After a short shower that was more fooling around than washing, we went out for brunch on Sunday morning, sharing over-filled plates of deep-fried French toast and blueberry pancakes. On the side were the usual breakfast suspects—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, orange juice, and mere cups of coffee, no fancy drinks. Oh yeah, and real maple syrup.
Gluttonously good.
To be honest, the breakfast joint we chose actually had great coffee. At the very least, it was brewed in a French press; I noticed the oil on the surface. And it was fresh since we did the pressing ourselves.
Jack looked so urbane in his sports coat and dress shirt, diligently sipping coffee while he paged through a newspaper that had been left on the table next to ours. Every now and then he'd take a cute little nibble out of the remaining piece of toast and place it back on the platter.
"Is that actually interesting?" I asked. There was only a small piece of French toast left, the cream cheese filling leaking out of it like a very sugary puncture-wound. I decided to end its suffering and drowned it in the syrup—and then it disappeared. "Can't you just look news up on your phone?"
He gave me a wry smile. "I like the feel of the paper. I'll probably never get over that."
"What about ebooks? Do you really like carrying around physical copies of books?"
"I'm getting used to them," he said, pausing to sip coffee at the end of the sentence. "I like the idea. I mean, look what it did to music. Can you believe I had a hundred-disc CD changer in my car in high school? It was full too. Now I can just use an MP3 player."
"I hadn't really thought about that," I said. "And you're crazy for needing a hundred CDs on the go."
"I don't disagree with that observation one bit. Prior to my parents stepping in and saying no, I was ready to fork out the cash for a 300-disc changer. Now with an MP3 player, I carry around thousands of CDs with me at a time. Am I crazier now?"
I tapped my chin, thinking aloud and gave him a studious look. "Quite possibly."
After eating, we went back to the hotel and got our things together. It was nice not having to plan to go through airport security. Hell, I could bring entire bottles of shampoo in my carry-on on Jack's plane, and no one cared at all.
I didn't want to leave the comfort of the room, but then again, I was fairly certain we'd be back soon. A lot had happened here in the room—well, mostly sex—and it had definitely been significant to me. Hollywood had been significant too. I had a new friend who was perhaps even more famous than Jack!
The room tidied up, we checked out and hopped into the limo, tossing our bags near the front to keep the driver company. Jack asked for a few minutes to himself to respond to an email on his phone, so I obliged.
In that moment without Jack-related distractions, I started to think about the fact that on the plane ride back, we'd finally talk about work and the deal, coming up with a plan—well, more like a slap in the face, actually—that would cement me back in reality. Dammit, I didn't want to go back and lose this feeling at all. But honestly, no matter how idyllic this had been, I sort of felt like it was only because of the tedious nature of my regular life that made this so desirable, a real escape.
People talked about that all the time, that you needed the bad to fully appreciate the good. Was it because that was a real thing, or maybe because their individual situations were less than ideal and they needed some way to justify them? As Hollywood crawled by, I kept thinking about days with Jack and how spontaneous and fun they were. I wished I had a time machine so I could figure out if time with Jack could ever be boring.
I sincerely doubted it.
I watched Jack tap away on the touch-screen, his mind presumably working faster than his cramped fingers. He looked so innocent and relaxed, a man who had made his own way by standing up for what he believed in, rather than just compromising his values to make a quick buck. Talent was the tool that enabled him to create what he wanted,