Monthly Bonus Content #1: 'Never Can Say Goodbye' (Jane Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: An image of wooden swing with chains attached to what appears to be an oak tree. The empty swing is set in a partially sunny clearing with a few other trees around its edges; it seems to be waiting for a child to come swing on it. 'Never Can Say Goodbye' acts as the title in a white font with a green accent around it.]

[Sidenote: This writing is set on the night of the house fire, so the MC and J. Corvin are teens. I also made some assumptions about past dynamics for for angst.💚]

_ _ _

"…I still can't believe you actually tripped her…"

The stagnant night air does nothing to soften Jane's muttered comment, which she realizes a second too late when the arc of your swing decreases. She hears the faint creaking from the old rope—how it strains once your feet smack down into the grass below. She's still working on pouring you a cup of refreshing juice, unsure where this sudden humidity came from.

There's hardly even a breeze rustling the trees.

It's a too quiet night.

"Verner started it! You saw what she did."

Your determined proclamation should be echoed by another voice with an equal amount of certainty. Fortunately, she's only dealing with her best friend rather than her best friend's rival. Jane ducks her head further in a poor attempt to hide her smile, once again unevenly pouring fresh apple juice from the pitcher. She dumps her untouched portion into yours. Now, there is absolutely no comparison to be made.

"Of course I did," she admits. Jane scoops up the almost overflowing cup, handing it to you once you're mostly stationary. "But was she really taking—?"

"Stealing," you quickly interject.

"—from your basket or just trying to get a peek?"

"She wanted to make a competition out of us picking berries, so she got one…"

Your trailed off sentence isn't followed up with an actual answer. The petulant pause teases more good humor into Jane's expression as she watches you think, possibly reconsider what disrupted the school field trip to a neighboring farm. "I only ended your 'competition'"—she says the word with a hint of amusement—"because I didn't want either of you getting prickles in your skin. Tripping, pushing, and then tackling each other into a bush is where it was heading. Do you have any idea how badly they sting? Alek once trampled through some—he didn't feel them under his skin until later on. They hurt."

"Ruby still counted it as her win," you point out.

"Ruby isn't gonna count ties," Jane replies while taking your half-full cup to free up your hands again. She says more once her back is to you as she walks to the nearby picnic table. "Your basket had more though… I saw it."

"I knew it! She was bluffing about her berry haul."

Satisfaction gives way to happiness when you laugh; it's a sound that instantly makes her turn back around. You're pumping your legs in addition to a triumphant fist, swinging higher with renewed vigor. It's a unique victory lap that has Jane's expression softening within seconds until she's looking just a little too long with a smile that's a little too tender—too much.

She's too much.

Apple juice splashes weakly against her wrist from the force she used to set the cup down; it feels oddly lukewarm. Her mom recently pressed this batch, so it should be somewhat chilled from the fridge. Jane shakes the juice off her hand, glancing up at the late evening sky with a slight furrow to her brow since why is it so still out? There are usually bugs chittering in the trees or—

"Jane."

Her head instantly turns in your direction, but she's already instinctively stepping closer after your tone lost any trace of happiness. You're staring at the recognizable truck that's rapidly barreling through the property. It's kicking up dust like an approaching storm rolling over the hills, tires spinning and engine overworking to cut a path through Corvin land. It isn't even on the marked paths! Your grandfather is tearing through some of the fringe fields and outskirts before finishing his forceful shortcut to the dirt driveway, except he isn't slowing his approach.

Jane grabs your hand before you can fist the aged rope of the swing any harder; there are likely fine marks along the inside of your palm.

You are still only staring at the truck—at the man behind the wheel who's been so absent—at someone Jane knows you love, but who distanced himself from you.

"…When's the last time you saw him?"

"Too long," you answer shortly.

"Okay," Jane exhales. "Okay. We're both okay. I'll get my mom, and she'll do something—let's go to the house—my room! You can stay over."

"But he's here for a reason."

"Your parents can handle it," Jane quickly replies. "You shouldn't have to. You don't owe him anything after how he's been treating you."

The two of you have moved away from the swing when the truck door loudly slams shut with a force that causes Jane to reflexively startle. She locks her jaw to steel herself, eyes darting between you and her house. It's too far. The bright beams of light stretching out from the truck's headlights only make the distance seem greater, while the shadows are disrupted.

There's nowhere to hide.

"[Name]!"

Your grandfather's shout is hoarse, but still positively booming in the resounding silence that has settled over Fernweh. Even the truck's warning ping about the key being left in the ignition with the door ajar is muted compared to your grandfather's shouting. He's calling for you in a way that Jane hasn't experienced; it's far too urgent with a desperation that's hard to listen to. Her hand melds to yours, conforming.

"[Name], please!"

She can't hold you back, but she can hold on.

When you move to be more clearly visible, Jane does so too, stepping partially in front of you to fix your grandfather with a hard look.

"Mr. [Surname], my parents—"

Your grandfather doesn't seem to hear her, or perhaps, he doesn't care to listen, rushing over despite his age and scuffing up his shoes. It's enough to make Jane instantly tense up until your grandfather clasps his hands in what could be a silent prayer or to steady their quaking. He is shaking. He's shaking, while you're stock still, frozen with a concerned and confused frown.

Jane can feel the tension—the conflict—in how your nails lightly bite into her skin, but she remains close by your side.

"Get in the truck now. We're leaving."

"What's wrong?" you ask him.

Something must be wrong. Jane probably can't see it as well as you can considering how close you were with your grandfather, but he looks stricken. His eyes are wild, red-rimmed and glistening, in the harsh lighting from the truck while his hands are clenched too tightly so his knuckles appear pronounced. There's a faint whiff of smoke, a horrible habit to start at an old age. (Her mother would say something chiding about it.) There is absolutely no trace of the man with the fond smile reserved for his grandchild—the best one in the whole universe, as Jane often used to overhear at school events or competitions. That kindness has vacated, leaving behind a shell, possibly a stranger…

"[Name], listen to me. Come."

"But I don't want—"

"Now!"

Your grandfather's fierce outburst is enough to quiet you, while it galvanizes Jane to speak.

"Mr. [Surname], you can't take—"

Apparently, he can and will.

Your grandfather takes your other hand, guiding you away, while Jane ignores every ingrained manner and learned instinct about situations like this that force her heart to race.

"Stop it!"

She raises her voice rather than stays silent.

"Let go!"

She reacts by tugging back instead of resigning herself to someone else being the one to act.

"[Grandfather_Name], let [Name] go!"

She isn't looking at your grandfather with anything resembling respect, only a quiet anger that's moderated by her care for you. If only that care could stifle this sickly fear about whatever is going on that could hurt you. It has to be bad; adults get like this when something or someone has been bad, right? She hasn't ever seen your grandfather do anything like—

"Jane." "Jane."

Two people call her name.

One is concerned, the other holds a caution.

She only wants to ever listen to one, but her hand still lets go of you when she turns to see her mother on the front porch. In that instant, your grandfather is able to haul you away with a ferocity that isn't rough, just urgent. Jane is able to share one last look with you before you're rushed into the backseat, but you seem stunned, utterly shell-shocked. She can't blame you after such a whirlwind of emotion.

She can fault someone else…

Your grandfather is already swinging out of the driveway, possibly after never having put the truck in park. Dust billows from the tight turn, wheels faintly screeching from his maneuver as he starts to leave—to escape—with you. Jane swears her heart is racing as fast as the stupid truck; it actually pounds in her chest. "[Name]!"

You're peering out the back window at her, hand pressed against the glass, although she's soon unable to see you as the truck speeds off.

She scrambles for her helmet that was left discarded in the yard, hurriedly picking it up before she's trying to find her bike. Where did the two of you last ride? Jane is pivoting in an attempt to find it, nearly tripping over her own two feet from having too many thoughts to act on while still watching the truck become smaller and smaller, more distant. The cabin! You'll be taken to the cabin and then she can get you. Her bike has a light mounted on it; the dark roads won't deter her—she knows to be careful. Jane tries to take a breath, muffling the scream she can feel building in her chest that isn't all because of this, but it's too much.

Why was your grandfather acting like that?

She goes still when another, far calmer set of footsteps join her frantic search for her bike.

Jane looks up from the grass to see her mother with her hand patiently extended.

"Momma…"

Something about her smile makes Jane second-guess if her mother wants the helmet or her hand.