Yesterday's Gone: Season One

who knew you inside out and upside down, the one who could soothe your wounds and make sure you’re loved, well that was something else. The loss had left John with a hunger that all the grain in the world had no hope of sating.  
    He felt a hand on his shoulder. Desmond, again. Fuck. For a guy who acted like the role of leader bore the weight of a cross, he sure wore his duty with a smile.  
    “Anything I can do for you, boss?” John said.
    “No need for that,” Desmond said, then sat on Jimmy’s empty barstool and reached across the bar for an empty glass. He studied the row of bottles, then grabbed a short, stout flagon of Tres Campañeros and poured himself a shot. “Any chance there’s something I can do to help you , or even better, a chance you’ll let me?”
    “Any chance you can turn back time, bring back the dead, or hell, recover your common sense long enough to stop listening to an old hippie and lead us out of this deathtrap?”
    Desmond sighed. “We’re doing the right thing by waiting until tomorrow,” he said. “I know this is hard on you, and I know it’s hard to stop thinking about Jenny. I didn’t lose anyone, not like that at least, and I’m not so callous as to say everything will be fine. But I can offer the cliché ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,’ because I believe it. Everyone in here is suffering, John. Jimmy lost his family, Paola lost her father, hell, Mary almost lost Paola. Your grief doesn’t run deeper than theirs, and you need to help us all out by letting your best self surface. You’re one of the nicest, most caring people I’ve met. Please,” he added, “we need you.”  
    Desmond swallowed his shot.  
    John’s body started to quiver. “It’s not that easy, and believe me, you don’t understand.”  
    “Then help me understand. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
    John suddenly shattered. Through cracked sobs he started spewing: “Jenny and I never fought. And I mean never . Twice in seven years. The fight we had the other night was only our third one, but it was the worst one of all.”
    John wiped his eyes, caught his breath, then completely unraveled.  
    “We never argue, never even raise our voices in anger. We talk about everything, so we never have any pent-up bullshit that sabotages most people. We’re lucky; most couples don’t manage to get what we had in a lifetime.” John started to choke, and for a moment, he felt like he was going to lose his liquor in chunks.  
    He drew a deep breath then said, “But that night, everything went to hell.”
    “What happened?”  
    “It started small. Jenny had a god-awful day at work. Her boss was riding her ass all afternoon, her assistant didn’t show because morning sickness turned into all-day sickness, and Jenny dropped the ball on some big report she’d been working on for two weeks. She hated her job, and a lot of this was the same old shit, so it would’ve been fine, but she got a flat on the way home and that just amplified everything.”
    John took a moment to breathe, then continued. “She called Auto Club, but it turns out that somehow, I’d let our membership lapse. She tried to call me, but my cell phone was off, so she ended up stuck in the rain for over an hour.”
    John wiped his eyes.
    “Soon as I walked through the door, she launched right in, yelling at me for the first time since she saw me answer my ex-girlfriend back on my Facebook wall two years ago, which was Fight Number Two, in case you’re keeping score. So, I asked her why she was so hysterical. She said I didn’t pay the Auto Club bill and that I obviously didn’t care about her safety. I told her that was ridiculous and she said not to call her ridiculous. I told her I wasn’t calling her ridiculous , but that saying I didn’t care about her safety was ridiculous. I asked her what happened, and she told me about the flat tire. So I asked her how long it had been since she took the car in for service. Definitely the wrong thing to say.”
    The tears had stopped and John found control of his voice. “Things went from bad to worse. For some stupid reason, I told her she was acting just like her mother, even called her Mrs. Rasmussen. She was standing behind the kitchen bar when I said it, and she threw a bottle of ketchup. It sailed behind me and skidded across the floor. It was plastic, so it didn’t break, and I laughed, but that just seemed to make her