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The baby is warm. She feels soft and fragile in Robby’s arms, so tiny against his chest. She’s resilient. Robby lets himself press his cheek to her little head before he lays her back down. The luckiest thing for her is that she won’t remember whoever left her behind.
He thinks about her as he gathers his things, as he says one last goodbye to his well-meaning colleagues, as he pulls on his jacket and heads out into the night. Fireworks crack and pop and whistle. A loud boom makes his shoulders tense. He hesitates as he gets on the bike. Helmet or no helmet?
Jane Doe is asleep in her bassinet. She has so many things to see, and so many people to love.
Robby puts his fucking helmet on.
Will Dana stay through the rest of the shift, or will she go home when relief gets there? Is Whitaker spending the night getting more entrenched in the life of a child he’ll leave behind in four years? How long will Duke actually wait to follow up with his treatment? Is Jack’s fucking process going to get him shot this month or the next or the next?
The route to Alberta has been carefully committed to Robby’s memory. He doesn’t bother remembering it. Instead, he takes the way home. Or at least it was, once. He hasn’t been there in over 20 years.
His grandmother had always kept the house so neat and tidy, even when money was tight. The yard had been Robby’s job after he turned 13. The overgrowth he sees now makes his stomach turn.
Robby’s not sure what his plan was. See the place. Maybe hurt himself a little more, get a good twist on that knife. There’s nothing here for him. Bubbe would have hated the fucking bike. He knew that when he bought it, but he did it anyway.
He sits there, parked on the street and listening to bottle rockets go off for…a while. He loses track. The air smells like gunpowder. Flashes of light cast shadows over half-remembered places. He remembers getting a lecture for lighting a Roman candle too close to the house once.
Time passes. He’s not sure what he feels or thinks or even sees. Maybe he’s not really there at all. A car full of teenagers screeches through the neighborhood at full speed. Robby tries not to picture their mangled bodies. They, too, have so many things to see.
He doesn’t want to go home. He’d rather call Caleb’s newest therapist than go back to work. Riding out doesn’t seem right, either. He didn’t promise Duke, but. He kind of did.
There’s a diner near Jack’s place that does a terrible cup of coffee and a decent slice of pie. They wound up there a lot, after. Jack couldn’t stand to be in his house without Katie. Robby couldn’t stand to have Jack too close at hand.
Robby winds up in a booth nursing a mug while the waitress smokes in the back alley. Times like these, he regrets quitting.
He doesn’t plan to go to Jack’s. There’s no decision. He’s just there, key in hand, letting himself in. He used to do that a lot, but that wasn’t after. No, that was before. Long before. He remembers when he belonged in Jack’s bed. Now, he doesn’t have the right. He still finds himself curled up in a ball in the center of the mattress, clothes piled up in the middle of the floor. The smell of Jack’s shampoo surrounds him. He doesn’t turn the lights out, just lies motionless in the bright room. He drifts.
When he opens his eyes, the room is dark. Blankets have been pulled over him, and there’s a line of heat against his back. Jack. Robby jerks away like he’s been burned. He can’t have this. It’s not his. Not to keep. He lost it, and he hasn’t earned it back.
“No,” Jack says in his ear. Insistent. Firm.
Robby shakes his head. What the fuck does Jack mean, no?
“I mean no,” Jack says. He scoots forward, plastering himself to Robby’s back. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
His arm settles heavy across Robby’s side, his stubble rasping against Robby’s skin. Robby lets out a ragged sound. “Jack,” he protests.
Jack’s hair tickles the back of his neck. “Tomorrow, brother. Just fucking stay.”
His voice is certain, his touch heavy. Robby remembers the before. He remembers the after. He remembers the in between. He hurts. He wants. He barely even exists.
Jack’s hand squeezes his hip. Tomorrow. It will all be there tomorrow.
Robby stays.