Jack looked out across the blue sea, unnatural in this New Hampshire son’s opinion. Watching the waves assault this shitty rock crawling with monkeys, British assholes and Tex-Mex rejects.
Time to leave.
The trip had been Little Miss Perfect’s brainwave, hugging Danny close to her leg, as if Jack could hurt him. Sure the drink had taken hold more than usual, and his moods were at best unpredictable.
But Danny was his boy too.
Getting fired had been the final straw, her ashen face, all doe-eyed and questioning, “finally write” she said, “become Hemingway. Become You.”
Apparently she had scrimped and saved, “rainy day funds”, all gambled on a return flight to Madrid.
Now the money and bar had run dry. Jack returning home with just a resentful liver and worthless manuscript.
One solace, a job offer.
They’d start again in Colorado.
The postcard in his hand a hotel bordered by trees and mountains.
A place called Overlook.