off the train and headed
along the same pathway we’d walked two nights earlier. But halfway down the path, I spotted his lithe frame striding down a sidewalk that crossed mine.
“Jack,” I called out to his back. When he didn’t stop, I jogged closer and called him again.
He turned his head in both directions. He looked dazed.
“Hey,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I texted you a little while ago.”
“Bex.” His voice was shot to hell and back. Crap, his eyes were red, too. Either he’d developed a very un-Buddhist-like drug habit or he’d been up all night. “My
phone died yesterday, and I haven’t been home to recharge it.”
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head back and forth several times and scrubbed the crown of his head, mussing his hair worse than it already was. That’s when I noticed how wrinkled his clothes were, and that
he had the faint shadow of unshaved whiskers darkening his jaw and chin.
“Jesus, Jack. What’s going on?”
“It’s going to be . . . I think the worst is . . . I don’t know. I haven’t slept, and I need a shower. I wanted to call you, but no one needs this level of heaviness in
their life and—”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Tell me what happened.”
“I—”
A deep voice bellowed behind me. “Jackson.”
I swung around to see a middle-aged man in a slate overcoat approaching. He might’ve been handsome, but it was hard to be sure with the dark sunglasses and black baseball cap pulled low
and tight. The only thing I knew for sure was that his clothes cost more than everything I had in my rickety wardrobe.
“The car’s waiting,” the man said, giving me the briefest of glances. Brief enough to let me know that I was inconsequential.
“Dad—”
“Now.” He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and urged him along.
“Jack!” I said.
“I’ll call you,” he answered over his shoulder, giving me a pained look. A few seconds later, they were yards away, heading toward the drop-off area near the parking
garage.
What in the world had happened?
12
SKETCHING MINNIE WAS A MILLION TIMES WORSE that night, partly because I knew what to expect, and partly because I was worried about Jack. But I
didn’t try to hero-up this time: I excused myself halfway through the drawing session to walk around and breathe, using the same in-and-out pattern Jack had shown me. It helped. I managed not
to get sick all over the bushes again.
When I didn’t hear back from Jack that night, I told myself that whatever he was going through, it was clearly serious. And if he really hadn’t slept in that long, I hoped
that’s what he was doing.
The next day, I sent a text telling him to talk to me as soon as he could, no pressure. He texted back immediately:
Msg from Jack Vincent, Received 1:30PM: I’m not ignoring you. Promise.
Me: Are you okay?
Jack: Better. But I have to go back to the hospital in a few minutes.
Me: Is there anything I can do?
Jack: No. I just wish things were different. I’d like to say this is unusual, but it’s just my screwed-up
life.
Me: I’m here if you need to talk. But I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.
Jack: I have to go now. I’ll prob be out of commission for a while. Believe me, it’s better this way.
I’M NOT SURE WHY I THOUGHT THAT MEANT HOURS, or even a day, but after a week passed, I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s not like I
spent the entire time moping or anything. I dutifully sneaked off to my drawing sessions with Minnie. I worked four shifts at Alto Market. I checked my email to see if the wood-carving shop in
Berkeley that made the artist’s mannequin had responded. And I did my best not to worry about Jack.
Until ENDURE popped up.
Maiden Lane is this alley in Union Square. It used to be filled with sleazy brothels before the 1906 earthquake leveled it—which is sort of funny, because now it’s a fancy-schmancy
street filled with high-end
along the same pathway we’d walked two nights earlier. But halfway down the path, I spotted his lithe frame striding down a sidewalk that crossed mine.
“Jack,” I called out to his back. When he didn’t stop, I jogged closer and called him again.
He turned his head in both directions. He looked dazed.
“Hey,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I texted you a little while ago.”
“Bex.” His voice was shot to hell and back. Crap, his eyes were red, too. Either he’d developed a very un-Buddhist-like drug habit or he’d been up all night. “My
phone died yesterday, and I haven’t been home to recharge it.”
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head back and forth several times and scrubbed the crown of his head, mussing his hair worse than it already was. That’s when I noticed how wrinkled his clothes were, and that
he had the faint shadow of unshaved whiskers darkening his jaw and chin.
“Jesus, Jack. What’s going on?”
“It’s going to be . . . I think the worst is . . . I don’t know. I haven’t slept, and I need a shower. I wanted to call you, but no one needs this level of heaviness in
their life and—”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Tell me what happened.”
“I—”
A deep voice bellowed behind me. “Jackson.”
I swung around to see a middle-aged man in a slate overcoat approaching. He might’ve been handsome, but it was hard to be sure with the dark sunglasses and black baseball cap pulled low
and tight. The only thing I knew for sure was that his clothes cost more than everything I had in my rickety wardrobe.
“The car’s waiting,” the man said, giving me the briefest of glances. Brief enough to let me know that I was inconsequential.
“Dad—”
“Now.” He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and urged him along.
“Jack!” I said.
“I’ll call you,” he answered over his shoulder, giving me a pained look. A few seconds later, they were yards away, heading toward the drop-off area near the parking
garage.
What in the world had happened?
12
SKETCHING MINNIE WAS A MILLION TIMES WORSE that night, partly because I knew what to expect, and partly because I was worried about Jack. But I
didn’t try to hero-up this time: I excused myself halfway through the drawing session to walk around and breathe, using the same in-and-out pattern Jack had shown me. It helped. I managed not
to get sick all over the bushes again.
When I didn’t hear back from Jack that night, I told myself that whatever he was going through, it was clearly serious. And if he really hadn’t slept in that long, I hoped
that’s what he was doing.
The next day, I sent a text telling him to talk to me as soon as he could, no pressure. He texted back immediately:
Msg from Jack Vincent, Received 1:30PM: I’m not ignoring you. Promise.
Me: Are you okay?
Jack: Better. But I have to go back to the hospital in a few minutes.
Me: Is there anything I can do?
Jack: No. I just wish things were different. I’d like to say this is unusual, but it’s just my screwed-up
life.
Me: I’m here if you need to talk. But I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.
Jack: I have to go now. I’ll prob be out of commission for a while. Believe me, it’s better this way.
I’M NOT SURE WHY I THOUGHT THAT MEANT HOURS, or even a day, but after a week passed, I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s not like I
spent the entire time moping or anything. I dutifully sneaked off to my drawing sessions with Minnie. I worked four shifts at Alto Market. I checked my email to see if the wood-carving shop in
Berkeley that made the artist’s mannequin had responded. And I did my best not to worry about Jack.
Until ENDURE popped up.
Maiden Lane is this alley in Union Square. It used to be filled with sleazy brothels before the 1906 earthquake leveled it—which is sort of funny, because now it’s a fancy-schmancy
street filled with high-end
Similar Books
