Jack will figure out who I’m talking about and he’ll realize what’s about to happen. That two parts of his life are about to collide. He’ll tell me everything that happened all those months ago and we’ll come up with a plan together.

I get off the train and walk the ten blocks until I’m standing out in front of Jack and Trent’s apartment. My heart is pumping water again. I feel weak and energized all at once. After this conversation, I could be leaving here and heading straight to Eliot’s door. In a few hours I could be pressing Eliot’s doorbell. Here I am, I could say to him. Here’s everything I am.

“Jess?”

I jump. Jack is heading toward me from down the block. He’s in his uniform from work and his face is lined with fatigue.

“Hey! You just getting off work? It’s so late,” I say.

“Nah. I went to the care facility and had dinner with Pops.”

My heart squeezes. For all the trouble Jack has caused in the past, he’s a good son.

Jack lets us into the house and almost immediately collapses onto the couch.

“Grab me a beer?” he calls.

I veer into the kitchen and grab one for him even though I wish he wouldn’t drink during the workweek. He doesn’t usually have just one. His eyes are closed when I come back into the room and I sneak over and press the cold can against his ear. He jolts and swats at me, grinning the same grin he’s had since we were kids.

“You look a little wrecked,” I tell him a moment later as I settle into the armchair and really get a good look at him. He’s got bags under his eyes and he’s overdue for a haircut.

“Yeah. I’ve been dealing with some stuff.” He takes a long drink and closes his eyes again.

“What stuff?”

He cracks an eye. “None of your business, kiddo.”

“Kiddo? I think you forfeited your right to patronizing nicknames when I peeled your ass off of Tasha’s floor and dragged you back here.”

He winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“What stuff?” I prod again, this time with a pit in my stomach. All the fizzing nervousness and excitement from Eliot seeing me on the street is starting to sour.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m gonna be fine.” He’s waving a hand in the air, trying to change the subject, but all I can see is a man holding on by his fingernails. On closer inspection, his uniform—a gray-blue jumpsuit with the name of the electric company embroidered on the breast pocket—is looking almost as tired as he is. My stomach drops.

“Jack, you gotta tell me what’s going on. Is everything okay at work?”