(Rebecca's POV)
We tell Jack over cookies.
His cookies — the ones we make together at the community kitchen on Saturdays, the ones with the cold butter trick and the flour measured like rocket fuel. The fluorescents buzz overhead, flat and white against stainless steel counters, and the room smells like brown sugar and the industrial soap they use on the baking sheets.
Eric sits beside me on the same side of the table. Jack sits across from us, cross-legged on the metal stool, a half-eaten cookie in his right hand, crumbs in a constellation across his shirt.
We planned this. The where. The when. The how. None of it has prevented my hands from pressing flat against my thighs under the table, fingers spread, steadying. Eric's knee touches mine. Not moving. Just there.
"Jack." My voice c
