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They fuck. He never lets her pay for takeout. They know each other’s locker codes. He knows her favorite candy bar. She knows he takes six sugars in his coffee, but would never admit it, even under the threat of torture. Someone would have to be torturing you, he quipped in reply. He drives her home at the end of doubles, sliding into bed next to her half the time. Sometimes they go to the movies. Sometimes she massages his leg when it’s sore to the point of muscle spasms. It’s been six months. They fuck, and they’re friendly, maybe even friends. But nothing more.
It is the most significant relationship of Samira Mohan’s adult life.
Jack never kisses her, usually bends her over the couch or the end of the bed, puts her hands on the headboard and tells her to hang on. He likes it when she rides him, urging her faster towards her own pleasure with his hands on her ass. He eats her out like it’s his goddamn job. On more than one memorable occasion, she’s made him come by squeezing her tits around his cock, sucking the red tip of his erection into her mouth, flicking her tongue over the slit. He’s fingered her to orgasm in the darkened back of his Jeep. Sometimes, Samira wonders if he’s pretending that she’s his wife. She’s seen the pictures of her in his home, a smiling woman with dark hair and glasses, dead well before her time.
They’re not together. They’re not anything to each other.
But when he buzzes her apartment at nine in the morning on her first day off after working seven twelves in a row—without a call, without even a text—she lets him up. She always lets him up. Still in her pajamas, sipping on her first cup of coffee, she opens her front door. Leans in the doorway waiting to hear his footfalls on the stairs. Samira lives on the third floor. Jack doesn’t like to take the elevator in her slightly decrepit pre-war building, jokes that there’s no way the inspection certificates haven’t been forged.
She doesn’t hear the sound of his boots. She hears the ding of the elevator.
Something isn’t right.
“Jack?” she asks as he steps into her. One of her arms wraps around his neck as she fumbles her mug down onto her small entryway table. His forearms band around her waist, cinching her tightly to his chest. Her other arm comes up to rest on the side of his head, fingers sinking into graying curls. “Jack, what’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, burrowing into her neck.
“Okay, well,” she whispers. Anxiety thunders in her chest. “Come inside at least.”
She manages to maneuver them onto her couch, a serviceable Ikea sectional she found on Facebook Marketplace for three hundred dollars. She makes up for what it lacks with too many pillows from TJ Maxx. Jack’s frame stays arched into her, body curved with—grief, maybe? Fear? Samira wracks her brain for a single time she’s seen Jack Abbot afraid.
“What’s going on?” she asks, calm and quiet. “What happened?” Her thumb brushes over his temple, rubbing soothing circles. “Can you tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, breathing labored.
A panic attack. She can work with that; there’s still half a bottle of Ativan in her medicine cabinet from when an outside trauma specialist was brought in to conduct psych evaluations twelve weeks post-PittFest. He handed them out like candy on Halloween.
“No apologies necessary,” she replies. “I don’t know if you know this, but I like you a lot, Abbot. One could even say I care.”
“It’s dumb,” he says, clearing mucus from the back of his throat.
“I doubt that.” He won’t win this one. Cradling the sides of his jaw in her hands, she lifts his head from his hiding place against her throat. Whisking away tears, she looks at him in examination. Eyes red and swollen, face pale and blotchy. Almost ruddy. Increased respiration, even breath sounds. Exhaling gently, she presses her lips to his forehead. Leaves them there, speaking directly into his hairline. “Tell me.”
“Bad appointment with one of my surgeons,” he mumbles.
“I know the pain has been getting worse. Worse than it’s been.” She’s witnessed how the four twelves, five twelves, six twelves that Robby schedules him for have taken a toll. She’s laid in bed with him on his days off, working arnica gel and magnesium lotion into the ragged skin stretched to cover the stump. She’s seen the wincing and the occasional stumble. She knows he’s been relying more on his crutches at home. “So you saw your surgeon?”
If there’s one thing Samira knows how to do, it’s how to get a complete history.
Jack nods, fighting a sob down into a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
“What did they say?”
“There’s a neuroma at the bottom of the residual limb, which—I’ve guessed.” She knows that she has. He’s had articles on neuromas and post-amputation limb revision printed and sitting on his coffee table for months now. “I saw the microsurgeon and—I’m a decent candidate for targeted muscle reinnervation.”
“Okay.” With even her limited clinical experience in plastic and reconstructive surgery, she knows the procedure can be life-changing. She also knows that it can fail. That it can cause further pain and impairment. “Yeah that’s pretty scary. When was your appointment?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh Jack,” she says with a sigh. “Have you slept at all?”
“No,” he rasps.
Samira tilts her head, appraising him. He allows it, eyes fluttering closed, hiding broken capillaries and irritated tear glands. The weight of his head sits in her hands. “Do you wanna talk about it first or get some sleep first?”
“I don’t know if I can do either,” he whispers.
“You can. It’s just me.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, the kind that rearranges your ribs inside your chest. “They’d have to take more muscle, to create the pathways. There’s a guarantee that the pain will get worse for at least three to six months, and no guarantee that it gets better. Maybe it only gets worse.”
“And you don’t know if it’s worth the risk?” she asks.
Jack’s eyes slit open. “I don’t know if I can—I have to work. Three to six months of just sitting at home? In excruciating pain? Hoping my nerves grow back?” He laughs wetly. “I’d lose my fuckin’ mind. Worse than I already have.”
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday? You didn’t have to wait until it was this bad.”
Looking askance, he chews on words that never leave his lips. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to just dump this on you, but I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours now and I just—” Something in his composure finally breaks. “I needed you.”
“That’s allowed.”
Samira doesn’t consider the words before saying them. But they’re real. The second she speaks them into being, they’re real. Jack Abbot is more than allowed to need her, in whatever way he wants. In whatever way makes this easier. In whatever way is a balm to his wounds. There’s a hitch in his breath. Unsubtle, uncontrolled. Like something has been torn from him. Or rather, as if something has been violently slotted into place.
“I just don’t want to be in pain anymore,” he says, voice turning frantic. “I don’t want another surgery. I don’t want to take another leave of absence. I just want it to stop. I don’t want to have to take the risk. I don’t want to have to deal with this alone—”
She all but heaves him against her. Her initial movements require some strength, but Jack cooperates. Allows himself to be collected, and then negotiates silently their touch. Samira finds herself straddling his lap, bare legs pressing against the gray sweatpants he has on. Her eyes burn, watering. She pushes that away, pushes down the ball of emotion thick at the back of her throat. Cupping his chin, she lifts Jack’s eyes to hers.
“Watch me,” she says. Waits, taking deep, steady breaths until the rise and fall of his chest matches hers. “Watch my face. You are not alone.”
“I’m no good for you,” he whispers, pained. “I can’t do this to you.”
Oh. Oh.
That’s what this all has been. That’s why he hides his face when they fuck. That’s why he’s quiet and restrained when he’s inside her. He’s been afraid of it all spilling over. Jack Abbot is terrified of being something that happened to her.
“You’re gonna,” she fiercely replies. “Because you are good for me. You are so good to me, Jack.”
Surprise flashes across his face like a firework. Like a sudden lightning strike. Like a car crash, like a driver speeding through a red light.
“Samira.”
“I’m smarter than you,” she replies, stern. “You’ve told me that. I’m smarter than you.”
Jack’s voice breaks over his answer. “You are.”
Holding firmly to his chin, Samira leans down to brush her lips against his. Soft, full of intention. Full of promise. “Then listen to me. No matter what you decide, I’m here. Stop hiding from me.”
Emotion sloshes over, tears dripping down her cheeks. Jack kisses them away; she can feel his eyelashes against the delicate skin on her cheeks, her chin, her nose. His lips find her jawline, her dimples, her forehead. Soft, quick, tender.
“Okay,” he chokes out. “Okay.”