"What is it?" Rose propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes met her mother's. Oh, my God.
That was all it took for the paralysis that had overcome Ruth to be broken. "Wh—what did you do?" she cried.
Jack was not entirely surprised to see that she was looking at him. Well, there are a lot of words for it, really…But he stayed quiet. He knew it wasn't the sort of question she expected an answer to. Because it's kind of obvious.
Rose had wrapped the sheet around herself and slipped over to the edge of the bed. She was reaching over the side and trying to grab her dress when her mother remembered that Jack wasn't the only one there. Turning her narrowed eyes on her, she shrieked, "And you! How could you let him?"
Maybe it was the knowledge that in another version of that night Jack died and no one but her seemed to know or care, or maybe she was still high on their lovemaking—still floating too far above the real world to care what happened—but whatever the reason, something in Rose snapped. "I didn't let him do anything!" she cried.
Jack just stared at her, shock and fear—and some confusion—in his eyes. What is she saying? She can't mean that—
"I wanted him—I asked him to!" Rose continued. Jack let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"I'm going into the other room," Ruth said quietly. "And when I come back out, one of you won't be here anymore." She glared at Jack. He stared back. "And the other will have remembered everything she's jeopardizing and have realized how much better it is that I'm the only one who was unfortunate enough to have to see this." She turned on her heel and left, closing the door behind her.
Rose let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry."
"What? Why're you—"
"I knew there was a chance someone might find us, but I threw myself at you anyway."
"I wasn't exactly resisting."
"You tried to." She gazed at him lovingly. "You did make me stop."
"That was for you. I didn't want you rushing into anything you might regret later." He touched her hand. "It didn't matter how much I wanted you if you didn't want me back."
"Are you sure you're a man?" In spite of everything, Jack laughed. "I think I just heard the question in my head," she added with a giggle.
"I was about to make what refined persons might consider a very vulgar remark in answer to your question," he said.
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but I kind of think now's not the time."
Rose looked around. Their clothes were strewn all over the floor. The suitcase she'd been packing had been knocked off the bed. All the dresses Jack had folded so carefully had been spilled out of it. The wardrobe was still open. Empty hangers littered the floor in front of it. "We have made quite a mess, haven't we?"
Jack eyed the damage. "You could say that." He looked at her. "So, what do you want to do? I mean, your mother just made it pretty clear what I'm supposed to do—"
"Jack, what are you talking about?"
"You know, she said—"
"I don't care what she said. This doesn't change anything."
Five Minutes Later
Ruth was pacing the length of her room, a rare drink in her hand. This is what I've been reduced to. She's driven me to drunkenness. It's his fault. It has to be. He talked her into this somehow. Yes, that's what happened. Her comfortable self-pity and story-constructing was shattered a moment later when she heard Rose's bedroom door slam into the wall. She made it into the sitting room just in time to see the two of them fly across it, hands clasped. Rose clutched the re-packed suitcase in her free hand. As they passed the fireplace, Jack leaned down and scooped up each of the paintings, one by one.
And just like that, they were gone.
She looked from Rose's open door to the open door leading into the hallway. In their haste to escape, they hadn't bothered to close either of them. She turned up her drink and finished it off in one gulp. I might need another.