Day 22 - January

The morning after they kissed, Jack texted at 7:12 AM.

Morning.

Clara smiled at the phone.

Then immediately felt embarrassed for smiling at the phone.

Morning.

Three dots.

Still okay?

She stared.

That was such an adult question.

Not:

Do you regret it?

Not:

What are we?

Just:

Still okay?

Yes. You?

Yes.

Then:

Very.

Clara smiled again.

Hopeless.

They did not see each other that morning.

Clara worked.

Jack worked.

At noon he sent a picture of a walnut board with a knot in it.

No explanation.

Clara replied:

Is this furniture flirting?

Jack:

I panicked.

She laughed aloud.

Then returned to reviewing February layouts.

This was something Clara had not expected.

Normalcy.

She had assumed that once they kissed, the entire emotional atmosphere would change.

Music.

Urgency.

Some dramatic romantic acceleration.

Instead Jack still had furniture to build.

Clara still had copy to approve.

The world was offensively unchanged.

She liked that.

At four, her airline sent another reminder.

YOUR TRIP IS COMING UP

December 26
Holloway area → Chicago

Clara stared at it longer this time.

Four days.

Then she opened her calendar.

January appeared.

Full.

Meetings.

Travel.

Deadlines.

Work.

Her actual life.

She scrolled through February.

Worse.

March.

Not better.

Jack was not the only person with something to lose.

She knew that.

So why did the calendar suddenly feel accusatory?

Her phone buzzed.

Naomi.

Have you kissed him yet?

Clara stared.

Then:

Your timing is creepy.

The phone rang immediately.

Clara answered.

“Do you have surveillance?”

Naomi screamed.

Clara held the phone away.

“Stop.”

“You kissed him.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

“You are forty-seven.”

“And yet joy remains available to me.”

Clara laughed.

Naomi recovered.

“Okay. Details.”

“No.”

“Length?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Quality?”

“Goodbye.”

“Fine. Fine.”

Clara smiled.

Then Naomi’s tone shifted.

“So what happens now?”

There it was.

January.

Clara looked at the calendar.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you coming home?”

“Yes.”

The answer came immediately.

Important.

Naomi heard it.

“Good.”

Clara frowned.

“Good?”

“Yes. Because if you had said you were quitting your job and moving to Wisconsin after one kiss, I would have driven there and kidnapped you.”

“I would never.”

“I know.”

Clara smiled.

“I love my job.”

“I know.”

“I love my apartment.”

“I know.”

“My friends are there.”

“Yes.”

“My whole life is there.”

Naomi waited.

Clara sighed then said,

“And Jack is here.”

“There it is.”

Clara looked out the window.

Snow.

Her father’s backyard.

The house she was about to sell.

“I don’t want to do this again.”

Naomi understood immediately.

“Make it either-or?”

“Yes.”

“So don’t.”

Clara frowned.

“That seems overly simple.”

“You’re acting like Holloway is on another continent.”

“It’s almost three hours.”

“Terrifying. If only mankind had invented roads.”

Clara laughed.

“Jack works constantly.”

“So do you.”

“I travel.”

“So does he.”

“I have a house to finish selling.”

“Yes.”

“He has a business.”

“Yes.”

Clara paused.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to hear yourself.”

Clara hated when people did that.

“I hear myself.”

“Good. Because you are listing logistics, not impossibilities.”

That landed.

Logistics.

Not destiny.

Not proof.

Problems.

Problems could sometimes be managed.

Not solved forever.

Managed.

Jack came over that evening with Thai food.

No artifact.

No project.

No reason beyond dinner.

Clara let him in.

He kissed her at the door.

Brief.

Warm.

Entirely natural.

Then he held up the bag.

“Pad Thai.”

“Excellent.”

They ate at the dining table.

The same table.

At this point, Clara had begun to suspect every significant conversation in her life was legally required to occur there.

For twenty minutes they talked about nothing important.

Then Jack said:

“You leave in four days.”

Clara looked at him.

“Yes.”

There.

No avoiding it.

He put his fork down.

“I don't want us to be stupid.”

Clara smiled.

“That is ambitious considering our history.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“So am I.”

He leaned back.

“What happens January first?”

“I go to work.”

“So do I.”

“Excellent start.”

Jack smiled.

Then:

“I’m not moving to Chicago.”

Clara felt the sentence.

Not pain.

Recognition.

“Okay.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to know that.”

“I do.”

“And I’m not asking you to move here.”

Clara nodded.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

She smiled slightly.

“Because I'm not moving to Holloway.”

Jack nodded.

“Okay.”

They sat there.

Twenty-four years ago, those two sentences would have ended the conversation.

Tonight, neither stood up.

Neither accused.

Neither translated the answer into:

Then you don't love me enough.

Clara felt something inside her loosen.

“So,” she said.

“So.”

“Now what?”

Jack looked almost amused.

“I thought you were the planner.”

“I’m trying a new thing.”

“What?”

“Not doing all of it.”

He smiled.

“I like it.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Clara got her laptop.

Jack laughed.

“There she is.”

“This is not a plan.”

“You opened Excel.”

“Calendar.”

“Much better.”

She turned the screen toward him.

“My January.”

Jack read.

His eyebrows rose.

“You travel a lot.”

“Yes.”

“I knew that.”

“You didn't understand it.”

“Apparently.”

She scrolled.

“What does yours look like?”

Jack took out his phone.

They compared.

January 8.

Jack had a virtual Boston review.

January 9 through 11.

Clara would be in New York.

January 14.

Clara needed to be back in Holloway for house matters.

Jack looked at her.

“You're coming back anyway.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Probably overnight.”

“Stay two.”

She looked at him.

“Maybe.”

Jack pointed.

“That word has aged beautifully.”

“Shut up.”

He laughed.

Then they kept going.

January 20.

Jack in Milwaukee.

Closer to Chicago.

“How close?” Clara asked.

“About ninety minutes.”

“That's practically next door.”

“By your standards?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiled.

“Dinner?”

“Maybe.”

He glared.

Clara laughed.

“Yes.”

They found weekends.

Gaps.

Possibilities.

Not enough to define a relationship.

Enough to continue one.

Clara looked at both calendars.

“This feels absurdly practical.”

Jack nodded.

“Very unromantic.”

“I kind of like it.”

“Me too.”

Then she said:

“What about February?”

Jack looked at her.

“No.”

Clara blinked.

“No?”

“One month.”

“What?”

“We figure out January.”

She stared.

“That’s deeply irresponsible.”

“I know.”

“I need projections.”

“You can have January.”

“What about after?”

“After January, we know more.”

Clara sat back.

This was horrifying.

Also sensible.

“So we're dating for a month?”

Jack made a face.

“That sounds like a subscription.”

Clara laughed.

“Fine. We are seeing each other.”

“Also terrible.”

“What would you call it?”

He looked at her.

“I don’t care.”

That answer surprised her.

Jack continued.

“I care whether we keep doing it.”

Clara went quiet.

That was better.

Much better.

“Yes.”

“Then let's do that.”

She closed the laptop.

“There’s something else.”

Jack waited.

“If this gets harder…”

“When.”

Clara smiled.

“Fine. When this gets harder.”

“It will.”

“I don't want either of us pretending we’re okay with something we're not.”

Jack nodded.

“Agreed.”

“No delaying conversations because we're afraid of the answer.”

He gave her a look.

“Targeted.”

“Extremely.”

“Fair.”

“And no treating compromise like proof of love.”

“Yes.”

“No moving just because distance is annoying.”

“Yes.”

“No assuming the other person’s work is more flexible.”

“Yes.”

Clara looked at him.

“And if at some point it doesn’t work—”

Jack's expression shifted.

Not fear.

Attention.

Clara continued.

“We say that too.”

He nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

She felt sad saying it.

That was okay.

A mature relationship was apparently full of statements that did not feel romantic.

Jack added:

“And no staying because we're trying to fix what happened before.”

Clara looked at him.

“Yes.”

That one mattered most.

They were not finishing a story interrupted in January of 2003.

They were finding out whether these two people fit.

Now.

She reached across the table.

Jack took her hand.

“Terrible date,” he said.

Clara smiled.

“We made a governance document.”

“Very sexy.”

“I thought so.”

Later, they moved to the couch.

No calendars.

No logistics.

Just wine.

Jack’s arm behind her.

Clara’s legs tucked beneath her.

Quiet.

She rested her head against his shoulder.

“This is the part nobody tells you.”

“What?”

“How much scheduling is involved in being middle-aged.”

Jack laughed.

“Should’ve done this in our twenties.”

“We did.”

“Badly.”

“We had more energy.”

“Less money.”

“Terrible communication.”

“Your apartment was freezing.”

“Your chair was crooked.”

“Still is.”

She smiled.

Then:

“Do you ever wish we’d tried long-distance longer?”

Jack thought.

“No.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I think we would've spent it waiting for someone to change their mind.”

Clara nodded.

Yes.

“That’s not what this is.”

“No.”

Neither of them was waiting for surrender.

That was the difference.

At ten, Jack stood to leave.

Clara walked him to the door.

He put on his coat.

Then said:

“Go home to Chicago on the twenty-sixth.”

Clara looked at him.

“I was planning to.”

“I know.”

He smiled slightly.

“I mean don't change the flight because of me.”

The sentence hurt and comforted simultaneously.

“Okay.”

“I don't want our first new decision to be you canceling something.”

Clara looked at him for a long moment.

“You really did go to therapy.”

Jack laughed.

“Expensive, but apparently worth it.”

She kissed him.

Slowly.

Then stepped back.

“I'm going home on the twenty-sixth.”

“Good.”

“And I'll be back on the fourteenth.”

“Good.”

“And maybe before.”

Jack smiled.

“Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t push your luck.”

After he left, Clara returned to the table.

Her calendar remained open.

She took out a piece of paper.

Wrote:

JANUARY

Then beneath:

Nothing permanent.

Nothing sacrificed.

Nothing assumed.

See what happens.

She almost laughed.

Clara Bennett had created a four-bullet plan for not planning.

Of course she had.

She placed the two walnut ornaments beside it.

What happens next?

Not yet.

Maybe Jack had been right.

Sophie texted.

Clara had given her her number after dinner.

The message began:

Question that is none of my business: Did Dad give you the last postcard?

Clara frowned.

The 2002 one? Yes.

A pause.

Then:

No. The one he didn’t send.

Clara stopped.

Read it again.

What one he didn’t send?

Nothing.

Then:

Oh crap, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.

Clara laughed once in disbelief.

Another message:

Pretend I said nothing.

Sophie.

This feels like a Dad problem.

SOPHIE.

A long pause.

Then:

There’s an envelope in his old postcard box. I saw it years ago. It has your name on it. I assumed he told you.

Clara stared at the screen.

The room suddenly felt very quiet.

Her name.

An envelope.

Not mailed.

She thought of Jack’s shoebox.

Five postcards.

She had looked through them.

Had she seen an envelope?

No.

Then she remembered.

The box had been deeper than the stack.

Jack had closed it before leaving.

Clara typed:

When is it from?

Sophie:

I don’t know exactly. Before I was born.

Then:

Please don't tell him I told you.

Clara stared.

Then laughed.

Absolutely not.

She called Jack.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey.”

“Is there another postcard?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Complete.

Clara closed her eyes.

“Sophie told you.”

“That is not the relevant part.”

Jack sighed.

“She is incapable of minding her own business.”

“She inherited that.”

“From Rachel.”

“Coward.”

He laughed once.

Then went quiet again.

Clara sat down.

“Is there?”

“Yes.”

Her pulse changed.

“From when?”

“After.”

“After we broke up?”

“Yes.”

“How long after?”

“A few weeks.”

Clara swallowed.

“You wrote to me.”

“Yes.”

“But didn't send it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Jack was quiet long enough that Clara almost repeated the question.

Then:

“Because you’d started your life.”

Her chest tightened.

“And?”

“And I didn't know whether sending it was for you or for me.”

That was such a Jack answer.

Present-day Jack.

Or maybe he had always contained some version of this.

Clara asked:

“What does it say?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t remember every word.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A small laugh.

“You've asked me that about everything I've kept.”

“And your answer is always terrible.”

“It was mine.”

She smiled despite herself.

Then:

“Can I read it?”

Silence.

Not reluctance exactly.

Weight.

Jack finally said:

“Yes.”

Clara’s heart began beating harder.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

She looked at the walnut ornament.

Not yet.

Of course.

“Okay.”

Then Jack said:

“Clara.”

“Yes?”

“It doesn't change anything.”

She went still.

“What do you mean?”

“It was written by a twenty-four-year-old three weeks after his first real heartbreak.”

Clara smiled faintly.

“Good disclaimer.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Don’t read it like a prophecy.”

“I won't.”

“Or evidence.”

She looked at the box.

At twenty-two days of evidence.

“I’ll try.”

Jack laughed softly.

“That’s the most honest answer you’ve given all month.”

After they hung up, Clara returned to her January note.

Nothing permanent.

Nothing sacrificed.

Nothing assumed.

See what happens.

Then underneath, she added one more:

Don’t let the past make decisions for the present.

She stared at it.

Tomorrow she would read words written by the man Jack had been.

She could already feel the temptation to turn them into meaning.

Proof.

A sign.

A missing answer.

But maybe the letter did not need to answer anything.

Maybe it had simply been waiting to be read.