out as if it were nothing, as if he were telling them that the price of oranges had gone up.

Jen looked at Davis, angry with him for not telling her about the original high reading. It was this anger that postponed her processing of the rest of the doctor’s statement. When that realization did come, Jen turned to the doctor, ready to leap over the thick, dark desk and strangle him. She’d taken plenty of psychology classes in her day, but the last thing that she wanted to address at this moment was the typical rage that came with hearing such news.

The doctor droned on. “Your cancer is in advanced stages.”

Jen looked at him with bald-faced hatred, and the doctor averted his gaze back to his patient.

“We can do radiation, but we would need to start within the next few days, and even then . . .” The rest of the sentence melted and dropped off into the oppressive silence surrounding them.

Davis’ facial expression was an academic one, one that Jen had seen on him many times. While teaching or listening to one of his student’s presentations, or while proofreading her papers. It was a look that she loved. She wanted to throw her arms around him and squeeze this day out of his eyes and hands. She wanted him to do the same for her.

“Even then?” Davis shot back at the doctor, finally finding words.

Dr. Yelman pulled out a graph, and began pointing toward a red line that snaked through the middle of the page.

Jen put her hand up. “Put your damn graph away. We’re not children, we don’t need pictures,” she said derisively.

Dr. Yelman bowed his head for a moment. He put his graph away silently, clasped his hands across the desk, and leaned forward. “Okay. I’ve spoken with Dr. Michaels about this and he and the other specialist on his wing say that with the treatment, you might have two months.”

Jen breathed in sharply.

“And without?” Davis asked.

“Month. Month and a half. Something like that. It’s your call, Dr. Mozell. I’ll phone Dr. Michaels and let him set up some appointments, or I won’t. Either way.”

Davis looked at Jen. She tried to give him comfort with her gaze and her touch. In any case, he found his voice and said “I’ll call your answering service tonight and let you know.”

Dr. Yelman smiled sadly. “Okay. I’m sorry for this. I’m truly sorry, it never gets any easier for me to do this.”

All in all, Jen felt very little sympathy for him, and stood up.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Davis said, as Jen pulled open the heavy metal office door and made her way down the hall.

He followed her to the elevator, where she turned to him. She reached up and put her hand to the side of his face. He closed his eyes and rested his head on her hand. He pulled her next to him and pressed her body against his. The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and they stepped on, holding hands.

The apartment was dark and cold, almost as if it hard heard the terrible news as well. Jen took off her coat, her shoes, and worked her way around, eventually disrobing totally.

“Jen . . .” Davis smiled at her, his face reddening.

She grinned wordlessly, and walked toward him. Putting her hands on his back, she led him to the bedroom.

“Jen . . .”

“Be quiet, you big chatterbox.”

She forced him onto the bed almost violently, and began taking his clothes off in much the same way she had her own.

“I love you, Jen.”

She whispered in his ear, as if it were some great secret only they knew. “I love you, too.”

He immediately flipped off the light by the bedside.

Afterwards, he lay in her arms as she gently stroked his hair.

“I’ll miss you most,” he told her morbidly.

She looked at him with shock. “What? No way, Mister. You’re not going to miss me for a long time. I’m not going to let you go, you can just be assured of that.”

Her words were empty promises and both of them knew it. She had no more control over his illness than the doctors did. But it reassured him nonetheless.

“Okay,” he told her.

She looked at him, choosing her words. “Have you decided?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She didn’t ask him what the decision was. She knew.

He crawled out from under the covers and made his way into the living room. She heard only his side of the conversation.

“Dr. Yelman, how are you? Fine . . . yes . . . no, I don’t think so. Thank you for everything, though. Yes, thank you. I really appreciate the offer. No. No, thanks. You too, Doctor. Goodbye.”

He walked into the room smiling. She turned back the covers and beckoned him to get under them. He did so, and she made love to him for the rest of the day.

Davis had left the apartment to turn in his resignation at the university. Jen was happy that, whatever else might come, they would at least be able to have this time together.

And yet . . . she was angry. She had never felt such rage toward anything in her life. It was the worst kind of rage, too. The kind where she felt helpless and inept and weak in the face of something much bigger than herself. If she lived alone, she would have smashed half the china dishes and all the flower vases and most of the glass cups in the house. But she didn’t, so she couldn’t.

She thought something that might work just as well. She picked up the cordless phone and took it out on the balcony, shutting the sliding glass door behind her.

“Hello,” a chipper voice said to her after the second ring.

“He has a month, give or take,” she replied, without preamble.

Jack knew the voice instantly, but it took him a moment to comprehend her words.

“Oh my God, Jen.”

She sighed.

“When did you find out?”

“Yesterday. We went back to the doctor together. The bastard with his Ethan Allen furniture and gargantuan-sized bald spot told us Davis has a month, give or take. He actually used the phrase ‘give or take’. Can you believe that?”

“You sound angry, Jen, and that worries me. Because usually, when it’s you, you’re only angry when you don’t want to admit that you’re sad.”

“I am sad, Jack. But I’m damn angry, as well. What the hell kind of thing is this to happen?”

Jack paused. “I don’t know Jen.” He couldn’t think of anything to say to make it better for her, and ached to hold her and comfort her.

She sobbed into the phone. “It’s not like everything has been perfect, Jack. It never has been, in fact. And now it finally is . . . sort of, almost, kind of perfect. Which to me is beyond perfect because I’ve never actually experienced true perfect . . . but . . .” she gave in and began crying in earnest, choking each time she tried to speak. “I wish you were here,” she said with a small voice.

His heart broke and fell on the floor in front of him. “I know. I know . . . I want to be there with you.”

He was struck with an idea. What *was* he doing here when Jen was going through something so terrible? What kind of friend was he being, really? Putting work and Paul above her?

“Let me come to Dallas, Jen. If you need me, I’ll leave today.”

She laughed through her tears. “How gallant of you. No, Jack, you know I can’t let you do that. You have your own life. You can’t just drop it and come running here every time something bad happens.”

“This isn’t just any old bad thing, though. This is like the king of bad things.”

“I know. Believe me I know,” she breathed in and out once, “but you shouldn’t come. I mean, not that I don’t want you here, but . . .” She chose her words carefully. “I think Davis might take it as me being weak if I admitted that I needed you here. And he’s so strong, Jack. You know? I have to be equally as strong for him. And if you were here, I couldn’t be.”

He spoke after several moments. “Okay.”

He would have left everything for her that day if she’d asked him to. But, at the same time, he understood her point. His coming to Dallas would drive a wedge between her and Davis and neither of them needed that. His presence would only complicate things.

Both she and Jack knew from experience that what’s she’d said was true. This wasn’t the first time when they’d reached out for the comfort of each other when their duties had clearly existed elsewhere.

This was the issue that had originally driven them to opposite ends of the earth. One Thanksgiving, they were both home from school. Her from BU, him from Columbia. They had paddled out onto the lake as they had so many times before, and she told him that she was taking her doctoral studies in Dallas. He hadn’t understood why, not at first. She had been offered a position at Columbia.

Jack had pictured them living together, going back to the way they were in high school. It was beyond him that she would take a degree from a lesser university. Jen had explained to that they both needed to go out and find someone to love, who could love them. Someone that they could make a life with. After some initial anger at being abandoned, Jack had agreed, and helped her pack for Dallas. He was regretting that now, going back over the past year and wondering what things might be like if Jen hadn’t gone to Texas. He heard her talking, and he was snapped out of his musings.

“Okay,” she repeated. He heard her sniff a few times, as if finishing her cry.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

She nodded, though he could not see her. “Yeah. Yeah, I will be.”

“Good. You know that you can call me anytime. Day, night, whatever. Okay?”

“Yes, okay.”

“I want to hear from you very soon. I want to know how you’re doing. Will you promise me that you’ll call?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then.”

“Bye, Jack. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He heard her hang up, and replaced his own phone in it’s cradle reluctantly. Wandering around the house, he questioned if he’d done the right thing by not forcing her to allow him to visit. He sat down on the sofa and looked at Paul’s things sprinkled around the room. Yes, he’d made the right decision, he finally decided. If Paul were sick, he would want to be with no one but Paul every moment of the day. And then, after . . . after everything, he knew, with equal certainly, that he’d want his best friend at his doorstep with her suitcase.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark, Babe?”

Jack turned around and saw Paul standing behind him. He turned away from him quietly and looked out into the darkness. “I was talking to Jen. Davis has lung cancer.”

Paul walked farther into the room and sat down on the sofa next to Jack. “Is he going to be okay?”

Jack shook his head. “He has a month, the doctors say.”

Paul smoothed his hands through his hair and sat back in the sofa. “Wow. That’s terrible news.”

Jack looked at him and nodded silently. “It makes me sorry, in a weird way.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah. Because we’re so . . . happy. I mean, who decided this? And with just a twist of everything, it could be the other way around. We could be the ones . . . going through that.”

“But we’re not.”

“No. We’re not.”

Paul turned toward Jack. “Look, I know you’re unhappy about Jen and Davis. I am, too. But their situation is not ours. And knowing that the same thing could happen to either one of us any day of the week is not going to change things for them. Your worrying is not going to help her.”

Jack shook his head. “You’re wrong, Paul. My worrying does help her. Knowing that I’m worrying about her is the best thing -- the only thing -- she has.”

“My God, it must be tiresome being you.” Paul shook his head, attempting to be humorous.

“No. I’m thankful that I have people to worry about.” Jack stood up, walked down the hall to his office, and shut the door.

Jack made his way down Ninth Street with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Paul always told him he looked dumb carrying a backpack, but it was nostalgic thing with Jack. He’d kept the same one since he had first gone to college. He and Jen had exchanged gifts the summer after senior year and, totally without knowing it, had gotten each other the same thing. He’d had JML stitched on hers and she’d had JAM stitched on his. They were the same dark green color with the same bright yellow thread. He laughed, remembering their identical looks of shock as they had opened their gifts.

Jack read the street signs above him and took a shortcut home. He observed the people crowding past him and enjoyed the knowledge that he was one of them. He loved the way living in this city united people. He loved knowing that he was a part of something so complex and vibrant.

He found it unbelievable that he’d only known Paul for six months. Halstein and Lippman was possibly the largest architectural firm on the eastern seaboard. When he had gone in for his interview, he had been shocked that a partner was conducting the question and answer portion. His nervousness that day could have taken up an entire room. He observed a slight attraction to Paul, but didn’t think about throughout the whole interview. It was his single-minded interest in the job that propelled him to be his most entertaining, intelligent, and competent. When Paul asked him out for drinks afterward, it was the smaller joy in comparison to the fact that he’d gotten the job. In any event, he said yes to Paul and the job. He didn’t regret either decision.

His memories of Paul spiraled around him in unison with his thoughts of Jen. He didn’t want to call her every moment of what would be her last days with Davis, but he constantly thought about her. He was actually surprised at Paul’s less-than-sympathetic reaction to her problem. Paul had never liked Jen, anyway. And Jen liked Paul even less. She’d liked John, Jack’s previous boyfriend, much better. The bad thing about John, Jack remembered, was that John had had a nasty habit of sleeping with women while living in Jack’s house.

With all the other things on his mind, he hadn’t had time to consider the conversation he’d seen between Paul and Lewis. He still hadn’t mentioned it to Paul, and didn’t plan to. This was normally something that he would go to Jen and ask her advice about. But now, with things crashing around her, Jack couldn’t and wouldn’t call her for something stupid like a maybe, semi, possible hint of infidelity.

He pressed his entry code number into the keypad at the door to his building. The door buzzed, then swung open. Riding the elevator up the fourteen floors to his apartment, he wondered what Ryan and Helen would be doing tonight. Paul had reminded him that he was working late tonight, and Jack had been left with absolutely nothing to do.

He stuck his key the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

“Yoo hoo!” he called.

Helen came bouncing out of her room in overalls and a flannel shirt. “Hey, Jack.”

“Hey,” he said, laying his backpack on the kitchen table. “What are you up to?”

“I was working on hypothetical plans for a day care center.”

“Dr. Hornesby’s class?”

“Yeah,” she said, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Two semesters with him. Didn’t enjoy one minute of it. I forget what I did for the daycare presentation.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Take him a bottle of liquor. Give him that, you’ll get an A no matter how terrible your presentation is.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Jack looked around. “Is Ryan here?”

Helen shook her head. “Nope. He went out with Margaret again.”

“THE Margaret?” Jack said, good-naturedly mocking Ryan.

“You got it. What about Paul?”

“Working late,” Jack replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

She pointed to the kitchen in a way that reminded him so much of Jen that he thought Helen could be her younger sister. “Want some coffee?”

Jack nodded. “That sounds really good.”

Helen returned within a few moments, taking a seat next to him at the table. “How’s the Winslow project?”

“Good. Or, at least it will be good as soon as I can get those stupid contractors to follow the plans I drew.”

Helen laughed and took a drink of her coffee.

“And how are things otherwise?”

He studied her, shaking his head at the way she resembled Jen. “Really good. So good that I feel a little bad.” He laughed ironically.

She changed the subject effortlessly, as Jen might have. “What are you and Paul doing this summer?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I was going to take some time off and go see Jen, but now I don’t know . . .”

Helen looked up. “Why? Did something happen between you and Jen?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all. I told you about Davis, her boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s dying.”

Helen put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. That’s horrible. Of what?”

“Lung cancer.”

She took a drink of her coffee, then opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it again.

“Say it, Helen,” he told her in a fatherly tone.

“I was just wondering what you’re doing here,” she asked kindly. “I mean . . . why aren’t you in Dallas?”

Because of the resemblance, looking at Helen saying that to him was almost like watching Jen herself ask him why he wasn’t by her side.

“She didn’t want me there. He only has a month. Anyway . . . I think I would just be in the way.”

“I doubt that, Jack, but I’m sure you’re doing what’s right.” She patted his hand, took his empty cup from him and brought it to the sink along with her own.

“I don’t know if I am, Helen.”

She shook her head. “I know you. The phrase ‘right thing’ is pretty much all you ever think about. It’s like an obsession. You want to do the right thing, the moral thing, the compassionate thing. And that’s good. It’s one of your best qualities.”

“Thanks. Although I’m not sure that I love being referred to as someone with an obsession.” He smiled at her and opened his eyes to psychotically round disks. She laughed at his joke and began sticking cups and plates into the dishwasher.

“I told Ryan to do this yesterday. It was his day for the dishes.”

“Why didn’t he?” Jack asked.

He answered his own question at the same time she did. “Margaret.”

They looked at each other and shrugged, then burst out laughing.

“I better get back to work,” she said.

“Okay. And I should get back to missing Paul.”

She reached up and tousled his hair.

“I know, I know. Self- pity is not a pretty thing.”

She smiled, slapped his arm, and padded down the hall.

God, she is so like Jen, he thought to himself as he watched her.

Jack went to bed with a terrible headache and the latest issue of “Entertainment Weekly.” He read the hot sheet, which was his favorite part, then closed the issue, wishing for the fiftieth time that night that Paul was home.

He turned on the television. David Letterman, Jay Leno, David Letterman, Jay Leno, he flipped from one to the other. He always felt that, whichever one he chose, it would be a betrayal of sorts. Paul had laughed when Jack told him that. Paul was firmly pro-Jay Leno. Trying to remember the joys of time alone, he turned definitively to David Letterman, attempting to be thrilled that time away from Paul allowed him the luxury of choosing the late night program. In minutes he gave up and turned back to Leno.

In a half an hour more, Jack heard the front door open and shut. He resisted jumping up and running into the living room. He willed himself to lay back in bed, and strived to look as nonchalant as possible. Paul peeked his head in the door, still holding his briefcase.

“Hey, Baby,” he said to Jack as he came by the side of the bed and kissed him.

Jack sat up. “Hey. I thought you were never coming home.”

“I thought the same thing.” Jack watched as Paul entered the bathroom and began taking off his outer clothes and brushing his teeth. He did love Paul. They’d never said it, not yet, not in those words. But Jack knew it was only a matter of time. Paul pulled the covers back on his side of the bed and climbed in.

“What were doing at work?”

“Making plans for a business trip,” he said, as his head pivoted toward Jack

Jack’s heart fell. “Oh.”

Paul reached out and took his hand. “Um, I know this may be a little stupid and premature of me to ask, and maybe I shouldn’t but . . . I was wondering if . . .”

“If what?” Jack asked anxiously.

“If you wanted to, I don’t know, tag along on the trip?”

Jack bit his lip to keep from grinning across the whole room. “I’d love to tag along.” He sunk down on the pillows and flipped off the light.

Paul flipped on the light on his side of the bed and turned toward Jack. “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”

Jack shrugged and smiled. “I don’t care.”

Paul looked down. “Well, you have to know so that you know what to pack.” Paul was an intensely logical person.

“Okay.”

“London.”

“I adore London,” Jack said. He smiled, rolled over, and reached across Paul in order to flip off Paul’s lamp.

Paul flipped it back on. “Do you want to know when we’re leaving?” Her was getting exasperated, and Jack just stared up at him, goofily happy.

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow. For a month.”

Jack sat up. “A month?”

Paul nodded. “A month.”

“Wow, that’s a while.”

“What? Too long? I mean . . . I have to stay that long to finish the class. I’m taking this architectural class there that the company requires me to do every year. It takes a month to get the course finished.”

“Wow . . . wow. Well, I don’t know if I can get off work that long.”

Paul shook his head. “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack . . . tsk, tsk. I know you’re new at this but please tell me that you understand that there *are* some perks that come when dating the boss.”

“What are you talking about, Paul?”

“I cleared it. Your schedule is free. Welcome to one month of paid vacation, Buddy.”

Jack was stunned. On the one hand, he was going to one of his favorite cities in the world for a month with one of his favorite people in the world. On the other hand, Paul had taken liberties with Jack’s job and schedule that he hadn’t give him permission to take. And on the other hand . . . there was no other hand. Paul just asked him to go away with him, why was he even debating?

Paul face was rapidly falling as more and more time elapsed.

“It . . . sounds great!” Jack said finally.

“Say that you love me.”

“I love you,” Jack said before he realized what had come out of his mouth.

“Me too,” Paul said. He rolled over and flipped off the light.

Jack was perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t believe he’d just told Paul ‘I love you’ for the first time. And he couldn’t believe he’d been the only one who’d said it.

Jack was putting together his office for the month he was going to be away. He was sure that Lewis was thrilled. Jack wasn’t dumb enough to think that Lewis would actually get any work done while he was gone.

He sauntered around the office, picking up papers from the corners of tables and desks. Some, he threw away. A few, like Jen’s letters and the records he’d kept from his business investments, he filed away in the drawers at the back of the office. He picked his coat off the coat rack and got his briefcase from the desk. Shutting the door behind him, he walked out of the office, telling Lewis goodbye on the way out.

Paul met him at the end of the hall carrying his own briefcase.

“Hey!” he said, and ran toward him, pecking him on the cheek. “Ready to go?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

Paul took his hand and drug him bodily to the elevator. Jack looked back at the hall behind them. The fax machines buzzing happily, the computers humming busily, and people rushing from office to office. He looked back at Paul, who was forging ahead, closer and closer to the elevator. Then back at the hall full of his co-workers. Paul pulled Jack onto the elevator abruptly, pressed ‘lobby,’ and grinned, brimming with excitement.

April, 2007

Jen pulled her legs under her in the uncomfortable hospital room chair.

At first, she'd been glad that Davis had chosen not to undergo treatment if that meant her time with him would be totally hers. But now, watching him unconscious in bed, she was alone with her guilt. She knew that he would have fought his illness if it hadn't been for their relationship. After he collapsed in the shower two days ago, Jen forced him to go to the hospital, much to his protestations.

Davis stirred; she leapt up from the chair quickly. His eyes fluttered, then closed. It was no surprise that he wasn't awake. He was heavily medicated, the doctors told her.

Jen put her hand over his and felt it's warmth rising up in her palm.

"Hi, honey," a nurse said, coming in the room unannounced. "Is your father awake yet?"

Jen opened her mouth in anger, but shut it silently. She shook her head politely.

"Alright, then. Just let me know if anything changes. This usually happens when we start on this medication. It's nothing to worry about." The nurse smiled kindly and shuffled out of the room.

"Jen?"

She stood up and moved to the side of the bed.

"Yeah, babe," she said.

He scooted over in the bed, allowing room for her to sit beside him.

"How long have I been asleep?"

Jen laughed slightly. "Almost two days."

"Good God, that's a lot of days. Especially when I only have six of them left." He laughed.

Jen looked at him. "Damn you, Davis Mozell. Always reminding me . . ." She motioned to the room around them.

"Well, Honey, if the hospital bed, industrial lighting, and lots of people walking around in white coats didn't tip you off, I can't be responsible for spilling the beans," he told her jokingly.

She began stroking his hair. "How come you're so . . . nonchalant about this whole thing?"

He sat up in the bed and looked at her curiously. "I don't know. I'd like to give you the stock answer of ‘I'm resigned' or ‘I've had a good life' or ‘There's no sense in fighting it' but I don't really feel any of those things. I feel pretty damn angry, to tell you the truth. And I guess when it gets right down to it, people always return to that innate survival mechanism they have. For me, that's humor. For my mother, that was sewing. For you, that's . . . writing ten thousand pages in a dark room with a blunt number two pencil . . ."

"What?"

He nodded. "Tell me, Jen. How much have written this past month? The month that -- let's remember -- we both promised not to do anything even slightly academic." He looked at her with his eyebrow raised, awaiting her response.

"I lost track after . . . fifty." She smiled. "Okay, so you know me pretty well."

They sat in silence.

"You know what I hope?" he asked finally.

She turned toward him, honestly curious.

"I hope they have a Library of Congress in the Afterlife, because I want to be able to read every word you write from now on."

Jen felt a flood of tears coming. Instead of turning away as she might of done when she was younger, she climbed farther into the bed – over cords and wires and plugs – and into his arms.

Jen's heels clicked on the tile as she walked down the hall to the payphone. When she saw nurses and doctors working, she always thought how nice it must be to live their lives, as if helping to cure disease might make one immune.

She saw the universal-looking phone booth and stopped next to it. Pulling out her phone card, she punched numbers until she got the ring she was waiting for. She listened for several minutes, then heard the click of an answering machine.

"Hello, you've reached Jack McPhee, Paul Lippman, Helen Manley, and Ryan Jenkins. We're not home right now. Leave a message and we'll call you back as soon as we can."

Her heart rose in her throat when she heard her best friend's voice, then fell with the realization that she wouldn't actually get to talk to him. She left a message.

"Hey, Jack. And Ryan and Paul and Helen. This is Jen. Where are you guys? Anyway Jack, call me soon. I'm looking for you. Love you. Bye."

She hung up the phone reluctantly, and walked back toward Davis' room. She always expected Jack to pick up the phone when she called. In fact, there had rarely been a time when she had been unable to reach him. He had his phone routed everywhere in the world; first, it rang at his apartment, then his cellphone, then his office phone, and finally, a voice mailbox. Apparently, he'd disconnected the last three of these. Jen, slightly worried, wondered where he was. But under that worry was a sense of being abandoned. She pushed that aside as she glided past the nurse's station. Two seconds later, it was there again – that strange anger at Jack and his happiness, that weird jealousy she almost never experienced.

She reached Davis' room and started to pull the door open, but heard two voices inside.

"Dr. Yelman, I really appreciate all this, but I'm going home."

"I have to advise you that . . ."

"Thank you for your help, though."

She heard shuffling and muffled comments. Finally, Davis stepped outside the hospital room. He had his pants on, his shirt untucked, and was carrying his jacket.

"Just the person I wanted to see," he said. She felt his lips on hers, then his tongue in her mouth. She responded with equal emotion, enclosing him in her embrace.

Before she realized what was happening, he picked her up and swung her into his arms. "Let's go, my love."

She struggled to get down, but it was futile. "Don't hurt yourself, Davis."

"The only thing that will harm me is being here one more minute." He smiled and carried her to the elevator. People began turning to look at them. Jen was always attracting some kind of attention, but this was very un-Davis behavior. She gathered enough self-possession to wave at the staff as she was carried onto the elevator.

Jen woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. She scooted out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She found two tablets of aspirin and swallowed them dry.

In the thrill of last night, she'd almost forgotten the reality she was living. Davis had taken her to the top of the apartment building with a bottle of wine. They'd made love on the roof and looked out at the skyline of Dallas until the sun began to come up. Drunk and naked, she hadn't been coherent when they'd taken the service stairs back down to the apartment.

She climbed back in bed. Thinking about the past month of sleeping late, drinking too much, having sex every night, and eating at the best restaurants, she didn't know how she would be able to go back to her dissertation or her teaching position. Jen doubted that real life even existed anymore. She knew she didn't know how to go about building her life without Davis when she had spent the past months building her life around him.

She rolled over, trying to turn away from her thoughts. An inch from Davis' face, she could see the dignified lines etched in his forehead.

"Do you know when I fell in love with you?"

His eyes had suddenly opened. She had no idea how long he had been watching her, but she felt no sense of invasion.

Smiling at him, she shook her head. "Nope."

"The first day you were in my class. You sat in the front row. You were wearing those boots – God, they must have gone all the way up your legs – and that short skirt with the dark purple shirt you have. Do you remember?"

She nodded, closing her eyes.

"It must have been ninety degrees in the classroom, but you were wearing a leather jacket. A jacket that a mere mortal would have burned to death wearing in the middle of August. God, you were beautiful. Are beautiful. You make me crazy, Jen Lindley, crazy with the sense of my own good fortune."

She put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing. If there was anything she felt Davis didn't have, it was good fortune. She resisted the urge to point out the irony in his statement.

He patted her, but held her slightly away from him. "Come on. You promised me you wouldn't do this. Please . . . please, Jen, don't do this."

Wiping her eyes with her pajama sleeve, she pulled herself up in bed and looked down at him, composing herself. "What do you feel like doing today?"

"Let's go to the park."

"The park?"

"Yeah. You know? The place with all the trees and grass, sometimes a few benches . . ."

She slapped him on the arm. "Okay, I get it. The park. Sure, that sounds good."

She watched him walk to the door of his closet. Mesmerized, she moved her eyes over his frame as he undressed in front of her. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and threw it in the hamper, followed quickly by his flannel pants. She breathed heavily as the muscles in his back pulsed under his skin. He turned and saw her. They smiled at each other and he came toward her, pulling her on top of him on the bed. She began taking off the clothes he had just put on. They didn't reach the park for several hours.

"Do you want anything special for dinner tonight?" she called from the kitchen. "It's my night to cook."

They had spent most of the day at the park, sitting under a huge tree, not talking. She had made a comment about how nice it was that the weather hadn't gotten hot yet. He asked her what she was going to teach in the fall semester. These attempts at conversation failed because both implied the same horrible truth: Davis was dying. There was no chance that he would see May, much less the fall. He couldn't share whatever concerns she had about weather and teaching.

"No," he said from the bedroom. "I'm not hungry. Why don't you work on your paper for a while? You haven't done that in ages."

She stopped immediately and turned toward his voice. Davis hadn't mentioned her dissertation at all in the past month. In fact, it had been almost a forbidden topic. She went to the bedroom door and stuck her head in.

"Are you okay, babe?"

Davis nodded silently. "I think I'm going to turn in early, tonight."

Jen didn't need a doctorate in literature to read the subtext in that comment. She was struck with an immense bout of indecision. If she left him here, would it tell him that she didn't realize what his comment was obviously meant to say to her? But if she stayed, would she be depriving him of something he desperately needed -- the privacy and peace to die on his own terms? Thoughts ran back and forth as she fought with herself all the while trying not to cry.

"Jen . . . your defense is in July. You don't have much time." He nodded toward the living room where the computer sat, totally ignored these past weeks. His words had told her nothing, but the way he held his head and the tone of his voice guided her out of the room and to her desk chair.

Close to an hour later, she crept back into their room. Her heart thumped inside her chest to the rhythm of squeaking hinges as she opened the door. Jen rounded the end of the bed and came to face Davis. She placed her first two fingers on his neck, pressing slightly. Expecting complete stillness, that's what she received.

She collapsed beside the bed, shaking from her tears. Allowing herself to scream and cry, she gave one whole hour to her sorrow. At the end of that hour, she rose and placed her hand on the phone beside the bed.

All her instincts told her to dial the number she knew by heart, the one that would, hopefully, have Jack's voice at the other end. For one of the first times in her life, she ignored her instincts and calmly dialed 9-1-1.

Jack stood in the Tate Gallery, staring at a collection of Degas paintings. He had started on the top floor of the museum, and was now reaching the front door. It was his last night in London, and Paul was finishing his seminar. Jack had hardly seen Paul since they'd arrived. They'd spent snatches of time together here and there, but it was nothing like the romantic getaway Paul had promised.

Each day he was here, he thought more and more about Jen. He'd tried to reach her four times but hadn't gotten any answer. He felt guilty for not telling her he was leaving and he knew he'd pay for it later. They had the kind of relationship where it was okay for them to be angry with each other.

He walked out onto the street and hailed a cab. The driver delivered him at the door of his hotel moments later.

"Hello, Mr. McPhee," the doorman said as Jack passed through the glass doors.

"How are you?"

"Wonderful," the elderly man said. "Mr. Lippman just arrived."

Jack couldn't help smiling and moved, with newfound resolve, toward the elevators.

"Hi, babe." Paul saw him at the door immediately and came toward him, embracing and kissing him.

"Hey."

"How was the day at the gallery?"

"Good . . . good. I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

Paul pulled him over to the bed, where they sat down amongst piles of disheveled clothes and two matching suitcases.

Paul took a deep breath, grasped Jack's hand, and began speaking. Jack expected about several million things except what came out of Paul's mouth.

"I'm sorry I haven't spent any time with you. I feel like shit for that. I apologize."

Jack looked up, genuinely shocked. Paul never apologized for anything. That's just not how it was between them. Jack would apologize and Paul would act self-righteous until he was over his anger.

"Um . . . that's okay."

Paul shook his head. "No. No, it's not. I drug you here and then I abandoned you in the middle of a strange city."

Jack was beginning to feel uneasy. "Really, Paul, it's fine. I had a good time," he lied.

"I should have been with you, making sure you were okay. I was totally in the wrong."

"It's fine. I was fine. I moved away from my parents when I was seventeen and I lived on my own when I was nineteen. I don't need people to take care of me."

"You don't?"

"God, no. Believe it or not, I *did* make it on my own before I started dating you."

"I know . . ."

Jack shook his head, confused. "What is all this? What are we really talking about here?"

Paul shrugged. Jack stood up and went into the bathroom to pack up his things.

"Do you need any help in there?"

"No . . . thanks." Jack quietly shut the door and locked it. As he put his things into a small bag, he considered, for the first time, why he had ever fallen in love with Paul Lippman.

Later that night, Jack picked up the phone and dialed Jen's number using his calling card.

He listened to it ring for several minutes, then heard the answering machine click on. Not knowing what to say to an answering machine at a time like this, he set the receiver gently in it's cradle. He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure that Davis had died.

"Paul?"

"Yeah, Hon?"

Jack looked at him dripping wet from his shower, and shook his head. "Nothing." He couldn't talk to Paul about this now. And he wouldn't cheapen Jen's pain by letting it rest in anyone's heart but his own.

Paul shrugged and stepped back into the bathroom.

Jack pulled out a piece of hotel stationary and a pen, walked across the room, and sat down at the desk.

April 17, 2007

Dear Jen,

I can't seem to reach you by phone. It feels like it's been at least a year since I've heard your voice. I miss you. This self-imposed separation we have going on must be illegal in some official best friend handbook somewhere. And speaking of being your friend, I've done a shitty job of it lately. Really shitty. I'm sorry. Just a minute ago, I was laying in bed, millions of miles away from you and I began to want to slap myself. Literally, throw my hand across my face repeatedly. My priorities were all messed up -- still are, I think, since I'm here with Paul and not in Dallas, with you. Whether either of us want to admit it or not, I needed to be there for you when you heard about Davis being sick. Grams would be very sad and disappointed that I'm not with you. And I can't disappoint her OR you. Basically, the point of all this is me telling you that I'm putting my life back together, even if that means I have to take it all apart first. But either way, you're coming out on top this time.

All my love, Jack

He folded the paper carefully and stuck it inside a hotel envelope. Picking up his billfold, he walked downstairs to mail the letter from the concierge's desk.

Jack walked back into the hotel room several minutes later, took off his coat and pants and climbed back into bed. Paul stirred in the space next to him.

Jack sighed loudly and Paul opened his eyes.

"Hey, where were you?"

"Downstairs mailing a letter."

Paul nodded. "Well, goodnight," he said, and turned over.

"Paul?" Jack said a few moments later.

"Yeah?"

"Um . . . never mind, it's nothing."

Paul shrugged.

"Paul?"

"Yes?" he said, this time getting irritated.

"I was wondering . . . why you brought me to London when you're sleeping with my assistant."

Paul turned toward Jack immediately, eyes open wide. He yanked the cord of the lamp beside his bed and looked at Jack with a shocked countenance.

"What?" he finally stuttered.

Jack shook his head slowly. "Paul, you heard me. I'm not going to repeat it. It was hard enough to say the first time." Instead of cracking like he imagined it would, his voice remained strong and emotionless.

"Jack, you know that's not true."

"No, Paul. It is true," he said, sure in his theory. "I'll make it really easy for you, though. How about this? Just tell me why. Why the hell are you betraying me like this? And why the hell are you forcing me to use trite words like ‘why' and ‘betrayal'?"

Paul laughed nervously.

"Don't laugh, you bastard! Tell me why."

Paul stood up from the bed and pulled a chair slowly next to where Jack lay. "I don't know . . . that's my answer. I don't know." He reached out his hand and attempted to put Jack's hand inside it. Jack pulled away angrily.

"I deserve an answer."

"Don't be like this. It's not like we were . . . exclusively dating."

"You were living at my house. That's pretty damn exclusive."

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning. But . . . I'm not sleeping here tonight. I can't. I can't be here with you right now."

Paul nodded slowly and stepped toward the door. "No, Jack. I'll leave. In all the horror of what I've done to you, just let me do one . . . honorable thing. Okay?" Paul pulled open the door slowly and entered the hallway.

Jack blew past him. "No," he said, then again, more firmly. "No."

"Why?" He gave Jack a pitiful look.

Grabbing his clothes off the chair, he turned and gave Paul one last look before he stormed down the hall.

"Because I don't want you leaving this relationship thinking you did even one thing right."

Later, after purchasing another room, he lay down in bed. The room was a carbon copy of the one he just left, so he shut his eyes, shoving out the light.

There had been only about ten times in his life that Jack had ever really cried. There had been many moments when he wanted to cry desperately, but refused. He usually held it back, held it in, held it from the people he loved. There was no one in this room – in this entire city – that he loved. Totally alone in a hotel room across the world from his real life, he cried for several hours and finally fell asleep on top of the industrial-pattern comforter.

"Hey, Jack!" Helen came toward him, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the cheek. Ryan followed behind her. Jack had caught a plane that morning, paying an incredibly high price for a ticket on such short notice. He was as happy to be home as he could be, under the circumstances.

"Hey! We missed you, man," Ryan said, hugging Jack after Helen moved away.

"I missed you guys, too." Seeing them again was a wonderful feeling, he thought to himself.

They helped him carry in his suitcases into his room then ushered him to the kitchen, where they'd prepared a meal for four people.

Jack sat down slowly, glancing at Paul's place next to him. Helen took her seat next to Jack and quietly motioned Ryan to go get the food. Slowly, Jack put his head in his hands. Helen scooted her chair as close as she could and laid one of her hands his back and one on his arm. She pulled him into her and hugged him tightly. When she finally released him, she seemed surprised that he wasn't crying. He looked very tired and very resigned.

"Jack?" Helen said gently.

He looked up.

"Let's get you to bed," she almost whispered.

He nodded slowly and felt like he was ten years old again, staying home sick, and getting taken care of by his mother.

Before he could even think about sleep, there was something he had to do. So, for the third time in as many weeks, he dialed Jen's number. He listened to it ring two times. Then, there was a click, and Jen's voice greeted him.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi . . . it's me."

Jack heard her breathe a long, relieved breath and sink down in a chair.

"Hey, Jack."

"How are you?"

"Um . . . been better actually," she said, her voice breaking. "Busy, though, with the funeral and everything."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. Wait . . . how did you know . . . ?"

"Best friend's intuition?"

"Ah." He heard her pause. The breaks in conversation were sometimes his favorite part of talking with her. He would just sit and listen to her breathe and feel very close to her.

Finally, he spoke again. "Is anyone there with you? Any of your friends or students, helping you out?"

"Nope . . . it's just me."

Jack looked down at his hand holding the phone, then up at the room around him. The ridiculousness of this situation struck him. Him, here; her there, and both of them needing each other so badly. His thoughts were interrupted by her next comment.

"You sound sick."

"I'm not sick, just really exhausted. Did you get my letter?"

"Yeah. Although I have to say I was mad as hell that you didn't tell me you were leaving, I'm glad you went. It was probably good for you to get away for a while."

"Yeah, I thought it would be, too."

"Thought?"

"Paul and I broke up."

"Oh God, Jack. I'm sorry."

"Believe me, you don't tell me you're sorry about my petty little breakup when your life is . . . the way it is."

He heard her swallow. "I'm still sorry about you and Paul, though. I'm sorry for both of us."

"We are pretty pitiful, aren't we?"

"Really pitiful," she agreed.

"Have you decided what you're going to do about teaching next semester?" he said, to change the subject.

"I don't know. I was thinking of taking off for a while. Amazingly, the grief has been a huge motivator and I'm almost done with the dissertation. Thank God."

"Good for you."

"Yeah . . . now all I have to do is defend it."

"Yikes."

"Definitely yikes. Hey, listen. I've gotta go move some more stuff from Davis' apartment."

"Okay."

He waited for her to speak again, and she finally did.

"This is killing me, Jack."

"I know."

"I love you."

"Love you, too," Jack said, wishing Grams would deliver him a sentiment from on high that would make her feel better.

He put the phone down and rolled over, desperately needing sleep.

Near noon the next day, he heard a knock on the door. He had been studying Paul's things all around him, wondering if he should throw them out onto the street below like people did in the movies. Or if he should just look at them and get more and more maudlin. Jet lagged and groggy, he chose the second of those options.

"Come in," he said, trying to be enthusiastic.

Helen crept in slowly, followed by Ryan. They sat on either side of him on the bed.

"We want to . . . ask you something," Ryan said.

Jack nodded. "Okay."

"Um . . ." Helen began speaking. "We bought you a plane ticket." She got up and pulled a small envelope out of her back pocket.

"Guys . . . thanks but . . . I don't think I can accept the gift. I've already taken a month off from work."

Ryan shook his head. "No, Jack. This ticket is one way."

Jack smiled for the first time in two days.

He reached for the proffered envelope and read the information inside. "April 20, 2007. From: Kennedy Airport To: Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Leaving: 1:30 PM Arrives: 5:20 PM." It was the best gift he'd ever received, because it was permission. It was permission to leave a situation that had gotten to big for him to handle.

He swallowed hard and looked up at them. "God, you guys. Thank you. I might just take you up on this offer."

Helen kissed him and Ryan gave him a hug before they crept down the hall to the library.

Neither Lewis nor Paul spoke to him as he packed up his office. Boxes were scattered across the center of the room. So much for the stereotype of people quitting their jobs and carrying one box to the elevator, he thought to himself.

He left most of his files and client information stuck here and there in drawers. Trying to organize things as best he could for the next person who moved into his clients and his office, he came across several letters from Jen and Grams, some pictures drawn for him by Andie's kids, more pictures from Dawson and Joey's kids, still more pictures from Pacey and Laura's kids, notes from Paul (which he threw away promptly), and a whole folder of articles written about him in The New York Times, New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and New York. He placed all personal belongings in one box, all his books in another, and his drawing, building plans, and unfinished sketches in another.

For someone leaving their whole life behind them, he felt strangely secure. He knew that was Jen's presence showing through. There were guarantees that came with having a friend like that, and it was these moments that made him feel incredibly lucky, despite everything.

He loaded all his boxes onto a huge rolling dolly and pulled them into the service elevator. There was no fanfare, no goodbye party, no tearful promises to keep in touch. Jack was glad for that; he abhorred fake sentiment above all else.

Helen carried his laptop bag over her shoulder and Ryan and Jack both carried two huge suitcases. They had spent the past two days ignoring their classes and helping him get everything in order to leave. He sold the apartment to them for three dollars and wished them good luck with the unreliable hot water and ornery superintendent.

He hugged Ryan first. "Thanks for everything, Ry. I'll definitely be calling to see how things turn out with THE Margaret." Ryan laughed and gave him a slightly bittersweet smile.

Then, he turned to Helen. "I . . . I don't know what to say to thank you, babe. You're just the best." He took her into his arms and held her for several moments. She handed him his laptop and carry-on bag and promised that she and Ryan would take the remaining boxes to UPS in the morning.

"Helen . . ."

She turned.

"Will you come to Dallas to visit me? And you, too, Ryan?"

They nodded in unison and he waved as he boarded the plane.

May, 2007

Jack McPhee looked out at the land around him, completely enraptured with the idea of grass and trees and sunlight. As his cab sped away from the airport, he tried to readjust his way of thinking about the world. He would have a hard time living here, he knew. At least Dallas wasn't so awful because it was a larger city, but it was still the south.

The cab driver tried to strike up a conversation with Jack. Disliking the over-friendly man from the beginning, Jack reluctantly spoke. Surprisingly, though, he started to enjoy the small talk. In the space of five minutes, Jack found himself telling the kindly older man why he was coming to Dallas, where he was from, and how long he planned to stay. Finally, the cab driver asked where Jack was heading.

"Let's see," he said, pulling out a slip of paper he had copied from his address book, " . . . 502 Beltline. The O'Connor Apartments, number seven."

The cab driver nodded his head, intent on the task of getting Jack to that location.

Jack sat back in his seat and began thinking. Throughout the entire plane ride, he'd pondered different things he might say to Jen when he arrived at her door. What if she didn't want him to live with her? What if she didn't want his companionship? What if she'd left Dallas already, herself?

He pushed these thoughts aside, determined to consider the more important problem. "Jen," he practiced, talking inside his head, "there are no words to tell you how sorry I am. Not only for Davis' death, but for taking so long to come and be with you in your time of need . . ." No, he thought, too greeting card-ey.

"Jen, even though I haven't been with you, I've thought about you every day . . ." No, exceedingly obvious.

"Jen, I don't know if I believe in God or not, but I know that if there *is* a God . . ." What the Hell?, he thought to himself. Jen doesn't believe in God at all. What kind of comfort could anything like that possibly provide her?

"Jen, I remember when Grams died and you and I . . ." Great, Jack, just great! Pile one sorrow on top of another. Sheesh . . . that would never help.

"Jen . . . I love you." No. Way too simple.

Where the hell is Dawson when you need him?

"Sir?" the taxi driver said, turning back to glance at Jack, who snapped out of his thoughts.

The driver motioned to the building in front of them. It stood less than three stories high. It didn't resemble anything even close apartment buildings as Jack knew them.

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes, sir. The O'Connor Apartments."

Jack nodded. "Okay. Thank you so much," he said, and handed the man a ten dollar bill.

"Have a nice stay in Texas."

Jack breathed in carefully. "I'll try." The car sped away, leaving Jack looking up at the third floor, where Jen's apartment was.

"Okay. Now or never," he said to himself under his breath.

Still not knowing what he would say when he saw her, he pushed floor three on the elevator panel. He pulled his suitcase behind him and slung his bags over his shoulders, stepping inside.

He began getting nervous. It had been more than six months since he'd last been in the same room with Jen Lindley. For almost eight years they hadn't gone a week without seeing each other. They went from living at Grams' house together to colleges less than thirty minutes apart. After that, though, things had become more muddled between them. They still felt the same love for each other, but it was harder to express that love when they were thousands of miles apart. He knew things would be awkward for the first few moments of seeing her again.

He stepped carefully off the elevator and into a long hall. The carpet was red with patterned white roses. Long vases on elegant glass pedestals lined the walls. Surveying the door signs, he looked for 502.

It was at the end of the hall, set slightly apart from the other apartments. Taking a procrastinating moment to admire the design of the building, he stepped back from the door for a moment. Finally, realizing he couldn't wait any longer, he took a long breath and lifted the golden knocker. He banged it three times, and waited.

On the other side of the door, Jen Lindley turned abruptly to the sound of persistent knocking. She was sitting alone in the dark, wearing her pajamas. She became immediately angry at the intrusion. Seriously considering not answering it, she finally relented and got up. Jen flipped on the light next to the door, arranged things around the room so it might look more cheerful, attempted to straighten her clothing, and pulled open the door.

She saw him, but at the same time she didn't believe her sight. She knew hallucinations were common when grief was concerned, and she blinked her eyes several times.

"Jen . . ." he started, then choked on the words he didn't have. Nothing came to mind. He had nothing to say. He had no words, and he felt the lack severely. He didn't even stutter; he just stood there dumbly.

"Jack." His name left her lips, and tears immediately came to her eyes.

He moved toward her quickly and she fell into his arms. It was then that he realized it wasn't his words she needed -- it was him. That it wouldn't have mattered what he said or how he said it or why. Suddenly, Jack knew that all that would ever matter to Jen was that he always came back to her when her her life made no sense and she was grasping with all her strength for assurances no one could give to her.

He was gentle and calm as he held her, patting her back and kissing her head. He didn't rush her out of his arms, and she didn't make any motions to leave for quite a long time. He gently brushed her hair back from her face and told her he loved her. Finally, she rubbed her eyes and looked up at him.

"I can't believe you're here."

"I told you I was putting my priorities straight. I told you that you would be my first priority. Didn't you believe me, baby?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "I didn't let myself hope." She put her head on his chest, burying her face in his clothing. "God, Jack . . . I've felt so alone with you all the way across the world." She let out three long sobs.

"You are not alone. Not anymore." He lifted her head so she could see his face. "Believe me. Please take this as the truth. I am not going anywhere."

Finally, she began to look relieved, and nodded. "Okay. I believe you. But next time, get here faster, for Christ's sake," she said, almost smiling.

She put her hand inside his and looked down at the link they had made, squeezing gently. She remembered a night long, long ago when he'd reached out and held her in the huge house on Windsor, telling her that the worst thing you could do was push away the people closest to you. Jen knew that he was thinking of that same moment buried in their past, but brought back to mind every time she felt the comfort of being next him after a long absence.

She remembered how she had felt that night, after fighting with Jack for the first time. Standing in his room after the fire, she had looked across at his face in the darkness, wanting to reach out to him but not knowing how. Before she had a chance to gather enough courage to tell him that he was all she had in the world, he broke the tension by telling her that she was the person closest to him. As they stood together that night, she realized that, in a totally coincidental and unexpected turn of events, she had found the best friend she's been searching for the past two years. As with most heartbreakingly wonderful moments in her life, she pretended to believe in God for the moment and thanked Him profusely.

Coming back from her daydream, she nodded her head again. "Okay," she said, mostly because there was nothing else to say, and pulled him into the apartment, grabbing his bags with her other hand.

Oddly uncomfortable with seeing each other again, they busied themselves with unimportant tasks.

"Let's take these to the bedroom, okay?" she told him.

He nodded.

She showed him through the apartment, pointing at various rooms, trying to be a good host. He watched her with intense interest. Paying little attention to the tour, he searched in the history of their friendship for a bit of data that would light his way through the rest of this reunion.

The bedroom that they finally reached looked very lived-in. Well, one side of it did, at least. What Jack assumed had been Davis' side was totally pristine. She'd cleared the entire room of her dead lover's belongings. She set Jack's bags down on the clean side of the room, absentmindedly dusting the night-table with her free hand.

"I hope you don't mind. There's only . . . one room." She looked down at the ground, then back up at her friend.

"Jen, we've been sleeping in the same bed since we were in high school," he said, laughing at the irony in the fact that the year Dawson and Joey had stopped sleeping in the same bed, he and Jen had begun doing exactly that. "But it is a bit small, I have to admit," he added, pointing to the bed trying to lighten the situation even further.

She ran her fingers over the comforter, her mind filled with memories. "It's been, you know, a while, since this bed has felt small to me."

Jack's head fell to his chest. Realizing the wrongness of his comment, he tried to correct it. "Jen, I didn't mean . . ."

She waved away his apology. "I know. It's too easy to make everything be about him. So easy that I do almost every day in every situation."

Knowing exactly what she was feeling, he opened his arms and pulled her into him once again. He stroked her hair as she continued to cry softly. She breathed unevenly and he concentrated on that, trying not to think about Paul.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered.

As he said this, tears broke in his own eyes and fell freely down his face.

She nodded, reassured by the fact that he was crying along with her. "I know, I know," she said. Then, smiling: "You're here now."

Jack smiled and sat down on the bed, pulling her into his lap. "I'm here now," he agreed.

"It's really strange . . . I thought I was over all this. Then, you come back and I'm a big mess, crying all over my shirt and clinging onto you like I'm a child."

"No worries, Jen. I understand. I would think it was strange if you didn't want me to hold you."

She smiled at him, by way of a thank you. Cocking her head toward the sliding doors at the back of the room, she asked him, "want to go out on the balcony?"

Not waiting for his response because she already knew it, she shoved her hands in the pockets of her flannel shirt, motioning for him to follow her out of the room.

The stagnant air choked him as he walked out onto a small balcony that looked over the courtyard below.

She noticed his expression, and read his thoughts. "Yeah. Not the greatest weather, Texas."

"Apparently not. Is it really only May?"

"Surprisingly cool for May, actually," she said, provoking him.

He noticed her comment as the joke it was, and smiled sarcastically.

"So are you going to tell me about Paul or not?"

He turned outward, leaning on the railing. "You were right, you know? You didn't like him from the beginning and . . . you were right."

"Jack . . ." she said, her eyes melting sympathetically, "I didn't want to be right."

He bent his head toward the sun, thinking. "I know. And I didn't want you to be right even more that you didn't want you to be right."

She sat down in a lawn chair behind her, and he followed her lead. "Sometimes I think that we're only allowed one relationship in our lives that leaves us . . . full. And sometimes I think that, since I have you, I've met my quota."

She ran her tongue across her lips, considering his theory. "We both had Grams, Jack. And you had your mother. And I had . . . well, Davis . . . and Dawson, on his good days." She gave up the debate, turning her attention back to Jack.

"You haven't cried yet, have you, babe?"

He shook his head silently. "Um . . . no, not since the night we broke up," he said, shaking his head again, breathing loudly; she knew he was near the breaking point.

She pushed on. "Well, if you want my advice, and I'm not saying that you do, then, I would tell you that the sooner you cry, the better off you'll be later. If you wait . . . well, if you wait . . . it's just not good to wait."

She counted as he blinked several times. Almost without warning, she watched his eyes cloud and his face break. She had seen him cry less than five times in her life. Each of those times, she had been struck with the obvious knowledge of why he didn't cry very often. It took his whole body. His shoulders shook, his face crumpled into an almost unrecognizable picture of pain, and his knuckles went red as he rubbed his hands together violently, trying to stop himself.

He was sad, she knew. But there was something else in his eyes that she had rarely seen: anger. For his whole life, he had dealt with grief. That wasn't a new emotion at all; anger was. She watched him try to push his anger away, hoping simultaneously that he would and wouldn't accomplish his goal of denial.

As he began to calm down, she moved toward him, scooting across the space on her knees. She knelt in front of him, circling his waist with her arms. He cried in the crook of her neck for several more moments, panting with exhaustion when he finished.

Finally, he lifted his head.

"Feel better?"

He nodded. "Yes, actually."

Later, they stood in the center of the kitchen, making pasta and salad.

Jen looked up at Jack suddenly, realizing that she had been consumed with her own sadness. Besides encouraging him to cry, she'd done little to facilitate his healing.

"I'm sorry that bastard hurt you," she told him after debating what comment would be best.

He gave her a sad look. "Yeah, you know . . . I don't know why I even expect to meet someone wonderful and live happily after. It's obviously not going to happen."

"Don't say that."

He looked at her forlornly. "Why not? It's the truth."

She took his hand and gripped it tightly in hers. "It is going to happen. You'll fall in love, and it will be perfect. Because you deserve love more than anyone I know. And I realize it sounds like a terribly self-help-book thing to say, but I'm going to say it anyway: you give so much love, Jack. You're bound to get some of that love in return."

"And what about you?"

She didn't answer.

"Jen?"

"I guess . . . I guess I never thought things would be like that for me," she replied suddenly. "I always thought you'd be the one with the wonderful husband and kids and a house in the suburbs." She paused. "And I would be the annoying, slightly neurotic single best friend who comes for holidays because she has no other family."

"No, no. You've got it all wrong, my friend. I'm the wacky, lonely guy with no family. I got cast in that role long ago."

Several moments of silence passed.

"You know what, Jack? If neither of us are ever happy, at least we can be miserable together."

His worry and distress showed as he laughed nervously. She could see that he'd given too much of his time to thinking about the possibility of being alone for the rest of his life. Her best friend was afraid, and she didn't know what to say because she felt the same feelings he did.

She grinned at him and looped her arm through his, leading him to the bedroom. "I don't want to cook. And God knows I don't want to eat anything even close to healthy tonight. Let's order pizza." With that, she threw the ladle into the sink and turned off the oven.

He nodded his head quickly. "Good idea."

Several seconds later, he turned to her. "We're not . . . avoiding . . . are we? Our deep-seated, psychological, possibly-damaging issues and problems, I mean?"

She stopped, thought for a moment, and replied. "Nope. We're not avoiding. We're just, we're just . . . ordering dinner." Gathering her strength around her, she pulled him out of the kitchen.

"You know, I haven't even asked you, how long can you stay?" Jen asked, as she reached across the bed for another piece of pizza.

Jack sat up slowly, chewing deliberately, thinking of the right way to break it to her. "Um . . . I'm not going back to New York."

Shocked, she turned to him. "What?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going back. I gave up my job, my apartment, everything. You're stuck with me. That is, if you want me."

"My God . . ."

Gazing at her with all the intensity he could muster after a long day of traveling and overwhelming emotion, he said, "I want us to be together again, Jen. I don't care if it's not healthy. I don't care if it means we'll never find romance. I just want to live with you again. The times in my life when we lived together were the best, maybe the only, times that I can remember being happy."

She set her pizza down and turned toward him. As she kissed his cheek, she whispered "let's unpack your things."

"Jack, this shirt is the worst looking thing I've ever seen," she told him, giggling as she organized his closet.

He looked at her and pointed his finger mock-accusingly. "This is why I didn't want you unpacking my things. My taste is never good enough for you."

"Jack, your taste is non-existent," she said, poking him in the ribs.

"I guess you'll just have to bring me up on the latest Dallas fashions," he said sarcastically.

"Well . . . since you mention it . . ."

"Whoa, now. I refuse to wear anything that even slightly resembles a ten gallon hat or those leather pants with the ass cut out of them."

"They're called chaps," she told him mock-authoritatively. "And no one here actually wears them unless they're just trying to scare off the tourists. I was thinking more on the lines of a, of a, sweater vest, maybe. Or some khaki pants." She began surveying his belongings, trying to discern if he owned anything like the clothing she had suggested.

"Uh, Jen?"

She looked up at him innocently.

He grabbed her ear and pulled her into her side of the room. "Stay over there, you nosy little weirdo!"

She giggled again. Several moments passed in a comfortable silence, both of them intent on their task of folding, hanging, and ironing.

Finally, Jen spoke. "Jack, are you really going to hate living here?" She studied him, her forehead wrinkled in worry.

He looked back at her over his shoulder, saw her face, and moved toward the bed. "No, Jen. I'm not going to hate living here. Not even close. How could you possibly think that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It just seems like you're feeling some kind of, I don't know, duty?"

He shook his head vehemently. "God, no. No. I mean, yes, it's my duty; but, no, that's not the reason I'm here."

She wasn't convinced.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it was the best thing for both of us. Me included."

She nodded slowly, obviously still not convinced.

He grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. "For God's sake, has it been so long since we've seen each other that you can't tell when I'm telling the truth?"

"I'm sorry," she said, running her fingers through her medium length blonde hair. "It's a weird and unexpected feeling, but I'm just very uncomfortable with certainties right now."

"Okay. I can understand that. God, can I ever understand that," he tapped his hand on his thigh, thinking. "How about this?," he said, getting an idea, "I am going to stay here with you for as long as we both get up in the morning, see each other, and feel like the last months of our lives are erased away by the other person's face."

She looked down at her lap, thinking.

"Okay. Okay."

He nodded, thinking he had settled the issue.

"But Jack?"

He turned.

"If the day ever comes that you don't want to live here anymore . . ."

She paused, he waited.

"Will you take me with you, wherever you go?"

Slumping down on the bed, he put her hand inside hers. "Jen . . . yes. The house that you're in, that's where I'll want to be. The kitchen that you don't know how to use, that's where I'll want to cook. The laundry room where you wash your clothes, that's where I'll want my clothes to be washed. The living room where you put on your angry feminist music, read your thousand-page novels, type on your computer, and try to plan your classes . . . well, Jen, that's the living room of my soul. And I will always, always live there."

She relaxed against him and he against her. They smiled at each other, breathing in and out in unison.


THE END