Who: Jack (narrative, closed) What: Coming home Where: Airport to D1 When: After he writes to Evie. Warnings: Nothing!
He took the non-stop from LAX to LaGuardia, worse than the red-eye: at the airport at 3am to stand in line with the other suits, everyone hollow-eyed and nursing coffee to keep awake.
His assistant at least booked him Business Class, so he napped in the wide, leather-clad seat, his long legs kicked out. He didn't dream, really, just chased ghosts and tried to ignore the knot of anxiety in his stomach. Evie's emails didn't help; they just reminded him of how badly he screwed up with his family. Now, what had been exciting -- Nick's release -- seemed touched with dark foreboding.
The plane landed just as he finally drifted into sleep so he was surly as he disembarked. A cab was easy to find, as was the Bellum Letale Apartments, and he gave the driver a generous tip because he wanted someone -- anyone -- to like him today.
The realtor had mailed the key weeks ago; she had failed to mention the broken elevator. Jack stood for a few minutes waiting for it to return before giving up, and he slowly trudged the thirteen flights of stairs, his suit bag slung over one shoulder, his overnight bag in his other hand.
He opened the door to the apartment and surveyed the immaculately decorated space. Modern, he told his assistant. Simple. The space matched that vague request; he wouldn't be embarrassed to have Nick and Evie over. Another glance at his iPhone to check if Evie had called or emailed again -- she hadn't -- and Jack swore under his breath. Nothing to be done until she came home from school then. With a resigned sigh, he shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie, then collapsed onto the couch and turned on the television. Golf was on. Not his sport of preference, but he wanted the background noise. Eventually he drifted to sleep, the soft, reassuring voice of the announcer blocking out the worst of his nightmares.