Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) (13 page)

“The best,” she sniffled. “And now I've gone and…”

“Hush,” Shonda insisted. “No more of this. Mari, dear, I can only guess as to what happened between you and Jack, but I have to say, I'm not surprised. Only a fool would miss the way you look at each other.”

“Oh, Shonda!” Marithé gasped. “Is it so obvious?”

In her concern, she met the compassionate eyes of her friend, eyes filled with understanding. “That you and Jack have such a promising relationship? That y'all are good for each other?”

“It's too soon.”

Shonda sighed. “Come, sit down.”

Tugging gently, she led her to the living room, where a brown suede sofa, heavily stained with juice and chocolate, added another layer of warmth and protection around Marithé's battered soul… along with another layer of guilt.
How many times did Jorge and I make love here? Andres was conceived on this sofa.
And now, here she sat with another man's semen seeping through the fabric of her underpants, and yet she couldn't bring herself to go to the bathroom and clean up. All she could do was cry.

“I need to be alone,” Marithé finally managed to say. “Please, Shonda. I need to think.”

Shonda smiled softly, patiently. “That you do. But I don't want to hear any more talk of quitting, you hear? You and Jack will work this out. I have no doubt about it.”

She paused until Marithé closed her eyes and gave a grudging dip of her head to show her agreement. Then she added, “Why don't you take off a day or two. You know, to get your head together. Then, when you come back, we'll figure out what's next. But don't expect to be off the hook for long, okay? Because I need you as much as you need this job. Promise?”

Touched by the woman's unending kindness, Marithé gave a watery nod. Taking pity on her weepy embarrassment, Shonda stood. Acting like nothing was amiss, she began to chat about other topics, apparently determined to leave on a positive note.

“The kids were fine. A couple little angels, as always, and they're both sound asleep,” she reported. “We had spaghetti with meatballs for dinner and we played several rounds of Candy Land together, all of which I lost, of course.”

“Thank you,” Marithé replied, taking in a shuddering breath.

“I'll see you on Tuesday,” Shonda ordered in her sweet, authoritative way, reminding Marithé of her promise. Then she walked out the door, shutting it softly behind her.

* * *

Jack had spent a rough night, alone and desolate after Marithé's devastating retreat. Leaning against the kitchen counter, the sounds of his coffee pot percolating to life filling the air, he tried to make sense of what happened. He'd tried to cope with his sense of loss all through the night, and like the hundreds of times he tried, he once again failed.
Our difficulties are supposed to teach us, move us, but what am I supposed to be learning from all of this?
And only one thought came to his mind, one thought he unconsciously spoke aloud. “That I'm unlovable.”

“Why are you unlovable?” Mike asked as he entered the house from the side door, Sam in tow. In his despair, lost in contemplation, Jack hadn't processed the sound of the spare key he'd given to him as it unlocked the door, giving the two men access to his house.

“What are you two doing here?” Jack was stumped. “Especially you, Sam. Are you sure you want to be playing psychologist when you've got issues of your own.”

“Now that my meds are working, I'm improving,” Sam replied. “They released me from the hospital and I'm working through my shit. I'm better, though not quite 100% yet. So now it's your turn. Besides, your mother called us. She can be one persuasive lady.” As he spoke, Sam set a plastic bag with identifying markings which told Jack the contents were delights from Shipley's doughnuts. Jack's stomach growled with anticipation.

“How did – oh right,” Jack voiced, realizing the answer to his question before he finished asking it.
Mom was watching the kids at Marithé's place. Shit. Well, that explains the multiple voicemails and 500 text messages she sent me.

“She was worried,” Mike shrugged.

“Well, she doesn't have to be,” Jack replied tersely. He reached into the cupboard to pull out a coffee mug. Shaking it at his friends, he silently asked if they wanted some as well.

Sam raised his hand in a halting gesture before indicating the Styrofoam cup he'd set next to the pastries. “I'm good, but thanks for the offer.”

“I'm not,” Mike grinned. “I'll gladly take the largest cup you have.”

Jack couldn't help chuckling at his friend as he reached back into the cabinet, shuffling around until he found the large mug Mike had given him last Christmas. “Now I know why you bought this for me.”

“Hey, you had to have at least one good coffee cup,” Mike teased, taking the offered mug from Jack.

“What?” Sam jumped into the conversation. “I gave him a coffee mug too.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike playfully punched Sam in the shoulder. “Like I said, he needed a good one.”

“Mine was good,” Sam pouted. “It even had our squadron logo.”

“Dude, stop being such a girl,” Mike jokingly scolded him as he held his mug out for Jack to fill.

“Do you need sugar or creamer?” Jack asked as he reached for them to add to his own coffee.

“Nah, I like it black, but thanks,” his friend beamed and then, grabbing a kolache from the opened Shipley's box Sam extended to him, he went to sit down at the kitchen table.

Sam plucked a glazed doughnut from the box, collecting his Styrofoam cup from the counter, and joined Mike at the table. Before taking a big bite from the sweet bun, he asked, “So what happened last night?”

Is he really going to make me say it?
“You don't know?”

“No,” Sam replied. “Your mom just called, saying you weren't answering your phone and would I mind coming over to check in on you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mike remarked. “No sooner had I hung up with Shonda and Sam called. We decided to meet up and drive together.”

I wish she hadn't done that!
Jack dragged a large hand down his weary face, leaning against the counter. “Sorry. I don't know what she was thinking. I mean, it's not like either of you live in town and with the traffic, it must have taken you hours.”

“Relax, bro,” Mike responded. “It's no big thing.”

“Right, sure,” Jack's annoyance bled into his tone. “You both have enough going on in your own lives. You don't need my
mother
calling you, asking you to blow sunshine up my ass.”
I'm going to have to talk to her about this. I can't have her meddling this way.

“Jack,” Sam gave him a leveled look. “You'd do it for us and we're happy to do it for you.”

Jack finally acquiesced and reached for a plump kolache.
I may as well tell them. I mean, they certainly don't look like they plan to leave any time soon, plus… if I don't tell them, I'm sure Mom will.
“You both know how I feel about… Marithé…”

“Yeah, you love her,” Mike answered easily as Sam bobbed his head in agreement.

Jack sighed, shuffled roughly towards the table, his cane still in his bedroom where he'd left it, and dropped into a chair, joining his friends at the table. He took a hearty chomp on the end of his kolache, biding his time as he considered what to say next. Adding further to his delay, he took a gulp of his coffee, washing the pastry down.

“Well, Marithé and I went out on a date last night,” he began.

“No fucking way!” Sam exclaimed with a bright smile. “Dude, that's great.”

“Not so great,” Jack retorted. “I mean, it was… We had a wonderful time together, but we drank a little too much wine and then…” he made a motion for the two men to make their own conclusions as to what culminated at the end of the date.

“You mean… did you have sex?” Sam inquired, too shocked to be diplomatic or sensitive in his questioning.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, and it was… so much more than sex. I mean, we connected in ways… Ugh!”
They don't want to hear this, not about Marithé anyway. Especially not Sam!
“Who's being a chick now?”

“Come on, bro,” Mike tried to reassure him. “It's us. You know you can tell us anything. We're cool.”

Jack regarded Sam with appraising eyes.
I know I can tell Mike anything, but what about Sam? Should I really be telling him that I took his best friend's widow to bed with me?
“Look, it doesn't matter. She ran out, calling a cab to take her home and she hasn't responded to my calls or text messages.”

“Oh, man!” Sam replied. “That's rough.”

“Yeah, no wonder you look like shit,” Mike commented bluntly.

Nice try, bro, but I don't think anyone is going to laugh right now.

Jack leaned back in his chair, picking at the kolache he'd tossed on the table, pinching bits of breading off the side. “We shouldn't talk about this. Jorge was…”

“Our friend,” Sam finished his sentence.

“Yeah, and your best friend,” Jack pointed out. “So we shouldn't be discussing my relationship with his wife.”

“Widow,” Mike corrected him, drawing the attention of both Sam and Jack. “Marithé isn't a wife anymore and she hasn't been for quite a while now.”

“He's right,” Sam agreed, surprising Jack with his response. “Look, if I'm learning anything in therapy, it's that you have to live in the moment.”

“What do you mean?”
What is he trying to tell me?

Sam took a sip from his Styrofoam cup, hot cocoa if Jack remembered his friend's preference correctly. “Jack, look man, Jorge… Jorge's gone and he's not coming back.” Sam took a moment, obviously struggling with his emotions about the loss of his best friend and brother airman. “If he could have anyone step in to take care of his family, to love them… like he would… I have no doubt it'd be you.”

Jack blinked and his mouth opened slightly, just enough to part his lips. He wasn't sure what his friends could read in his expression, but whatever it was seemed to encourage Sam to continue. “Jorge always liked you, respected you.”

“Hell, we all did and still do,” Mike concurred. “Well, except for Ray, but he doesn't really count.”

Jack scoffed and Sam added, “He'd want you to – we all want you to – be happy; not just you, but Marithé and the kids as well.”

“That's great and I appreciate it, but did you forget the part about Marithé rushing out of here?” Jack tried to remind Sam as to the conclusion of the date.

Sam shifted in his seat. “Look, not all… wounds, let's say, yeah… not all
wounds
are visible, man. And not all injuries occur on a battlefield.”

“Amen to that, brother!” Mike cheered as he got up to snatch another pastry, a glazed doughnut this time.

Sam smiled approvingly at Mike and then returned his attention to Jack. “Marithé's wounded, same as you… same as me. And just like your leg or crotch, whatever you actually messed up, she's going to have good days as well as bad days. Sometimes her pain will be too much, but there isn't a painkiller powerful enough to ease her hurt. You just need to give her a little time, some space.”

Jack nodded in acknowledgement and comprehension. “I get it. I hear what you're saying, but I have to ask…”

“Anything,” Sam told him sincerely.

“When did you become so good at this touchy-feely shit?”
I've never heard Sam say anything so profound or mature… ever!

Sam chuckled, tossing his hand in the air in a carefree manner. “Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy.”

By Monday, while some of Marithé's wild panic over her behavior had subsided, she still felt acutely embarrassed. She was grateful that Shonda had suggested she take the day off. She was certainly not ready to face a group of people for any reason, let alone endure Shonda's questions or concerns. After driving the kids to school and daycare, she returned to the apartment, thankful for a little time alone. She sank wearily onto the sofa, burying her head in her hands.

I wish I knew what to do,
she thought, misery coursing through her.
Should I give Jack up completely?
She knew it wouldn't be fair for her to retain a close relationship with him knowing how he felt for her.
That would be awkward since we work so closely together… and his family… they're everywhere I go. If I break up with Jack, I'll have to quit. I mean, I wouldn't be able to face them… not after breaking Jack's heart.

Her own heart ached at the thought of cutting ties with the people who had worked so hard to help her continue living after Jorge's death. Though they had once been strangers, now they were friends.
No, they're so much more than that… they're family. Even Andres thinks Malcolm and Shonda are his actual grandparents. And then there's Elena.
A picture of the little girl rushing into Jack's arms flashed through her mind.
She's already lost her father… what would it do to her to lose… him?

As her thoughts turned painfully towards Jack, a sniffle escaped as she verbalized her question, “What would it do to me?”

Never seeing him again would be even harder. I've come to care for him so deeply… deeper than I thought possible.
Image after image from the last few months floated across the surface of her mind. Jack helping her hang Halloween streamers, of getting her approval on his house – that took on new meaning in the face of his sudden declaration – of him accepting a handful of weeds from her daughter without showing any consternation. And along with a hundred tiny examples of his kind nature, she experienced an increase in her pulse and a quickening in her breathing.

Her senses seemed determined to parade before her evidence of all the things she tried to suppress. His powerful physique excited her, kindling desires she thought were buried with Jorge, while his injury awakened her maternal instincts. The warmth and humor in his sparkling brown eyes made her feel comfortable and relaxed despite his imposing size.
And how strong are his arms? Strong enough to hold you together.
Then, there was his scent, his taste and his touch… each had sunk deeply into her soul and could not be uprooted.

“But what does that mean?” she asked herself aloud. “I can't love Jack. I love my husband. I love Jorge and I always will. I made a mistake, but that doesn't mean Jorge is gone from my heart.”
But what does it mean?

Desperate to feel some connection to Jorge, she ran down the hallway, avoiding the humped and threadbare patches of carpet as she made her way into her room. Along one wall, boxes stacked floor to ceiling showed how much smaller her new life had become. Crouching down, she reached under the bed, dislodging a dust bunny that danced along in the breeze from a nearby heat register.
Hmmm. Looks like I let the cleaning get away from me,
she thought idly as her hand closed on a hinged wooden box. Touching it hurt, with a physical pain to her gut, and her eyes stung, but she pulled it out anyway, propping the object on her lap.

Making no attempt to stem the tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran her fingertips over the glass on the two-sided shadow box. On one side, displayed against a background of black velvet, a colorful rendering of the Virgin of Guadalupe smiled, extended hands spilling roses. Marithé gulped. Surrounding the Virgin, medals of the different saints shone dully in the dim light. At the top, his wild hair flying in an imaginary breeze, St. Adrian stood, sword in hand, engulfed in flames, guarding the contents.

“You didn't protect him,” she accused the silent saint, suddenly angry for all she'd suffered.
But then, no one protected you either, did they? Or Jesus for that matter…
“Why is there so much pain and confusion in the world?” she mused aloud, sorrow consuming her.

No answer emerged from the quiet apartment. The refrigerator hummed softly and the heater clicked off, leaving a deep sense of hollowness in the wake of its soft whoosh. Sniffling, she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and flipped the shadow box over to view the other side. This was the side that would be the most heart-breaking for her.

There, a folded American flag divided the square into three triangles. To its left rested a small collection of rectangles, each composed of a series of colorful bands. These were the medals that told of Jorge's military accomplishments. To the right, three bullets took center stage, empty shells from the 21-gun salute performed at Jorge's memorial service. The casings were surrounded by commemorative coins, 'Challenge Coins' she remembered Jorge calling them. Each bore the insignia or emblem of the various squadrons and commands he'd been attached to.

Marithé's anger increased. “Is this all you have for me then?” She demanded of the box. “My husband gave his life for you. His children will never know him. They won't even remember him. He'll be a picture and a story their whole lives, and what do I get in return, a folded flag and a bunch of trinkets? I want Jorge back, damn you!”

She shook the shadow box, tempted to slam it against the wall, as she squeezed it in her hands. Unable to crush it as desired, she shoved it back under the bed and flung herself on top, pulling the crumpled sheets around her body and wept. As she cried, she beat the pillow with her fists in impotent rage, needing a release from the darkness that pressed her down.

“It's not fair!” she wailed in anguish. “Why Jorge? Why?”

For the first time in eight months, the urge to be strong and stoic, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and hold it together shattered. Marithé, at last, let grief take her and sink her in its black, consuming maw.

“I want to be with him,” she whimpered in agony. The emotions surging through her gave her an urgency to do something, be somewhere, but she remained still. Instinctively, she realized she had nowhere to go and that there was nothing she'd be able to do that would change the course of history that had led her to this moment. “I don't want to be alone anymore.”

But she was alone. The silence of her soul felt lonelier than it ever had and it was devastating. It was numbing in its overwhelming consumption, like a scent so overpowering it becomes unnoticed. Her hands formed claws as the pain raged through her chest, searing hot and maddening in its pursuit to burn her to ashes, to turn her to nothing.

It wasn't until much later, when she had cried herself dry, that the voice returned to whisper in her ear again. It said, “You're not alone. You've never been alone.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she answered without thinking.

“I know it hurts and sometimes… I know you want to die too.” She knew the voice was her own conscience talking to her, but it didn't matter. She wasn't sure if anything mattered anymore. “Don't die, Marithé, it's not your time and you know it. You have a future, if you choose it. And your babies need you. Jack… he needs you too.”

She shook her head. “How can I replace Jorge? Jack is wonderful, but…”

“He wouldn't be replacing anyone. You can love Jorge the rest of your life and still love Jack too. It's no different than the love you feel for each of your children. Loving Andres doesn't take anything away from Elena, does it?”

Not sure where these rational ideas had come from, she answered the question nonetheless. “It's not the same. They're my children. I could love a dozen as easily as two. It's different when it's a man.”
Isn't it?

The voice didn't answer, but being forced to reason with herself had broken through Marithé's darkness a little. She felt able to rise, walk to the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee. The warm liquid quickly chased away her painful lethargy, but left in its wake a sort of nervous energy.
Those dust bunnies could use tending,
she thought.
And the toy box is a mess, not to mention, those DVDs.
Content as she planned how she'd work to spend some of her tensions doing something constructive, she sat in numbed silence, sipping her coffee as though it was liquid life, sufficient to chase away her shadows.

As she drained the last cooling dregs, mentally cataloguing where all her cleaning supplies had been stashed away during her move and subsequent uses, the chirping of her cell phone penetrated her foggy mental state. Rushing back to the living room, she dug frantically into her purse and retrieved the device, pushing a button.
Damn it, the battery is almost dead.

“Hello,” she said, as she hurried into the kitchen and plugged the phone into its charger.
I hate standing still on the phone. I feel like a caged tiger.

“Mari!” an accented voice shouted among crackling static.

“Ray?”

“Si, how are you, chica?”

Marithé blinked.
It must be the middle of the night in Europe. What's up with him?
“Did you need something?”

“Nah, I just wanted to say hi. I was still up, so I thought I'd give my favorite prima a call. It's been a while.” The static eased, and suddenly Ray's voice sounded perfectly clear.

“Too long,” she commented, mentally counting the months since she'd heard from the last relative she still had contact with.

“Don't be like that, chica,” Ray urged. “I've been getting settled in. It's not easy to relocate to another country.”

“I suppose not,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

A relationship with Ray was, at best, one-sided and a bit superficial. It's all he wanted or knew how to give in return.
Good thing not everyone's like that,
she thought, and an image of Jack, his eyes darker than ever with passion, etched its way into her mind.
Now that's a man who knows how to be real, to love and be loved.
It occurred to her that her time with Jack was probably over, and she had to stifle the urge to cry out, surprised by the depth of loss she felt. The hollow he'd leave in her heart was only rivaled by the emptiness left by Jorge's death. Her next breath sounded like a sob.

“Damn, Mari, are you crying again? Don't tell me you've been at it all these months. You need to move on. Go on a date or something.”

“I've been on a date,” Marithé replied sourly.
Typical Ray to assume every woman he knows is eager to get laid, except his cousin the nun.
She recalled how very much unlike a nun she had been the other night and bit her lip.

“Oh?” Ray asked, surprised, “how was it?”

“Beautiful,” she replied, and then sighed, forgetting the tangle of emotions and recalling, for the first time, the intense pleasure and deep connection she'd shared when she and Jack made love.

“Beautiful?” Ray repeated the word incredulously.
Oh shit, did I say that? Ay, Dios mio!
Clearly, Ray had caught her unintentional slip. “Beautiful is not a word to describe a date, Mari. It's a word for sex.”

“Whatever,” she replied tersely, a sense of defensiveness spreading through her.

“Don't you 'whatever' me! What did you do?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, not wanting to discuss it.

“Bullshit, Mari!” he shot back. “You totally went out and got laid!” He scoffed and continued with an air of superiority. “When did you turn into a slut? Was it before or after Jorge died? You know, I'm ashamed of you, puta.”

Heat flared in Marithé's heart. Her eyes burned and her breath caught. If Ray had punched her in the stomach, she couldn't have been more hurt. “If I'm a slut, Raymundo, what does that make you? You've probably had more partners in just the last week alone than I've had during my entire life.”

“You're a girl,” he snapped. “It's different.”

“No, you're wrong,” Marithé said in a calm, even voice. “The difference has nothing to with gender, Ray. The difference is that Jack is special to me,
very
special. It's not a one night stand or a cheap fling. It's more than that. It's something you never could understand.”

“Oh, really?” Ray's voice dripped with derision. “And what's that?”

“Love! Jack loves me,” she exclaimed loudly.
And that love matters more to me than I've been willing to admit.

As the flaring anger incited by her domineering cousin faded into a new understanding, Marithé's contemplation deepened.
You've been happy to take Jack's love… to use it to fill up the empty places in your heart, but at the same time, you've held your heart back from him. He knows it's broken, yet he wants it anyway. And deep down, you want to give it to him… you already have. You're just afraid to admit it, and in your own selfishness, you're hurting him.

Stunned by her own revelation, she didn't notice how quiet Ray had grown, until he spoke in a frozen hiss. “The hell you say? Jack
Nelson
? Are you joking, Maria Teresa? Because if you are, I gotta tell you, it's not funny.”

“No, no joke,” she replied just as coldly. “And you know what, I love Jack too and I want…” her voice faltered. She took a deep breath, shored up her confidence and said, “I want to be with him too… forever.”

“Madre de Dios!” Ray cried. “I can't believe this. What the hell, Mari? Jack's nothing. He's not even our kind.”

Marithé laughed contemptuously. “Jack's nothing? What do you mean? He's a hero of war who's served his country.”

“Yeah, just like me, Mari,” Ray reminded her bitterly.

“Not like you, Ray,” Marithé replied through clenched teeth. “How dare you even try to compare yourself to him? He's lost so much, and yet he still faces life with the courage of a soldier. And he didn't get hard or jaded, like you did. He's a gentleman who cares about what he has instead of constantly scheming in order to try to get more. And as far as 'our kind', Raymundo, last time I checked we were all human. So what are you trying to say?”

She could hear her cousin's sharp intake of air as he sucked it deeply into his lungs. “I'm saying he's not even a real man,” he said in a chilling voice. “Something you should know since you're fucking him!”