Free Josie and Jack by Kelly Braffet Page A

he was sorry for anything, and I never asked him to.

3
    F RIDAY WAS COLD . Jack and I had been up all night so I slept most of the day. Around three I shook myself awake, left Jack—who was still sleeping—and went downstairs to make some coffee. For a long time I sat on the front porch and watched the clouds move.
    At five I went back upstairs. Jack was awake now, but still in bed, smoking a cigarette and throwing darts at the dartboard that hung from his bookcase. His room was hot. When he saw me standing in the doorway, he moved his legs to make room for me at the foot of his bed.
    “Open a window,” I said. “It stinks in here.”
    Jack dropped the darts on his pillow and reached for the window. The sheets had been bunched under him and had left dull red lines on his back. “Raeburn home?” he said, handing me his cigarette.
    “Not yet,” I answered, and we smoked in silence for a few minutes. His blond hair was thick with grease and stuck up at weird angles from his head. He looked like a rumpled lion.
    “Can I borrow your leather jacket tonight?” I asked eventually.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s cold.”
    “You have a coat.” He threw his blanket onto the floor and stood up, rooting through a pile of clothes on the floor until he found a pair of jeans.
    “Mine smells like wine.”
    “So wear a lot of perfume.”
    “Just let me borrow it, okay?”
    “To go to that bonfire thing?”
    I nodded.
    “No,” he said, pulling on a sweater.
    “Why not?”
    Jack took a drag from his cigarette. “Maybe I don’t want Kevin McNerny’s monkey hands all over it.” He sat down in the old armchair we’d dragged down from the attic and watched me. His eyes were steady and their full force was formidable.
    Finally he spoke. “You know, Raeburn left those quadratic equations that I was supposed to do.”
    “So?”
    “When’s he getting home?”
    “I guess six. Like always.”
    “Time’s it now?”
    “Five.”
    My brother had a roundabout way of making a point.
    “Those equations are weighing on my mind. Maybe if they were done, I’d be able to think about whether or not I wanted to let you take my jacket.” Jack picked up a half-full coffee mug, sniffed at it, and took a drink.
    “How many problems are there?”
    “I don’t know.” His eyes glittered. “More than you can do in an hour.”
    “I hate quadratic equations.”
    “I hate Kevin McNerny.” Jack stepped close to me, reached out, and brushed something off my cheek. He smelled like whiskey and stale cigarettes.
    I sighed and said, “Brush your teeth.” Then I went to find my calculator.
     
    Raeburn came home cackling and blissful. Because of the equations, I hadn’t had time to fix anything except spaghetti for dinner, but for once he didn’t seem to care.
    “It’s a paradox,” he told us, and laughed. “If my enemy does something explicitly self-serving, it’s unethical; but if I do the same thing, it’s strategy. We have to make our own opportunities. The world does not deliver kindnesses.” He picked up his fork and put it down again. There was a dreamy look on his face.
    “I’ve solved the Searles problem,” he said. “We’ve had the most brilliant idea, Margaret Revolt and I.” He threw down his napkin and pushed away from the table. He hadn’t eaten anything. “I believe I’ll go have a celebratory drink. I don’t suppose there’s any of my brandy left, is there?”
    “Some,” Jack said.
    “Excellent,” Raeburn said cheerfully. A moment later we heard the study door slam shut.
    “Is Monkey-boy waiting for you?” Jack said.
    “He won’t be here for another twenty minutes.”
    “Then you have time to do the dishes.”
    “Thanks a lot.”
    “Love must suffer,” Jack said. He turned around in his chair, folding his arms across its high wooden back, and watched as I carried the dirty plates to the sink.
    “At least I won’t be sitting here all night listening to Raeburn describe what it will feel like