copyright©2025
FAREWELL
The day after, I left work with my heart already running ahead of me, hurrying toward Phelan’s in hope of Jack’s letter — the one he had promised would tell me everything at last. But instead of Jack, I found Pete there, leaning into the counter with a smile that seemed far too easy. Jack, he said, was at home, keeping an eye on Julian. I swallowed my disappointment and stayed.
Pete’s mind, as it turned out, was not on me but on Marketa — though soon enough, that would change. He spoke of her with a half-boyish eagerness, asking for my counsel as though love were a puzzle that could be solved by a friend’s advice. When he suggested we continue the talk at my place over a bottle of wine, I agreed. He was Jack’s friend. There was safety in that — or so I thought.
For the first half hour, the conversation was harmless: how he might draw Marketa out, how she might welcome a little attention. I gave him my opinions lightly, without personal stake. But then, with the subtle drift of a tide, the subject turned to Jack — to Jack and me.
“I can’t help it,” Pete said, his tone softening as though speaking to himself. “The way you love him… it fascinates me. I wish I had someone like you.”
He leaned back, studying me. “He loves you too. More than you realise.”
I looked at him carefully. “Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s not the same. Jack’s always been distant — never came out for a drink, kept to himself. But since you… he’s different. I think you’ve changed him.”
Wine loosened his tongue. Stories spilled out, half-whispered, half-slurred — of a time when Jack had been a shadow of himself, suspicious of everyone, drinking too much, pushing friends away until there were none left to stand by him.
When I asked why the paranoia, Pete only shrugged. “Troubles pile up on a man. Sometimes they break him.”
By the time the bottle ran dry, his words had grown thick, his thoughts slow. And then he smiled — the kind of smile that warns more than it welcomes.
“If you ever left him,” he said, “I’d want you. I like you a lot.”
“You can forget that,” I replied, still more bemused than angry.
The house was quiet. Marketa had long since gone to bed, and the radio murmured from the kitchen. Pete rose suddenly, swaying like a mast in a windless sea.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s dance.”
What followed was more farce than menace — a clumsy, weaving approach, as though his own body had become a stranger to him. I stepped back, putting the table between us. He stumbled into the sink, then the wine bottle, which fell and shattered across the floor.
And then, without prelude, he lunged — arms coiling around me, his mouth pressing a long, unwanted kiss. I tore free, the taste of cheap wine burning my lips.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you mad?”
“Sorry… sorry,” he mumbled, the smile returning like a bad habit.
When he tried again, I shoved him back, my voice breaking through the thick air. “You’re Jack’s friend. We were just talking about how much I love him. Did you not understand?”
Still he only grinned. “Can I stay here tonight?”
“Get out.”
His body bent under my hands as I pushed him to the door. “Promise me you’ll tell Jack nothing,” I said sharply. “It would destroy him.”
“None of this happened,” he muttered, still smiling as he stumbled into the street.
The night left a bitter film over me. I sat at the table, unable to grasp what had just happened. The thought gnawed at me: Jack’s own friend had touched me. And what if Pete twisted the truth before Jack could hear mine?
Sleep was no refuge. In my dreams, Jack lay in a coffin while mourners gathered — yet I knew he was still alive. I begged them to open it, to look, but no one would listen. I woke with tears cooling on my cheeks.
The next day passed in a fog of arguments with myself: confess or stay silent? Fear held me by the throat.
That night, Roosters became a battleground. Five men descended on a young couple without warning — fists and boots in a blur. Sandra shouted at me to run for the police while she fumbled with the security camera she’d kept off. Blood was pooling on the floor. I ran into the street.
“Does anyone have a phone? Call the police!” My voice cut through the night. Pete stood not far away, eating a burger.
“Pete! Please, there’s a fight inside — two innocent people!”
He didn’t move. “Let them fight. Their choice.”
I stared, incredulous. “You bastard,” I said. “I’ll tell Jack everything.”
By the time the police arrived, the attackers were gone. We mopped the blood and went on serving customers.
After that, I knew I couldn’t hold my silence. About an hour later, Jack appeared at Roosters, carrying a letter.
The moment I saw him, my chest tightened as if all the air had left the room.
“You look troubled,” he said, his brow creased with concern.
“There was a fight… and I need to tell you something important,” I managed, though it felt like someone else had borrowed my voice. Jack only gave me a quiet, pained look and promised to stop by the next day so we could talk.
When he came the next day, we sat in my kitchen, our knees almost touching. It took me a while to gather the courage to speak, and when I did, tears poured freely. I told him everything—what had happened, how Pete reacted when I begged for his help after the fight. I left nothing out.
Jack listened in silence, his eyes heavy with thought. Then he spoke, slowly, almost reluctantly. He had wanted to believe I was the one, but now he didn’t know if our relationship could survive. He needed time alone to think. I tried to explain, to make him see it hadn’t been my fault—Pete had come at me, and I’d thrown him out—but Jack’s expression didn’t soften. He left me to my tears, repeating only what he’d already said.
Days later, he returned with a lighter mood. “Stan and I dealt with Pete,” he told me. “Ran into him at Phelans. Gave him a piece of my mind—for you, and for refusing to help that night.” A flicker of hope stirred in me.
But his voice darkened. “As for us… I don’t know if I can open my heart to you again. You hurt me.”
I tried to speak through my sobs. “Jack, I’m so sorry… please believe me. I love you.”
He took my face in his hands, looking straight into my eyes. The pain inside me was sharp and blinding, echoing a dream I’d once had of him dying—a sensation as if I were losing him now in waking life.
“You’ll get through this,” he said softly. “One day you’ll love again.”
I shook my head desperately. “Don’t leave me, Jack. I can’t survive without you.” But he only rose, telling me to take care of myself, promising to check in on me. When he left, I collapsed over the table, cursing myself for ever telling him the truth.
The days that followed were empty shadows. I drifted through work, cried every night, replaying our last conversations as if they were my only tether to him. One evening, I sat with a photograph he’d left behind—him holding little Julian. I began to draw, shaping every line with care until the portrait felt alive. I framed it, deciding it would be my farewell gift.
When the day came, we sat side by side again, but I asked for nothing. I simply handed him the portrait. He studied it in silence, then said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“I wanted you to have something to remember me by,” I murmured, keeping my eyes down so he wouldn’t see the tears.
He took my hands, holding them for a long moment. Then his voice softened. “The fact that you told me the truth… it matters to me. If you’d lied, I’d have found out anyway. I’m glad you were honest.”
He paused. I held my breath.
“I’ve decided to give you another chance.”
I didn’t see the strings being pulled, the careful play on my emotions. I was too in love to recognize the manipulation. I threw my arms around him, grateful beyond words. Love had returned—like water to the parched, hope to the dying.
From that day, I lived to please him, showering him with attention as if tomorrow didn’t exist. But over time, the truth dawned: I had been deceived. He took and took, and I—blind with devotion—kept giving.
copyright©2025
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