Sweet Talk by Cara Bastone

Chapter Nineteen

Jessie

I’m throwing one leg over my motorcycle, my palms on the handlebars, when I realize my hands are shaking.

He knows, he knows, he knows.The words are taunting me in the same rhythmic wuh-wump wuh-wump wuh-wump of my heartbeat.

I step back off my motorcycle and take two steps toward the building. I have to go back. I have to talk to him.

But no. I’m pacing back toward the bike. My first instinct was right. I have to talk to Jack first. It’s too soon for Eliot to know who I am. I can’t go to him, hat in hand, without being able to explain who my brother is. And I can’t explain who my brother is without first telling my brother I’m going to do that.

My first instinct was right. Get the hell away from Eliot and find Jack.

But I’m in no condition to weave my way through traffic on a motorcycle right now, so I jog three blocks down to the subway.

The trip to Queens takes a stupid amount of time, because apparently whoever designed New York City’s subway system assumed that anyone leaving Brooklyn could only possibly be wanting to head into Manhattan. It’s nearly impossible to go north from Brooklyn or south from Queens. But tonight I’m glad for the extra time, because it’s given me an hour to practice my speech in my head.

Jack, I need your help, I’ll say. There’s this man in the building who I think I’m going to try to date.

And then I’ll describe Eliot.

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?”

“Oh, my God.” He leans forward and sets the can of beer on the coffee table with a little too much force and some of it slops over his knuckles. “Yes, Jess. My precious job is fine. I’m not going to do anything to fuck with Pops’s health insurance, all right? I’ve got it covered.”

“That’s not what I—” I cut myself off, because honestly, that is what I meant. He’s not fine. It’s clear he’s going through something, but it’s not his welfare I was asking about. Guilt has me dropping my eyes, scraping a hand over the back of my neck.

It’s Pops who’s been at the forefront of my mind for the last year. Ever since his diagnosis. It’s Pops who I’ve turned my life upside-down for. And I expected Jack to do the same. He looks like he’s holding on by his fingernails? Well, aren’t I the one who’s been expecting him to do just that? Have I cared at all what he’s been doing in his free time as long as he shows up for work?

“Jack,” I try, “if you need help with something, all you’ve gotta do is ask.”

He frowns at me. “I’ve got it covered, Jess. Now, is this just a social call? Or did you need something? Because I’m tired and I gotta get up early.”

And I just can’t do it. All the words get jammed up in my throat and my plan suddenly seems so stupid. If I’m being honest, I knew it was useless even before I got on the train. Unless Jack magically has a time machine, there’s no fixing this. The bottom line is this: if Eliot finds out who Jack is, Jack’s life goes to hell. And so does Pops’s. And so does mine.

Either I tell Jack what’s going on with Eliot and make him feel like shit over something he can’t change any better than I can. Or I keep my mouth shut and we both just keep individually weathering this terrible time.

“I . . . I just wanted to see your face,” I tell him, standing up.

It isn’t until I’m on the train again that I let my head fall into my hands. I’ve been fooling myself into thinking that there was anything I could do. But there’s not. It is what it is. I can’t be on Eliot’s side. I made my decision on that first phone call when I didn’t tell him who I was. I’d already betrayed him even then. I chose Jack.

I come above ground in Brooklyn and my phone chirps in my pocket. It’s a message from Eliot that he sent an hour ago when I didn’t have service. I nearly take a thumb off hastily unlocking my phone. I’m surprised to see that it’s not a voice message. It’s a text. My first ever from Eliot.

My eyes blur with tears halfway through reading it and I stop, lean against the brick side of a bodega, and try again. “Hopeful,” this text says. Hopeful. It’s a word that fits him so perfectly, it could be his middle name. He’s in his apartment right now feeling hopeful. Even after I ditched him on the street, he’s thinking the best of me. He still wants me.

But how would he feel if he knew the choice I’ve made? How would he feel if he knew that I’ve decided to make his world a little worse just so I can make mine a little easier?

Hopeful. The word haunts me every step of the way home.