I just want to help her. That’s it. No strings attached. When Ellie’s okay, all is right in my world.
And I don’t know how to feel about that.
Twelve
Ellie
My little car issue turned into an all-afternoon endeavor.
Adding gas to my tank didn’t help at all. The car still wouldn’t start. Kept making this weird clicking noise every time I turned the engine. Jackson went on YouTube—no joke—did a little investigating and figured out it could be the alternator.
After waiting for a tow truck to show up, which took over an hour, we followed the driver to a local mechanic shop. I absolutely did not want to go that route. I can’t afford fixing my car right now, but Jackson insisted. He was kind of a dick about it, really. Gave me no choice but to go along with his decision, and I finally gave in.
Eventually.
We’re still sitting in the waiting room of the mechanic shop around three o’clock; Jackson texts one of his coaches and says he can’t make it to practice.
“Oh my God, you can’t miss practice,” I protest after he tells me.
He shrugs his broad shoulders, not seeming too bothered by it. “I don’t mind.”
“Will they be mad?” I really, really hope they won’t be mad. I don’t want him to get in trouble because of something that happened to me. Last year he skipped a couple of practices with Tony and the coaches came down hard on both of them.
“This is legit. I explained everything to them and they understand,” he says. “It’s not like I’m skipping just to be a prick.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said I was helping out my girlfriend.” His cheeks turn red.
And my heart soars.
Stupid heart.
“Your girlfriend, huh?” I jab him in the ribs with my elbow, trying not to read too much into this whatsoever. “Didn’t realize we were in a relationship.”
It would be my every secret wish come true if we were in a relationship, but I know that won’t happen. And even if it eventually did, he would break my heart into a million tiny pieces and destroy me.
No thanks. I need someone safe. Like Carson.
Oh shit.
Whipping out my phone, I send him a quick text.
Me: I’m having car trouble right now. At a shop, waiting to hear the damage. I don’t know if I can make the movies tonight.
Carson: Oh no. What happened? I wondered why you weren’t in class.
It really killed me that I had to skip class. That is not something I ever do.
I explain via text to Carson everything that happened, that my afternoon has been really stressful so far, and how I don’t think I’m up to going out tonight.
Though honestly, if he would’ve tried to convince me that he still wanted to take me out and treat me right, I’d go for it. Silly but true.
Of course, he does none of that. He’s not insistent or commanding, like Jackson is. Walking around as if he can solve all the world’s problems—at the very least my problems—with a snap of his fingers.
Carson is more…sensitive. He’s understanding of my feelings, and doesn’t want to push.
That’s all Jackson does. Push, push, push.
Carson: Maybe another time then?
Me: Probably not till next week. I’m working every night for the rest of this one.
Carson: Sorry we can’t get together. See you tomorrow?
Me: For sure.
Jackson hovers over my shoulder, trying to see who I’m talking to and I dodge away from him, sending him a glare. “So nosy.”
“Carson, huh?”
That’s all he says. And oh my God, I am probably reading way too much into this, into his reaction, the look on his too gorgeous face, but…
He seems a little jealous.
“We were supposed to go to the movies tonight,” I admit.
“Did you just cancel on him?” He raises a single brow.
I nod.
“Did you tell him what happened?”
I nod again.
“And he didn’t try and make shit better by offering to buy you dinner?” He shakes his head before waiting for my response. “What a chump.”
I had the same thoughts. Jackson would’ve tried to make my day brighter because I’m feeling low. I know he would’ve. That’s just how he is.
The mechanic comes out, wiping his dirty hands on a red rag as he talks to us.
“Afraid it’s the alternator,” he says. “It went out.”
My heart sinks. “Oh no.”
“How much to fix it?” Jackson asks.
“Probably around eight hundred bucks. I’ll go draw up an estimate so you can look it over.” The mechanic leaves us to go to the counter, where he starts tapping away on an old desktop computer.
“I can’t afford that,” I whisper to Jackson. “That’s over half what I paid for my car.”
“I know. I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over and pats my knee.
“Jackson.” I settle my hand over his, ignoring the sparks that ignite between our hands. They’re all one-sided, those sparks. He doesn’t feel it. Not like I do. “I can’t let you pay for that. Fixing my car. It’s too much.”
“I don’t mind. Let me do it. You need a car, El. To get to school, to work, whatever. I want to help you. Let me help you.” His voice is soft, as is his gaze when it settles on my face. We’re sitting so close to each other in this cramped waiting room. Our shoulders brushing, his leg pressed against mine. I can feel his breath on my face. If I lean in and tilt my head just so, his mouth could end up on mine….
“Here’s your estimate.”
We jerk away from each other at the sound of the mechanic’s gruff voice above us.
Jackson takes the piece of paper, scanning it briefly before meeting the mechanic’s gaze once more. “Go ahead and fix it.”
He didn’t even give me a chance to say anything. To argue. To protest. He’s just going to do it. I’m a little irritated by him taking the situation completely over, but then again…
I’m also glad. I didn’t know what to do, or how to make this work.
“I should have it finished in about two days,” the mechanic says.
“Two days?” I jump to my feet. “But I need my car back tonight.”
“Might be three.” He shrugs, not giving a shit about my problems. “Have to order the part. Sometimes that takes a while, especially with cars as old as that one.”
Ouch. Okay.
Jackson stands, looming behind me. “You’ll keep us posted on what’s going on with the car?”
“Let me get your information and I’ll definitely keep you up-to-date,” the mechanic says.
Jackson follows after him, rattling off his personal info as the mechanic enters it into the computer. I watch him, admiring his confidence. How he sweeps in to rescue me without hesitation. I know I’m supposed to be mad at him. That I’m supposed to ignore him and move on with my life, but he makes it pretty hard when he steps in and helps me so readily.
“All right, we’re good to go.” Jackson comes up beside me and slips his arm around my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. “You ready?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
We exit the waiting room, the hot air outside hitting me like a wall and I immediately break out into a sweat. Jackson drops his arm from my shoulders as we walk toward his car, and I miss his touch. His closeness. But when we climb into his car, I feel like I’m wrapped up in a Jackson-made cocoon, and all is right in my world again.
I am such a sucker.
His unique scent fills the space. And he’s so big, so broad, he physically fills up the space. He glances over at me with a faint smile, and I smile weakly at him in return.
What am I doing? I’m supposed to be mad at him. Cutting him off for good. Yet here I sit, indebted to him financially after he sweeps in and rescues me.
Jackson starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, headed in the comple
te opposite direction of his apartment. And mine too, since we all sort of live in the same area.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice low.
He sends me a quick look before returning his gaze to the road. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving.”
My stomach growls at hearing his words. “Same.”
“Let’s grab a late lunch. Or an early dinner. Whatever you want to call it.” Jackson checks his dashboard. “It’s already past five. We can call it dinner. My treat.”
I glance down at myself. “I’m not dressed the best.” I bet I smell bad too. I was sweating up a storm when I had to walk to Tony’s condo complex.
“Me either,” he says with a chuckle. “We won’t go anywhere too fancy.”
He takes me to a Mexican restaurant near downtown Clovis called 559 Taqueria.
“Ever been here before?” he asks as he pulls into a parking spot behind the restaurant.
“No, but I’ve heard of it.”
“You’re going to think you’ve died and gone to taco heaven. Trust me.” He sends a grin in my direction before he climbs out of the car.
I’m left sitting in my feelings for a moment, stunned stupid by the look on his face. Sometimes I really hate how attractive he is.
Though most of the time, I love it.
I follow after him as we enter the restaurant, and we have to stand in line to place our order. It smells delicious in here. Like…mouthwateringly good. My stomach growls nonstop, reminding me that I never ate lunch and had a really crappy breakfast, and I think about my options. I just want a couple of tacos. Maybe some chips?
“What do you want?” Jackson asks, his eyes on the menu board on the wall.
I tell him my simple request and he nods.
“I’ll order for you. I know what you like.”
Frowning, I stare up at him, at a loss. He does?
He tilts his head down, lowering his voice. “I know you think this has been a one-sided thing between us the last couple of years, but I’ve been paying attention to you, Ellie. I know you love Mexican food, but you don’t like tomatoes. And all the other girls drink Diet Coke, but you prefer root beer. Though you’re not a big soda drinker at all. You’ll eat salsa, but you dunk your chips in it without scooping anything up. I’ll make sure there’s no pico de gallo on your tacos.”
Jackson’s right. Every single thing he just said is correct when it comes to my Mexican food preferences. And while I usually feel silly over how I eat chips and salsa, and that I don’t like Diet Coke like my other friends, he just made me feel as if everything I do and like is perfectly natural.
Perfectly me.
Out of nowhere, he grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth. As in, his lips are on my knuckles, and what the hell is he doing?
“Trust me?” he asks with those blue, soulful eyes.
I nod, unable to speak. As if I’m in a trance.
“I got you, El.” He kisses my hand. “More than you know.”
His words stick with me as I listen to him order for us, and I want to pick them apart. Analyze them. Turn them over and over in my head. Have him explain to me exactly what he means by that.
But I will never ask. I’m too afraid of the truth. That he really only likes me as a friend. That he’s ‘got me’ in a friendship way and that’s it. Coming to my rescue with my car. Paying for the repairs.
He’s just being kind.
Jackson finishes paying for our order and we each grab our drinks before going outside to sit on their covered patio. Spanish music plays softly in the background and a new song starts—that one that’s on TikTok. “Telepatia.” The song about being in tune with your lover so strongly, you don’t even have to speak. It’s also about being in a long-distance relationship.
I might’ve looked up the meaning behind the lyrics a couple of days ago, curious because I really love the song.
A breeze blows through the space, making the vines covering the lattice walls rattle. A beam of sunlight shines upon Jackson, outlining his face in gold, making his hair look blonder than usual.
I stare at him, unable to look away. He’s ridiculously good looking. Painfully so. Even doing something as mundane as scrolling through his phone, which is what he’s doing currently. His hair hangs over his forehead, so long it has to be in his eyes, and I’m tempted to lean over the table and push it out of the way. Run my fingers through it. His hair is soft. I’ve only really touched it once…
“Oh my God, are you Jackson Rivers?”
We both glance over to see a group of four teenaged girls sitting at the table next to us. Their eyes are comically wide, and they all have braces on their teeth. I’d put them no older than freshmen in high school, and I’m probably pushing it. More like middle schoolers.
They’re definitely dressed better than I am. A table of really pretty, soon-to-be knock out beautiful girls. And they’re all looking at Jackson with stars in their eyes.
Jackson smiles, his expression turning bashful. “Maybe.”
One of them squeals. So loudly, every person sitting on the patio looks up and over in our direction. “OH MY GOD CAN WE TAKE A PHOTO WITH YOU?”
“Sure,” he says, rising to his feet.
The girls lose their damn minds. There is no other way to describe their reaction to finding Jackson in the same restaurant as them. They flutter around him, giggling uncontrollably as they each individually take a photo with him. They lavish on the praise, telling him how much they love his music, his lyrics, his performances, their adoring gazes never leaving his face once. As if they’re afraid if they look away, he’ll disappear.
I’m thinking they love more than his music, but they’re keeping that part quiet.
“Could you take a photo of all of us with Jackson, please?” one of the girls asks me with hope shining in her eyes.
“Of course,” I say as I stand and take the phone from her hand. I wait for them to position themselves around Jackson, noticing how they keep looking at me with frowns on their faces. As if they can’t believe their beloved idol is hanging out with a commoner like me.
Or maybe that’s my own personal complex coming out in full force.
I snap what feels like a million photos so they have plenty to choose from. I’m a girl, I know what it’s like to take group photos with a bunch of other girls. It’s so difficult to find a photo where every single person looks good.
“Thank you,” the girl says when they’re done and I hand her back her phone. “We appreciate it.”
“When are you performing next?” one of the girls asks Jackson.
He smiles. Shrugs. Playing it cool with that warm gleam in his eyes, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be but with those girls. He knows how to put it on, making people feel alive in his presence. “Don’t have anything scheduled at the moment.”
“Too busy playing football?” She bats her eyelashes at him, trying to flirt.
It’s cute and all, but she’s wearing braces. She’s terribly young. But I guess this is good practice for her.
“Yeah,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You coming to the Bulldog games?”
“Yes!” they all say in unison as they jump up and down, like the little girls they truly are.
Though, technically, I’m not that much older than them, I feel much older. And wiser.
Wait a minute. Not so much wise. I am the idiot, after all, who’s in love with a boy who only thinks of me as a friend.
Once they’re gone, as in they’ve left the restaurant, and we have our food in front of us, Jackson sends me a wry smile.
“That was wild,” he says, seeming in a daze.
“Happens a lot to you when you go out?” I take a bite of my taco and holy crap, it’s delicious.
“Not really. That was kind of a first,” he admits right before he takes a big bite of his own taco.
“They were true fangirls. They even knew you were on the football team,” I poi
nt out.
“Yeah. I mean, that’s public knowledge. I don’t hide it,” he says, his gaze thoughtful as he stares off into the distance, his taco forgotten. “But I have to admit, it was kind of—overwhelming. Having them recognize me and freak out. Talking to me as if they know me. They don’t. Not at all.”
I frown. “You didn’t like their attention?”
“Sometimes, I don’t know how I feel about it,” he admits. “I’ve played a lot of shows at Strummers, so I get why I have fans here. I’ve built up a following, I guess. It’s just really weird.”
“I thought this was what you wanted,” I tell him, settling my taco onto my plate as I study him intently. He seems a little shaken by the encounter, which is not like Jackson.
He embraces this kind of thing usually.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. Grabs his half-eaten taco and shoves the rest of it into his mouth.
“Maybe not?” I arch a brow.
“Not sure,” he says once he’s swallowed. “Honestly? I don’t know what I want. And do I really need to make a decision right now?”
“Is that why you haven’t signed a record deal?”
Jackson nods. “I’m not ready to give up control yet. Not ready to have it all rest on my shoulders. I just want to have fun while I still can, you know?”
“Being a rock star won’t be fun?” I tease.
“After a while it won’t be. It’ll become a job, and I don’t want to kill my spirit, my love for music.” His expression turns distant, a faint smile curling his lips. “I could totally write a song about this.”
“You seem able to write a song about pretty much anything,” I say softly.
His gaze meets mine, his eyes a deep, dark blue. “You have no idea.”
Thirteen
Jackson
Having those girls freak out over me kind of freaked me out. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming. They fluttered around me like hyped-up bees. Buzzing and jumping, talking in overly high-pitched voices in the middle of a restaurant, where I least expected it. I certainly didn’t think they’d recognize me, yet they totally did. Chatting me up like we’re old friends. They knew a lot of things about me, and it felt strange.
The Sophomore Page 10