food he made at home was almost better than the over-the-top expensive dinners he had treated me to. Funny that it took a supremely rich guy to teach me that great food could be had easily at home.
One-and-a-half glasses of wine down, and full of unflagging adrenaline, I decided to drill Jack for information.
"It's nothing," he insisted, my first wave of questioning behind us. He was a terrible liar, at least today.
"You're holding something back from me, Jack. What happened to you?"
He tensed up, wound tight as piano wire, holding his wine glass so firmly I feared it might shatter between his fingertips. "Effie, I know you're concerned, but I just... just can't." He was so frazzled by my inquiry that it made me wish I'd never asked at all.
Why was I doing this?
I couldn't believe how much it was affecting me to see him like this. He had been so brave when he came to my rescue—but now he was humbled, like a dropped popsicle melting in the hot, direct sunlight. I really didn't want Jack to wind up as a fruit-flavored stain on his expensive carpet. I would need a change in strategy.
"Fine," I said. "I'm sorry. Seriously." There was just a hint of a defensive tone in my voice—and he sensed it.
Jack fell silent and then jumped to his feet and walked to the closest window. He stared out into the city; perhaps the sprawling view was cathartic. Something was driving him crazy—and I wanted to know what it was. The problem was, I wanted to be sympathetic and let it go as much as I wanted to know what was plaguing him. What was he hiding? I swore this next try would be my last.
"Jack, this is killing you. What is it? I don't like seeing you like this." I put it out there and waited like a hunter, hoping that he would take the bait.
"It's stupid," he said. "I shouldn't care anymore. I always feel dumb when I get caught up in it."
"You obviously do care. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Dammit," he whispered. "I swore to myself that I'd never bring this up around someone else again. I just... just couldn't help but remember it all again at the coffee shop, when he—" He froze for a second. "It rushed back so quickly. I didn't expect this to happen ever again."
"Suppression obviously isn't working, Jack. Have you ever properly dealt with this?" I felt like a junior psychologist, even though that wasn't at all the intent of my questioning. I wanted to know, wanted to help, if that was even possible.
"I'm not so sure anymore." He picked up his wine and began, peeling back the protective layers of his mind until he reached his true focus."God, I can't believe I'm doing this," he remarked. "You really want a front row seat to my emotional baggage?"
"Why wouldn't I?" I asked. "I'm your—" I froze up for a second, not sure how to define myself. Was I his girlfriend? Did I even want that right now? "I care about you, Jack," I said, correcting my potential folly before it began. He didn't seem to notice one way or another.
"Katy," he went on. "I loved her, okay? I can't take that feeling away, no matter what." His features and demeanor softened up so much I feared he might just curl up and die right in front of me.
I gulped, worried that I had indeed opened up a door that I shouldn't have. The last thing I needed was to find out that he was still in love with his ex, probably a beautiful woman—assumed to be more beautiful than me, of course; my own assumptions were never reasonable—and having to let me go in exchange for her. Way to go, Effie! I was a cat about to be killed by curiosity.
Deep breath. I needed to relax since this was his moment, not mine.
I poured another glass of wine and took a sip. "Please, go on." I was at the top of the rollercoaster, ready for it to plummet toward the ground at hundreds of miles per hour while people screamed around me. Oh yeah, and my hands were in the air.
He continued.
It went back to his college days at University of Minnesota—that was sort of a relief since I assumed that meant it was a long time ago—when things had become uncertain in his life. He was writing music and wanted to pursue a full-time career of performing,