The Love Experiment (Stubborn Hearts 1)

The connection went dead and Jack tossed his phone on the desk and pressed his knuckles into a throbbing spot over his left eye. He’d have to live through a similar conversation with his mother. It was possible she’d be less sympathetic but at least she’d be pleased the vulgar billboards would come down.

“That didn’t sound good?” Derelie said tentatively, coming into the room.

“About as well as I expected.” Careless to let her to hear that.

She put her hands to his shoulders, a gentle touch, as if she feared rejection. She had good instincts.

“Fun is not an efficient use of Dad’s time.”

“My dad would take you to Barrow’s Bar and drink with you till you both felt sick and then take you camping till you could no longer stand how bad you both smelled. It’s his remedy for any trouble.”

“I like his style.”

She nuzzled the top of his head. “Can I do anything for you that doesn’t involve making you feel sicker?”

He gave one of her hands a squeeze. “Go out, go shopping, go do whatever it was you used to do. I’m not fit to be around.”

It was a relief when she cleared out. He tried to sleep and couldn’t. Spent the rest of the morning at his desk, with Martha at his feet, responding to messages, meeting outrage with pragmatism and being worn down by the need to put on a good show, and smoking, numbing his tongue, not caring that it stank up the apartment, teetering between giddy hope and dizzy despair. The only clarity was knowing he needed to get on top of this while he was being talked about, hit on every potential employer he could think of and make them a proposition they couldn’t refuse, including two new exposés he could deliver.

That’s how the day passed. Derelie dragged him out to a picnic on Sunday and made it impossible for him to brood.

“It’s okay,” she said, when he snapped at her for no good reason. “I know you’re not angry with me.”

“It’s not okay.” There was supposed to be more to that sentence. A supporting clause. He just didn’t have it. All that came out o

f his mouth was smoky cloves. It was as if all the words he knew how to manufacture for a blank page in clear type, or a half a dozen minutes of airtime had dried up.

All he could do was murmur his apology and accept the grace of her kisses.

Monday morning, he wandered around the apartment, missing Derelie, not able to settle, confusing Martha, who kept waiting by his desk with a look that said “what’s going on, slacker, get to work.” In the afternoon, he made phone call after phone call, failing to get through to Roscoe to get clarity on whether the Courier would support him in legal action, setting up coffee dates and drinks and filling his week with meetings. It felt like business as usual on Tuesday—he shaved, put on a suit, left home with Derelie and went to work on finding work.

It wasn’t until Friday that he let his lack of success get to him. Roscoe was dodging his calls and letting his emails go unanswered. At every meeting, he heard outrage, concern and support, but no one was hiring, at least in Chicago. The one job that was available was a corporate position. He’d write press releases and case studies for a construction company’s website, and prepare presentations and annual shareholder statements. The role paid less than what he’d earned at the Courier and it was the kind of work that would rust his brain and drain his will to live. There were better qualified candidates already on the shortlist.

But it was either that or look for work in other cities.

He needed to talk to Derelie about it. He’d have to find words.

He stood in front of the cat food at the market and checked prices for the first time. Derelie had moved on with the cart. Martha might need to go on a diet, less sashimi broth and more three for five dollar fish deals.

Out on the street, it was chilly and the wind was dirty and hard, tugging at his glasses, getting into Derelie’s hair and yanking pieces of it out of her twist. They were almost home when it happened.

A man shouted his name, a hand stopped his shoulder, a fist caught him on the jaw, snapping his head back. Jack dropped the groceries to defend himself, taking another punch that knocked his glasses off and blocking a third with his forearm. People scurried around them and Derelie shrieked, “Stop, stop!”

His assailant came at him again. Heavier, angrier. “You shit, Haley. You shit.”

“Hit me again, I’ll put you on the ground.” The guy swung and Jack dodged, caught his fist and spun him, forcing his bent arm up his back. “Whatever you think I did to you wasn’t intentional.”

“Keepsafe. She’ll never leave me now.”

The guy struggled, but Jack kept him pinned. “What?”

“My fucking slut of a wife was finally going to leave me, but now I’m getting a payout, she’ll never go. She’ll want half of it, you shit, you fucking shit.”

Jack let go abruptly and pushed the man. “Stay away from me.” Even when he won justice it was wrong by some people. Thinking the episode done, he made the mistake of looking for Derelie, because the guy went for her.

“He hurt me, I’ll hurt you!” the man screamed, lunging toward Derelie.

Jack got there first blocking him, shielding Derelie, getting his hands to the man’s shoulders and shoving him hard enough he stumbled and went down on the sidewalk. He got up quickly and shaped up again, but suddenly aware of the crowd that’d gathered he turned and ran off.