He goes straight to bed. Alone. Which makes me wonder where Mal is. Then worry that maybe Skylar needs some company. Some dinner and backup while he eats it. Then I hear voices from beyond his closed bedroom door and realise Mal was here all along, and I stop worrying. If there’s one thing those two are good at it’s looking after each other.
Me and Jack are good at that too. And apparently we’re good at hand-jobs. Kissing. Curling up in bed together for reasonsbeyond the aftermath of seizures and bad dreams. But then, we’ve always been good at that.
It’s late.
I toss the cleaning supplies in the cupboard and stamp into some random shoes by the front door. Go downstairs to check the alarm system.
Jack’s already set it.
It’s fine, as far as I can tell. Truth be told, I’m not great with it either, but knowing Mal will check it remotely goes a long way to me not sparing it too much thought.
Jack.
Where is he?
I find him in the front bar where we serve the tourists their fancy craft beers and cheap prosecco. He’s on the customer side, on a stool, bent over the till drawer, frowning as he studies a scrap of paper scrawled in the hand of a five-year-old.
Or, you know, me.
He hears me coming. For a hot second, his gaze scrapes my bare torso. Then he’s frowning again. “What does this say?”
I move closer to him, filling the space beside him, the scent of beer, cider, andpeopleheavy in the air. “Dunno.”
“You wrote it.”
“Did I?”
Jack snorts. “Maybe you should draw me a picture next time.”
“Got news for you, Jackie. I can’t draw either.”
True story. Left alone, I can read a library in a week. Ask me to write my own book it’d be shapes and crayon. Skylar calls itdysgraphia. Says it’s more common than we know. Me? I reckon it’s got more to do with bunking off school to chase the mackerel catch, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Was it important?”
Jack’s Killinchy accent is thick enough tonight that I know he’s spent time with Mal. I study the scrawled note, trying to bury the grief that I never met their ma. That all I know of her is a couple of grainy photos, Jack’s comfort meal of jam on wheaten toast, and the fact he almost died the same way she did. “I put money in the till. You said it was short after I worked the close-down shift the other day.”
Jack frowns, thinking, remembering. “It was short because I paid the coal delivery with cash and forgot about it.”
“Oh.”
“I guess that explains why we’ve had too much money this week.” Jack drops the note in the till and sets his big hands on my bare shoulders. “But even if it didn’t, the tills are up and down all the time. You don’t need to ever put your hand in your pocket to fix it.”
“You like the tills to balance.”
“I like sunshine and sweet dreams too. Doesn’t mean it’s on you to make sure I get them.”
“Are you having bad dreams, love?”
Jack releases my shoulders, turning back to the till drawer. “I need to tell you something.”
Instant dread throttles my heart. “Are you okay?”
Jack’s slow to answer. Because he just is sometimes, when it takes him a minute to organise his words. But in a world where these pauses have often meantdanger, the measured breath he takes seems to last a week. “I knew Folk Whitlock before I got hurt.”
Oh. Of all the things I thought he might say, I didn’t have that on my bingo card.
I hop the bar, claim a glass, and fire a shot of Kraken into it. Jack can’t drink it anymore, but I know he loves the sweet and spicy smell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”