Chapter Text
Otis had given her permission for something she wasn't sure was still possible. But the way Jacob's eyes lingered on hers as he left the school gave her some semblance of hope. Perhaps it's not too late, they said. Maybe we could work?
She smiled softly and began to follow, finally ready to try for the kind of intimacy he was looking for when a voice stopped her.
"Dr. Milburn?"
She easily turned and found herself face-to-face with a tiny slip of a girl, covered head to toe in glitter and blue body paint.
"Andrea, you know Jean is fine," she said gently, reassuring her with a small smile. The young girl's eyes darted around a bit. She was clearly nervous, trying to steel herself.
"Um I'm sorry I didn't say anything during the play-"
"Oh," Jean says, her eyebrows etching together in confusion. She hadn't expected this. "Andrea, you didn't need to defend me." Her voice is calm and reassuring.
"Um, well I just wanted to say thanks," she shuffles on the balls of her feet, and Jean knows she has something else to say. So she waits. Years of serving as a therapist has strengthened her patience and she has always found that people get *more* out of their sessions when they have the time to express themselves. Finally, the girl fiddles with her galactic blue skirt, her words coming out in a hurry "And I talked with my Mum anditsokay," she looks relieved at the admission. "She said Andrea is a beautiful name."
"She's right," Jean says softly, earning a smile from the girl.
Andrea tucks a strand of her brown chin-length hair behind her ear before saying goodbye and running back to her friends, most adorned with intergalactic phalluses and vulvas.
By the time she finally gets out into the night, walking fast to the school parking lot, Jakob is gone.
When she takes out her phone to call him, she's sent directly to his voicemail. The sound of the monotone, mechanical voicemail hurts more than it should. She had been foolish to think there was hope. She clenches the phone in her hand and desperately looks up to the dark, cloudless sky because she had read in a book once that you could stop tears by looking up. It doesn't work and she's soon placing her hand against the pain in her chest.
When Otis gets home later that night, he expects that his Mum will be on the couch, rewatching a cheesy romance. But the television is off when he unlocks the door, and the lights are dimmed low. He turns his head to re-check outside and sure enough, her car is still there.
Walking up the stairs to her bedroom, he hears a small sob.
"Mum?"
The cry stops suddenly. A moment later and she clears her throat. He hears a sniffle.
"Yes, Otis?" She says with false cheerfulness, like he can't hear the tears in her voice.
"Are you okay?" He asks nervously, hands in pockets. It's an awkward question to ask. Up until very recently, he hasn't known a time where his Mum was never not okay.
Or maybe he just wasn't paying attention? Too consumed with his own problems to even consider his Mum's.
Otis hears the sounds of her moving and before he knows it, the door is unlocked and slightly opened. Without her wedges, Jean has to crane her neck slightly up to look at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy and he can see that she's tried to wipe the evidence away. She looks incredibly tired.
"I will be," she says honestly. She's frowning slightly, her lip trembling and her eyes are glued to the ceiling. Otis suddenly realizes that she's trying not to cry.
"It is perfectly healthy to express your emotions," he says automatically, producing the phrase she had repeated frequently in his younger years.
She laughs out a sob and Otis outstretches his arms. She steps into his warm embrace and he hugs her tightly, trying to replicate her hugs, which always made him feel better.
Jean wakes in a haze the next morning, nausea pooling in her stomach. Her eyes feel swollen and it's a strain to open them. But she does open them, gazing at her phone only to see 0 missed calls. Despite the five calls she had mistakenly made, because maybe he just missed the first call? She wants nothing more than to roll over in bed and go back to sleep, but knows her tendencies. If she lays in bed stewing all day today, it will only make her more inclined to do the same tomorrow. She wonders if this is how Jakob felt.
Jean slides out of the bed and grabs her pink satin kimono-style robe, wrapping it around herself. She doesn't really feel different, besides the nausea and occasional dizziness. And yet, everything was different. A baby was growing inside her. And the father of said baby was ignoring her. And she wasn't even sure if she could plausibly carry a baby to term at her age. 46 and *pregnant*. She shakes the self-judgement away, knowing she would never judge another woman for these circumstances.
Walking slowly to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, she hears a knock at the door. When she opens it, Jakob is standing there, dressed in relaxed jeans and a sweater. Her eyes widen in surprise but he answers her question before she can ask it.
"Otis told me you needed someone to repair your faucet."
"Oh," she deflates, turning and walking towards the kitchen so she can hide the look of disappointment on her face. That he came to fix her faucet and not to see her stings. Everything seems to sting her now that she's opened up her heart. The pain makes her remember why she so fiercely guarded it in the first place. "Well...I'm not sure which faucet, but-"
"Jean, I have no tools," he says in a way that is meant to explain everything but instead explains nothing.
She turns, confused, her eyebrow arching quizzically.
"I did not believe him," he says casually with a smirk that suddenly makes her body fill with warmth. But when his face turns more serious, blue eyes searching hers, she begins to cool, until her insides were filled with dread. This was the moment he would resolutely tell her to never contact him again, wasn't it?
"Why didn't you just call, Jean?" His voice is so sincere, and she can tell that he himself is confused. Always straightforward with his needs and wants, he can't understand why she would send her son with a story. Picking up on his thoughts, on the same wavelength as lovers often are, she first answers the question he hasn't asked.
"I didn't send Otis, Jakob," her voice is low and she clasps her hands in front of her, a nervous gesture. "I- He noticed I was upset, and I" she tightens her hands and hardens her face to keep from crying "I suppose he thought it would help if I saw you," she takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, her eyes everywhere but his, afraid of the judgement that may lie there.
"But you can call me if you need," he gently, so kindly that it makes her angry. Angry that he would look at her like there was hope but ignore her. Was this a game to him? To make her hurt like he had? Her fists ball at her sides, and her emotions begin to bubble over, threatening to come out all at once.
"How can I when you're ignoring me!?" She shouts, exasperated.
"Ignoring?" He takes a step toward her, seeking clarity, but her eyes are downcast and she steps backward.
"Yes, I clearly misread the signals from last night." Her voice is indignant and she swipes her fingers beneath her eyes, refusing to devolve to tears. "I tried calling you." Five times a pathetically desperate voice whispers in her head.
Jakob suddenly slaps his palm against his face, exclaiming a phrase that she contextually realizes is likely a Swedish curse. He reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out the device.
"Off" he says simply, showing her the black screen with a small shake of his hand. "For the play," he adds for clarification.
She stares, gaping at the device for a moment, as if she herself is buffering; processing the fact that he wasn't ignoring her at all. It was a simple misunderstanding. Jakob wasn't Remy, always trying his best to tear her down or pay her back for some perceived injustice. Jakob had come to her home to help her and she screamed at him. Over a missed phone call.
What starts as a laugh quickly devolves into sobs, her left hand covering her eyes while her right presses against her chest. She's finally given up on pretending to be unaffected by him and letting her emotions out feels like a huge release.
"Jean," he says, concern is etched in his brows, stepping close to her, his hand gently touching her arm "what is the matter?" His tenderness only makes the pain in her chest, the heartache, hurt worse.
"I'm so sorry Jakob," her voice strains through her tears and the tightening feeling in her chest. "I never apologized and you deserve more."
"Oh Jean, he says sadly, his warm arms wrapping around her.
"I made a mistake and I hurt you. And I don't know what to do," she breaths heavily against his chest. He has never seen her cry before, except during romantic movies where he almost always sheds a tear himself. But here she was, in his arms, the most vulnerable he's ever seen her. "I just miss you so much." The admission starts a fresh flurry of tears.
"I miss you too, Jean," his deep voice whispers. She tips up her head, her shining blue eyes now searching his, before scrunching them tightly and swallowing hard, as if trying to muster her courage.
"I know I'm not really ready" she begins, her eyes locked with his, her lips trembling. "And I'm not sure if I can ever be, but I want to try. Only with you, Jakob."
He looks at her with a serious expression on his face, his eyes staring deeply into hers, taking in the weight of her words.
"Okay," he agrees, with a simple nod and a soft smile. "We can try."
She beams at him with such gracious relief and hope in her eyes. A second chance. Elation sweeps across her body, and suddenly her heart is beating faster and her head is tingling. She feels funny, and off-kilter.
"J-Jakob?" she stutters, confused and clutching at his arm before everything goes black.