A door off to the right was halfway open, and I saw a small slice of a very stylish bathroom beyond. The door opposite was closed, but I suspected it led to his bedroom (cue those damn butterflies again). The open kitchen was made of finished plywood with poured concrete worktops, including waterfall edges on the giant island that housed the sink and three barstools. A small table with three chairs sat just off to the side of the island against the windows, and a comfortable-but-sparse-looking lounge lay beyond with a tiny wood-burning stove in one corner and a desk in the other, piled high with file folders.
But the main focal point was the huge wall of glass that made up the back of the house. Big French doors opened up onto a wooden deck, which seemed to lead straight out over the pond. There was a single rocking chair and side table there, perfect for watching the ducks I could see paddling around the pond.
Of all of the times I’d pictured Jack’s day-to-day life, this house fit that life perfectly. It was so meticulously made. So practical. So considered. SoJack. From what he’d told me about his relationship with Aria, he’d spent years bending himself around someone else and her idea of what their life should look like. With this house, for the first time, he’d been able to create out of his grief a home that was exactly what he needed; nothing more, nothing less. And from his body language as he moved around, grabbing dishes and ingredients from various cabinets and drawers, I could tell he was instantly more at ease just being here. It was how I felt at home, too, and I was glad to see him visibly relax a bit.
Jack poured me a glass of wine and recommended I go sit on the deck whilst he made dinner. But I was feeling nosy, so instead I wandered over to his desk, where a stack of folders sat next to an ancient-looking laptop.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching me, and then I pulled open the top drawer. Inside were several sketches on scrap pieces of paper, all of buildings. There was one that seemed to be almost carved into the side of what looked like a quarry. There were old farm buildings converted into modern houses, the materials blending seamlessly together. There were floorplans, too, dozens of them, from tiny cabins like the one we were in to sprawling family homes. There even seemed to be one for a restaurant.
“Did you do these?” I asked, turning around and holding up some of the sketches. Jack looked up from the pomegranate in his hand and squinted across the room at me. When he realised what I was holding, his eyes went wide.
“Nosy, much?” he asked, and I could tell he was trying to sound casual.
“Answer the question,” I said, walking over to the island with one of the sketches still in my hand.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, looking down at the pomegranate as he opened it with a knife. Red juice flowed out over his hands, and for a moment I thought he’d cut himself.
“They’re really good,” I said, wondering why he was so intent on ignoring me.
“Thanks,” he said. “Will you pass me a towel? I don’t want to drip everywhere.”
I walked around the island and grabbed a kitchen towel, placing it next to his chopping board as he knocked the seeds out and pulled chunks away.
“So is that what you want to do?” I asked. “Architecture?”
Jack shook his head. “I’m taking over the family business,” he said. “Contracting. So not designing, building.”
I frowned; not that he saw it, with how focused he was on his hands and the pomegranate he was holding.
“Come on, Jack,” I said. “Clearly you’re really good at this.”
“Like I said, thank you.” He sounded much more dismissive this time. “Now please, just go out onto the deck for a bit so I can focus.”
I narrowed my eyes at him until he looked up at me, a pleading look in his eyes.
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes and turning around, back towards the desk. I replaced the sketches and plans in the drawer and shut it.
As I headed towards the back door, I saw a magazine open on the dining table. It was open to a full spread about an introductory course for aspiring architects. It certainly made the sketches and plans and perfect house make a lot more sense, but his insistence that he was planning to take over the family business did not.
After I’d stepped onto the deck and pulled the door shut behind me, not wanting to disrupt his precious air flow pathways, I settled down in the rocking chair that he had there; it was the only piece of furniture. Not a pair, just the one.
Actually, looking back through the window, there seemed to be little about his home that suggested he had any intention of housing anyone but himself. There were no chairs, just a three-seater sofa; the perfect size for him, Chloe, and Phil. There were three chairs at the tiny dining table. Three barstools. I’d only seen one sink in the bathroom. And I’d have bet that his bed was pushed up against one wall.
But those were decisions made years ago, deep in the throes of his heartbreak, I told myself. They weren’t a reflection of who he was now. At least I hoped they weren’t.
I sat back and looked out over the pond, rocking myself. I relaxed so quickly and to such an extent that I started to zone out for minutes at a time, only to be brought back by the sound of a duck quacking or a bird twittering nearby.Thiswas the nature people were always trying to “get back to”. I was jealous that Jack got to experience this level of Zen every day, but then again, it explained a lot about how laid back he was.
Until one of his triggers was pulled, of course, but that was all of us, wasn’t it?
I was just pulling out my phone to take a photo when I saw that I had several notifications – two Instagram messages, and one email from Greg with the subject line “Whoops!”
I sighed, wondering what he’d decided he wanted to change about the logo, and tapped to open the email:
I told them you charge twice what I paid you – hope that’s okay! And before you thank me, it was partially to save face for myself over my atrociously low budget.
Greg
Sent from my iPhone
