Terms and Specific Conditions - Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Victorian Ghost

Penelope wasn’t the kind of person who asked for help.

She powered through things. Grocery bags in one trip. Bad dates with charm. Flu symptoms with orange Gatorade and spite.

So when her car battery died at 11:42 p.m. outside the sketchy gas station near her apartment–the kind with one flickering fluorescent light and a guy inside who looked like he’d seen too much–she stood there staring at her phone, teeth chattering, pride swallowing itself one stubborn bite at a time.

She scrolled through her contacts.

Hovered over “Dad” for a beat. He would’ve come, no question–just… probably two hours later, more than mildly buzzed, thrilled to be the hero, doing the whole thing one-handed with a lit cigarette like he'd been training for it since 1987.

She exhaled, fogging up the screen.

Then texted Jack.

[Penelope]

You awake?

It took thirty seconds.

[Jack]

Depends

Am I being propositioned or do you need rescuing

She stared at it, half-laughed through her nose, then typed with stiff fingers.

[Penelope]

Dead car

Cold fingers

Mild shame

Help?

He called immediately.

“You okay?” he asked, not even a hello.

“Fine,” she said, like she could intimidate the universe back into compliance. “Just cold. And annoyed. Mostly at the universe.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Seedy gas station by the old mall.”

“You there by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. His voice just clicked into something steady.

“I’m on my way.”

She hung up and shoved her phone into her pocket like that solved anything.

Twenty minutes later, Jack’s car pulled in, headlights slicing through the empty lot. He parked next to her and rolled his window down halfway.

“You look like a Victorian ghost.”

“I feel like a Victorian ghost,” she grumbled, pulling her jacket tighter. “My nipples are legally frozen.”

Jack snorted. “Should’ve led with that. I would’ve driven faster.”

He looked past her at the dark edge of the lot, the empty pumps, the one guy inside pretending not to stare.

“You good?” he asked, eyes cutting back to her.

“Yes,” she said, then immediately ruined her own credibility by shivering so hard her teeth clicked.

“Okay,” he said, like that meant I’m here now, so it’s handled.

He killed the engine, and in the two seconds of quiet before he moved, Penelope realized how much she’d been holding her breath.

He didn’t do a big production. Just got himself situated–chair coming out the way it always did, quick and practiced–like it was nothing. Like the night wasn’t cold and gross and inconvenient. Like the world could be annoying and still not win.

“Pop the hood,” he said.

She did, hands shaking a little as the latch released with a reluctant clunk, and moved around to the front.

Jack was already there. He slid his fingers under the edge and lifted–hood rising a solid foot as he leaned forward in his chair, arms extending until he hit the end of what he could do from sitting.

He flicked his eyes to her.

Penelope clocked it instantly and stepped in without a word, taking over the last part–lifting it the rest of the way and catching the prop rod like she’d done it a hundred times. She slotted it into place, then backed up, brisk.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Thanks.”

“Obviously,” she said, like it wasn’t anything.

Jack leaned forward again, stretching over the fender to get to the terminals. There was effort in it–subtle, controlled–like he was bracing through his shoulders and core without making a show of it.

He didn’t narrate it. He didn’t make it into a Thing.

He just reached into his console and tossed her a pair of gloves.

“Put those on,” he said.

“What are you, a dad?” she asked, tugging them on anyway.

“Costco Dad,” he said. “Jump starter, blanket, emotional support granola bars. I’m one cargo pocket away from a whistle.”

He settled the jump starter in his lap and rolled back to her car, lining himself up with the open hood. He clipped one cable on with a quick, practiced twist, then paused and glanced up at her.

“You’ve done this before?” she asked.

“I’ve done a lot of things because my life is held together by devices and batteries,” he said, deadpan. “Cars. Phones. People.”

She huffed a laugh, stepping closer without thinking. Close enough she could see the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he concentrated. Close enough she could smell his soap and the cold air stuck in his jacket.

Penelope watched the line of his jaw as he worked, watched his hands–steady, competent, a little red from the cold.

“So…” she said, because her brain was allergic to sincerity for more than three seconds, “this your thing?”

He glanced up. “Jumpstarting damsels in distress?”

“Exactly.”

“Only the ones who look like they’d punch me if I called them damsels.”

She cracked a smile. “That’s fair.”

He connected the last clamp, then nodded at her car.

“Try it.”

Penelope got in, turned the key.

For a half second nothing happened–just that horrible dead click that made her stomach drop–

Then the engine coughed. Shuddered. Caught.

It roared to life like it wanted credit.

She exhaled hard, surprised at how relieved she felt. Not just about the car.

When she climbed back out, Jack looked up at her and jerked his head toward his car.

“Get in”  

“What–”

“Warm up,” he said. “Before your nipples file a lawsuit. We’re staying connected–gonna let it charge for a minute so it doesn’t die again.”

Inside his car, the heater blasted air that felt like a personal apology from the universe. Penelope held her hands in front of the vent and stared at them as they slowly remembered they were attached to her body.

Jack came around after her, efficient and quiet about it. Penelope watched anyway–couldn’t help it. The practiced way he transferred in, the little shift of his shoulders, the controlled drop into the seat like it was nothing. Then–matter-of-fact–he used his hands to lift each leg in and settle them, smoothing them into place without looking down for longer than a second.

He angled his chair out of the way, then swung the car door shut.

The sound was small, but it made the space feel sealed. Safer.

Jack sat turned toward her, one hand resting on his thigh, the other on the steering wheel like he couldn’t fully relax until she did.

He watched her for a beat.

“What?” she asked.

He hesitated. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, then shrugged, because it was the closest she got to honesty without tripping over it. “Just–one of those nights where everything feels stupid and dramatic, but also not dramatic enough to justify how shitty it feels.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know those.”

She glanced sideways at him, studying his profile.

“You ever have them still?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Sometimes it’s worse when things are fine. Like, my life’s good now. But then I’ll hit a bump–literally or emotionally–and it’s like…you again? Thought I left you behind.”

Something in her chest pulled tight. Not pity. Not sadness.

Just recognition. Like: oh. You’re real.

She didn’t say anything. She just reached out and flicked the heater vent toward his hands.

It was small. But his eyes softened immediately, like he felt it anyway.

He smiled at her–soft and tired and unguarded.

“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I think you’re the first person who’s ever texted me for help without acting like it was a big deal.”

Penelope leaned back in her seat. The gas station light strobed faintly over the windshield. 

“That’s because I trust you,” she said.

The words dropped into the space between them, heavier than she expected.

Jack looked down at his lap, then out the window like he had to put the feeling somewhere safe before it took over his face.

“Careful,” he said. “I might start thinking you like me.”

Penelope turned her head slowly toward him. “Don’t get cocky.”

But she was smiling. And blushing. And didn’t bother hiding either.

Jack’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something else and decided not to ruin it.

“Okay,” he said finally, softer. “I’ll follow you home.”

Penelope scoffed. “I’m not an orphaned baby deer.”

“Mm,” he said. “You’re a wolf who texted me ‘mild shame.’ Let me have this.”

The next week, Jack swung by her desk after a meeting, a smug grin already in place like he’d rehearsed it.

“Hey,” he said. “Want lunch?”

Penelope’s mouth opened to answer–

–and then someone from accounting walked by.

Marcie.

Marcie-with-the-loud earrings and the permanent look of someone who’d seen too many expense reports to believe in love but still secretly wanted it for other people.

She slowed just enough to smile like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You two are cute,” she said, breezy, like she was commenting on a plant. “Just kiss already.”

Penelope froze so hard it felt physical.

Jack laughed–too loudly. Deflective. The kind of laugh that made it obvious he didn’t know what to do with having feelings in public.

Marcie kept walking, totally oblivious to the bomb she’d dropped, like she didn’t just turn their Wednesday into an emotional crime scene.

Penelope looked at Jack.

He looked at her.

Neither of them said anything, because suddenly every word felt like it had weight.

Then she grabbed her coat and said, “Let’s go.”

Jack’s grin flickered–surprised, pleased, slightly panicked.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and followed her like it was the only correct answer.

At lunch, the air felt… different. Not weird. Not tense. Just aware.

Like they were both trying not to notice the way their elbows brushed at the table and neither of them moved away. The way he looked at her when she talked–steady, quiet–like he was memorizing something. The way her hand nudged his shoulder when she laughed, and how his mouth twitched like he felt it in his whole body.

They talked about normal things on purpose. Work. Coffee. Something dumb someone had said in the meeting. Penelope even did that thing where she got animated, hands everywhere, like she could wave the moment back into being casual.

But every time the conversation hit a lull, it didn’t feel empty. It felt… loaded. Like they were both listening for whatever came next.

They weren’t doing anything new.

But it felt new now.

Like someone had flipped a switch neither of them wanted to admit existed–and now they could both hear the hum.