Avery Hates Jack

Before Jack, I was still living in my parents’ home. Only two years out of nursing school (graduated with honors, thank you), I was reaping the benefits of a full-time salary and no living expenses. That carefree existence ended once Jack came into my life.

We began seeing each other exclusively during the fall of his senior year of college. While I dove into my new, burgeoning career, Jack made plans for life graduation. During this time, he subtlety started suggesting that I get my own place.

“It’s time,” he would say. “It’s time for you to live like the driven, successful, fabulous man that you are.”

Clearly flattery will get you everywhere with me. He did seem to have a point. Besides, I’d always wanted to live downtown. I found the most perfect loft in the West Loop. 20-foot ceilings, exposed brick and an open, lofted sleeping area. In my head, I was the Chicago equivalent of Brian Kinney from “Queer as Folk.”

Queer as Folk - The Complete Series

Jack moved into my bachelor pad after the school year had come to a close, and it quickly became apparent that we needed more space. So we searched and hunted, eventually finding our dream home. Situated in a full service, luxury building, it had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. What’s more, the bright lights of Navy Pier could be viewed from its floor-to-ceiling windows. It was heaven.

I now realize—with the help of the Gold Coast’s most overpriced therapist—that Jack’s reasons for suggesting I move out of my parents’ weren’t at all altruistic. His motive wasn’t to build a home with me. I’m not sure if it were the thought of moving back into his mother’s in “Lanford,” the idea shacking up with “Jack Tripper” and “Larry Dallas” in Irving Park, or both, but his primary goal was to ensure that he would NOT have to live with either his parents’ once he’d graduated. He’d gotten his wish.

                         

It wouldn’t have been so bad had he’d broken up with me immediately after New York. But he didn’t. He told me that our future was solid, prompting us to take advantage of our landlord’s offer to sell us the apartment.  Since Jack made (and still makes) significantly less money than I do, the NON-REFUNDABLE deposit was drawn from my bank account. Not a problem. We were a couple. We were a family.  

But now Jack wanted out. Would our landlord void the contract? And—perhaps even more importantly—would I be out of thousands of dollars’ worth of earnest money? This is when I first began to utter what would become my mantra: I hate Jack.