November fourteenth. Today is November fourteenth, and it is an anniversary. Not my anniversary with Jack, not my parents', not even a remotely happy one. Today is the day Rosalind Jacqueline Kelly-Sullivan was born, and today is also the day she died, thirteen years ago. And so today is the day I have to do my best to comfort Jack, keep him from going crazy, keep him from succumbing to the grief and guilt that always overtakes him every year.

I sigh as I climb out of the taxi, red roses in hand, and rush through the pouring rain to the door of my building, and squeak my way across the tile floor to the elevator. I replay in my head the events of my day at work: I met all of my deadlines, got completely stuck on story ideas, and, despite my protests to have it dumped on one of the unsuspecting early-twenties interns, got pinned with an assignment to do an article on the dress code, or "virtual lack thereof," as my editor put it, in New York City's public schools. Fuck, I've been out of high school for ten years. I shouldn't have to write this kind of shit anymore. Well, at least one of these days I will boot my editor out on his sorry ass and take over his job at the newspaper. I have that to look forward to.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The elevator dings as it stops on my floor and I'm brought back to where I'm standing. Today is Jack's day, I remind myself as I step off the elevator and head down the hallway.

"Jack?" I open the door to our small but cozy apartment, looking around. "You home, babe?"

There's no answer. I head into the kitchen and find what looks like three, maybe four six-packs of Hefeweizen and a bottle of Jack Daniels, all emptied to the very last drop, and lined up on the counter beside the sink. I sigh and shake my head, dumping the bottles into the recycling, then go to check the answering machine. No messages, so I take a look at the caller ID. The last call listed says Sullivan, Gabriel. Jack's father, undoubtedly calling to tell him that it's all his fault that his mother's gone. I bite my lip, worrying for my boyfriend's sanity, and wonder where on Earth Jack could be – wherever he is, he's obviously plastered, and that can't be a very good thing.

I walk through the apartment looking for Jack, in the bathroom, the office, finally in the bedroom – no sign of him there, and I mean that literally. The doors to the closet are open and so are his drawers in the dresser, most of his clothes and one of our suitcases gone. I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose, shaking my head. Francis Jack Kelly-Sullivan has gone over the line today.

I sit down on our unmade bed, rubbing my hands over my face in frustration. I don't know where he'd go. He doesn't have a family other than his father, who hates him and who he hates right back, he'd never impose on any of our friends all of a sudden, and even though the play he's in travels around the country periodically, he hates hotels. So I don't know where the hell he is.

He always gets depressed today, always makes empty comments like how his mother's death was all his fault and how his parents always fought because of him and how he should just be gone so his mother could still be here. I generally tell him to shut the hell up and to pull his head out of his self-pitying ass and that I love him, and that usually works, but today I didn't get a chance. He's just taken off and I don't know where he is.

I reach over to the nightstand and grab the phone, finding a couple pieces of paper underneath it.

I can't do this anymore, the first one says, written on slightly yellowed and crumpled paper, a little stained from tears shed by a person as yet unidentified, in rushed and jagged but still distinctly feminine handwriting. I can't put Francis through this misery anymore. It's too painful for me to have him witness the fights, to see the tears and hear the screams. I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry. Take care of him, Gabe, give him a good home. He's going to need you now. I'm sorry. I l-- The note disappears into an illegible line. This must be where the drugs kicked in. Jack told me all about it once, a couple of weeks after it happened, how he found her lying in her bed, still warm, and how he read the note she'd left pinned to his father's pillow, found the empty bottle of a month's worth of sleeping pills and the empty fifth of cheap vodka dropped on the floor next to the bed. He told me how he cleaned up the vomit from her mouth and her clothes, brushed her hair away from her face so she'd look pretty, threw away the garbage she'd left and got rid of the note so his father wouldn't see it, all before he finally called the police. He never told me he kept the note. My chest tightens a little bit.

The second note is in Jack's messy, uneven handwriting. David, I'm sorry I've been such a dead weight to you for as long as I have. I don't know why you've put up with me for the past fourteen years. You deserve much, much better, someone who isn't as completely worthless as I am. I love you, but I can't bring you down anymore. So do me a favor, find someone who will treat you right, who will make you happy, who isn't me. Everything that's happened in my life weighs me down and I can't handle it anymore, I can't bear to see it come down on you. I love you. I'm sorry. -Jack

I crumple up the note and throw it into the garbage can, angry color rising in my cheeks. No way is this son of a bitch doing this to me, not because he's just depressed and panicking.

I call Jack's cell phone first, grumbling as I hear his voice chirp: "Hey, you've reached Jack Kelly's voice mail, and if you don't know what to do at this point, you should probably hang up now." Beep.

I hang up and reluctantly call Jack's father. He yells at me and tells me he doesn't know "where the fuck he is and you should go find him yourself if you're that concerned about it," so I hang up on him and sit, frustrated. I try calling all of the friends I can think of, but get no results, so eventually, I just call the police.

"How long has he been gone?" The clerk asks, her Brooklyn accent lazy and a little irritated.

"Um, I don't know, exactly, I came home from work around five and he wasn't here..."

"Sir, we can't file a missin' person's report 'til they been gone at least twenty-four hours." She clicks an apparent tongue ring against her teeth impatiently, causing me to cringe.

"Well, he's never disappeared before and I'm really worried about him, I mean, I don't know where he is, there's nowhere I can think of that he'd go..."

"Sir, I can't help you. We got other people to find. Maybe he just went to the store."

"He took a suitcase."

"I said I can't help you. Call back tomorrow if he's still not home." And she hangs up.

I just got hung up on by the police.

Today just can't get any better.

I think about the things I could do, and I know I can't go out and look for him because if I walk, I'll probably catch pneumonia in the rain that's pouring outside, and I can't take a cab unless I want a four-hundred-dollar bill when I'm done.

I lay back on the bed and sigh, close my eyes for just a moment with the intent of resting them to fight off the raging headache that's coming on, and fall fast asleep.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I open my eyes to the sound of the phone ringing. "Hello," I say gruffly, clearing my throat.

"Is this David Jacobs?"

"Uh, yeah." I sit up, rubbing my eyes and looking around the dark room until I find the clock. Two-thirty in the morning. Good God.

"This is Sergeant O'Leary with the New York City Police Department." He clears his throat. "I was walking my beat and I found one Jack Kelly, who is apparently very intoxicated and claims to be your partner."

"Oh, thank God." I sigh in relief. "Is he okay? Is he hurt or in any trouble?"

"He's just fine. He wasn't causing any trouble other than the fact that he's trespassing on private property. See, the cemetery closes at dusk and he's just sitting here and appears to have been for several hours--"

"Cemetery? He's in a cemetery?"

"Yeah, he's sitting at the grave of some woman. You need the address?"

"No, I know exactly where he is. Thanks, Sergeant, I'll be down there in a few minutes."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I walk through the cemetery gates and see Jack sitting on the ground in front of a headstone, with a tall, aging police officer with thinning red hair standing over him, holding a black Mag-Lite and shining it on me. I walk over and nod at the sergeant.

"I'm David Jacobs. I'm really sorry about this, sir."

The sergeant nods and shrugs. "He explained everything to me. I didn't ask, but he explained. I think he needs to just go home."

"You shouldn't be here, Davey." Jack doesn't look up from his mother's grave, and his voice sounds unusually small despite his massive alcohol consumption. "Just go home and leave me here."

"Well, see, I would," I say, rolling my eyes, "but the nice police officer here says you're trespassing. Not to mention you've probably given yourself a nasty cold already and you'll catch your death if you stay out here any longer, and I love you too much to leave you out here all by your lonesome."

"You still love me?" He finally looks up at me, his sad brown eyes huge and watery.

"More than anything," I say, smiling a little bit.

He smiles back. It's faint, but it's there, and that's what counts. "I love you too, Davey."

I hold my hand out and he takes it and I pull him to his feet. Drawing him into me, I bring his lips to mine. He tastes like tears and alcohol and too many cigarettes, but right now it's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted. "You're not dead weight, Jack." I look into his eyes and stroke his cheek lightly. "Now, let's go home and get you cleaned up. I got you roses."