a hopeless romantic | r.s

Chapter Seven

"What was dat?"

Lane sat in her seat, sulking, as Jack droned on and on about something related to Brock's death.

Perhaps she should've been paying more attention to what was going on, but it hadn't even been her decision to come in the first place.

"If we say 'ow' when we bump into somethin' but it don't really hurt, wese jus vocalizin' our inner pain. It can also be 'cause sayin' ow makes our pain less noticeable."

"No," Lane pressed, slowly enunciating the word. "Ya say 'ow' 'cause yer anticipatin' pain, even if it nev-ah comes. It don't actually have ta mean yer in any pain."

Race narrowed his eyes at her challengingly.

Wait, no. Wrong memory.

Jack stood there in front of Lane, looking unsure of himself. He'd been acting strange around her all day, really. She hadn't seen him around that much, but she'd gone to visit the lodging house before her work began, and after as well. And he seemed to only be like that when she was near.

"Can I help ya?" She finally asked, barely even glancing at him as she gently tended to Finch's head. He had been in a deep sleep when she'd come by to see him, and Albert had informed her that his migraines really hadn't been in his favour that day.

Lane couldn't help but be concerned. Every time she saw him, it seemed like they were getting worse and worse. She didn't know what the boys would do if anything ever happened to do with them. He already wasn't selling, as it was. She doubted anyone could afford actual medical help if it ever came to that.

No offence meant, Specs.

"Dere's a meetin' ta-morrow," Jack mentioned. "Wese gonna be holdin' it he-ah in 'Hattan. At Medda's."

"Good for you," Lane told him, really not that interested.

Jack sighed. "Ya hoid 'bout those Refuge kids gettin' ta-geth-ah?"

"How could I not've?" Lane questioned. "It's all ov-ah tha news. I've hoid Race complain' 'bout how dey need a new headline once too many times."

Jack said nothing at first. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Ya seemed close wit Brock 'fore he died."

Lane scoffed, gazing down at Finch. "Hardly. I only ev-ah saw him three times. We nev-ah really got along. Finch was clos-ah ta him den I was."

"It jus seems kinda funny," Jack said.

Lane huffed, tired of his attempts at being casual. "Jack, what d'ya want?"

Jack hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want you 'n Finch ta be at tha meetin' when we have it."

"Oh, no," Lane started. "Ya ain't gonna drag me 'n Finch in-ta dis. Forget it. I ain't even a newsie! Look, I know it's different when it comes ta yer boys, but I ain't one 'a 'em. Ya can't boss me around like yer used ta doin'! Y'know, things like dis is why I don't like gettin' close ta people!"

"Lane-" Jack tried.

"No," Lane interrupted. "Dat meetin' is fa lead-ahs. No one else. I ain't goin', 'n Finch ain't either. It's already been bad enough wit his headaches."

Finch stirred at the sound of her voice, groaning from the pain in his head. "Lane? What's..."

"It's nothin'," Lane told him, giving him her hand, throwing Jack a cold glare. "We ain't goin'."