No one spoke.
Space and time were obsolete.
A thousand emotions surged through me at once. The invasion was incomprehensible, the exposure unparalleled. Yet his face held no trace of guilt or regret.
“Were you just reading my—”
“Did you write all of these poems, Angie?” He lifted the journal from the table.
I nodded as he stared, assessing me as if for the first time. My blood pumped cold within my veins, leaving a feeling of prickly pins and needles with each pulse. There was a bold look in his eyes that seemed to diffuse me, leaving me spellbound instead of furious. He took several steps toward me, stopping at arms length.
“You’re a victim of domestic violence?”
“No.” I squared my shoulders. “I’m a survivor.”
This was always the part I hated most.
I’d said that phrase hundreds of times at The Refuge, yet it never got easier, especially outside of that safe bubble. There were too many stereotypes to break through, too many tainted TV shows and fictional characters that had defined the “role of a victim”.
The pity and detachment that always followed such a confession was nearly impossible to avoid or divert.
But the truth was, there were many more stories out there than what the average person cared to realize—stories of sisters, mothers, aunts and daughters. The cycle of living in secret had been perpetuated by the shame of such confessions. And as much as I hated the pity, I hated the shame even more. Exposure of truth killed shame.
Jackson had just read my truth.
I waited to see the pity…to see the revulsion on his face…to see the awkward roaming of his eyes…but the reaction never came.
“I saw the book lying on the table and didn’t know what it was at first…but then when I realized what it was, I didn’t stop. Maybe I couldn’t stop. Your words…I’ve never read anything like them.”
I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes up to meet his again. His gaze held, igniting a fire in me.
“You had no right to read my poems.” I forced myself to speak when all I wanted to do was run.
“I know...”
“No one has ever read that journal. It’s private, Jackson! You had to know it was wrong to keep reading it!” Heat burned my cheeks as snippets of entries flashed through my might with lightning speed.
“You have every right to be angry with me,” he said.
I shook my head. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. How would you feel if this situation were reversed?”
He said nothing, the intensity of his stare breaking something in me.
“This,” I said, taking the journal from his hand, “is not the property of Pinkerton Press.”
His features changed then. Instead of his usual look of indifference—the one I had come to expect—a pained look passed over his face. The expression was so brief I almost missed it.
“Despite what you may think, I’m not some leech-sucking business man, Angie. I would never exploit you—ever.” The sincerity of his words shocked my brain. There was not a trace of anger to be found in them.
My heart beat hard and fast, knocking against my ribcage. His eyes were locked onto mine and in them I uncovered the truth, one that could have dropped me to my knees: I wanted him to know me. The real me—almost as much as I wanted to know the real Jackson.
I took a deep breath. “I believe you.”
“It’s the truth,” he said.
I nodded again, refusing to break eye contact. “I should probably take this opportunity to tell you I’ve done some snooping of my own.”
He groaned. “Google?”
I scrunched my nose up in embarrassed confirmation.
“And the Internet is such a reliable source of information.”
“Well, next time I’ll just look for your journal lying around…”
“Touché.”
Jackson reached for my arm, his touch stirring something deep inside me.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked.
I studied his face. His determined eyes, his firm jaw, his exquisite mouth...I swallowed. “You won’t invade my privacy again without permission?”
“Never.”
And then my face was crushed to his chest, his hands strong against my back as they held me against him. I melted, my heart thumping hard. I hadn’t been embraced by a man—outside of my brother—in more years than I could remember.
This hug gave more than comfort; it gave hope.
“Will saltine crackers and ginger ale suffice as a peace offering?” he whispered into my hair.
Smiling into his t-shirt, I replied, “Yes. Thank you, Jackson.”
For more than you could ever know.
**********
“I heard you were sick…do you need anything?” Dee Bradford said on the phone at nine the next morning. She had called several times in the past few weeks to check in.
“No, I’m feeling much better today, thank you. My dinner didn’t agree with me last night, I guess.”
“Okay, well, I hope you recover soon.”
“Thank you, Dee. We’re doing great here.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll check in with you next week.”
I was feeling almost a hundred-percent as I sat next to Cody on the sofa, reading on my Kindle. Cody was big into the Choose Your Own Adventure books, and it was nice to have a day that wasn’t planned from start to finish. Pippy had cancelled my commitments for the next twenty-four hours; texting that she would take care of rescheduling. She also texted that she would have an updated schedule for me by the end of the day—I didn’t doubt she would.
Cody flipped through pages to the back of his book.
“What ending did you choose?” I asked him.
“I think Marcie should go to her Uncle’s Alligator farm in Florida rather than that stupid band camp.”
“Oh…yeah? I think that sounds a bit more exciting, too.”
“Yep.”
I laughed.
There was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it.” Cody jumped up with the book still in his hand.
“Look through the peep-hole first, Cody.”
“I know, Mom. You always say that.”
I smiled. At least he listened.
“It’s Mr. Ross!”
My stomach flipped. Cody opened the door for him. Jackson entered, smiling.
“How’s the sickie today?” he asked Cody.
“She’s better…no more throwing-up.”
I groaned, remembering the state I was in last night, the state Jackson had seen me in last night.
“Well, that’s good. I hate throw-up.” He smirked at me, the rat! He must know I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. “I thought maybe we should go somewhere today—if your mom’s up for it.”
Cody jumped in excitement and Jackson laughed, shrugging at me with a question in his eyes.
“Um…what did you have in mind?” I narrowed my eyes at him..
“You up for a trip to the zoo?”
“Yes!” Cody yelled.
“I guess so.” I laughed.
“We can stop for lunch on the way if you haven’t eaten.”
“Is Walt outside waiting?”
“No. I drove.”
“You know how to drive?” Cody gaped.
Jackson roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, while Cody’s brow puckered. I smiled and escaped into the bedroom to change. If only I could calm my heart rate, but it was a lost cause.
A Saturday afternoon spent with Jackson—when did my life become so interesting?
Chapter Twelve
It was a warm day—very warm. I was glad I had chosen to wear shorts, so had Jackson. Seeing him in something other than his daily suits made him seem more human—less CEO, and more average guy (although Jackson Ross could never be average). It was like seeing a picture of the President playing with his dog, or out for a jog—there was a connection to normal society
with such photos.
The Bronx Zoo was gorgeous, like walking through a colorful, well-maintained garden. I loved the plants and scenery almost as much as I loved watching Cody’s face light up at each exhibit. He loved animal facts, so we couldn’t pass a sign without him stopping to read it. I watched Jackson, checking for indications of impatience as these fact-interruptions were continuous, but he seemed legitimately interested in the things Cody discovered.
Cody had the map in his hand and led the way as we strolled behind him. So far we had seen: bears, tigers, elephants, zebras, giraffes and gorillas. We had also watched the penguin feeding show, which was my favorite event so far. Cody though, was most looking forward to the Madagascar exhibit. I sipped on a large ice water as Cody ate his way through a giant blue puff of cotton candy. I had turned down lunch for fear of a recurring episode of last night’s humiliation, but I regretted that decision now.
A massive headache was brewing in the back corner of my brain as we strolled through the paths leading to Madagascar. As usual, Jackson was overly observant.
“You’re not feeling well again.” Jackson scrutinized me.
“I’m fine…it’s just a headache.”
“Give me your hand.”
“What?”
He furrowed his brows, “Just give me your hand…please.”
My face heated. “Okay?”
Cody had stopped a few feet ahead and was reading a sign on the Madagascan Tree Boa as Jackson took my hand in his. My stomach knotted at his touch. He laid my hand flat on top of his, and with his other hand pressed a spot between my pointer finger and thumb. The relief in my head was nearly instant.
“Oh, my gosh…that’s amazing.”
He continued to press firmly as we started to walk again, following Cody. How long it had been since a man held my hand…
He’s only helping my headache, not holding my hand! Get a grip.
“It’s a pressure point.”
“Huh…how long are you supposed to do it for?” Was it too much to hope he’d say an hour?
“One minute increments. The pressure usually cures after a couple of times.”
A minute passed and he let go. I prayed the disappointment wouldn’t show on my face.
“Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
“You should probably eat something soon. Figure out where you want to go for dinner… I think we’ve seen pretty much everything here.”
The air in my lungs went buoyant. At least our dinner routine was still on, even though our day had been drastically detoured.
After the Nile Crocodiles, we headed for the exit trail, but Cody stopped abruptly and searched the map in his hand.
“Mom? Can we see one last thing before we go?”
“Sure…is it on our way out?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s right there…the butterfly garden.”
“Um-”
Cody smirked at me and peered up at Jackson. “Do you want to come with me, Mr. Ross?”
“Sure. Aren’t you coming?” Jackson asked me.
“I—um-”
“She doesn’t like butterflies.”
Jackson’s eyebrows shot up as he looked from me to Cody.
“It’s true,” I said.
“How is that even possible? Who doesn’t like butterflies?” The corners of Jackson’s mouth lifted. His gaze was incredulous.
I bit my cheeks and shifted uncomfortably, hoping Cody wouldn’t say more.
No. Such. Luck.
“She’s afraid of them.”
“What? No—you’re joking. No one has butterfly-phobia.” Jackson’s mouth gaped.
“Well, technically, it’s not just butterflies. It’s all flying insects. Aviophobia is the correct term.”
Jackson’s expression froze, and then he cracked up. His laugh was deep, loud and uncontrolled. Can a woman fall in love with a sound? Even though the reaction was at my expense, I couldn’t help but laugh with Jackson, nor could Cody.
“Aviophobia? That is best thing I’ve heard in months,” Jackson said, “Come on Cody, let’s go before your mom decides she’s afraid of grass…or air.”
“Hey! It’s a real thing!” I called after them.
Jackson’s laugh tickled my ears even after he was out of sight. I hugged myself, grinning like one of the local hyenas.
I just made Jackson Ross laugh.
That sound had secured a place in my top-ten favorite sounds of all time…maybe even in my top three. I had to hear it again.
I was growing quite fond of New York.
**********
Jackson’s small black sports car was very different than the car we’d been traveling around in for the last couple of weeks with Walt. I didn’t know anything about cars, but I definitely hadn’t been inside a car like this before. Everything was shiny, sleek, and compact and…shiny.
“So, where to?”
I looked at the clock. It was just after five. I tapped the pendant at my neck. The idea of going out to a restaurant was nauseating—literally, but I was starting to feel very hungry. Jackson eyed me, waiting.
“Do you have a kitchen?” I ventured in a small voice. .
“What kind of a question is that? Where do you think I live—a cardboard box?”
I laughed—hard.
“I’m thinking I’d like to make dinner…but my tiny kitchen doesn’t really accommodate such a task.”
“Are you inviting yourself over?” His smile was devilish.
I rolled my eyes and nodded toward Cody. “I’m asking if I can make us all dinner.”
He stared at me, lips pursed. “I think that sounds…nice.”
“Mom’s a great cook,” Cody piped up from the backseat. “Do you have any movies Mr. Ross?
“Hmm…not really. I don’t watch a lot of TV. I usually read if I have free time.”
“I love to read, too!” Cody said.
“Yeah? What are your favorites?” Jackson pulled out of the zoo parking lot into the flow of traffic.
“I love Choose Your Own Adventure books,” Cody said.
“Oh, I used to read those…it’s nice to feel in control of a storyline, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
I glanced at Jackson and smiled, he caught my eye and smiled back. Goosebumps washed over my body like an ocean wave.
“I’ll need to stop at a store and pick up some things,” I said.
“There’s one very close to where I live. Cody can pick out a movie at the Redbox if he wants.”
I looked back at Cody who had been quiet for a while, only to find he had passed out—asleep. I laughed as I told Jackson.
“So…can I ask you?”
“Ask me what?” he said.
“About my Google discoveries?”
He raised an eyebrow at me which set off a rapid increase in my heart rate.
“Oh. That,” he groaned. “Okay…”
I waited for him to say more—to give me parameters or limitations—but he said nothing else. I took his silence as a free-for-all.
“Your family started Pinkerton Press back in the 1940’s?”
“True.”
I smiled. So this was his game. True or False.
“Your great-grandfather was the founder?”
“True. Teddy Ross.”
“Oh? Is that a relation to the building I’m staying at? The T. Ross?”
“Yep…he had a gift in real-estate as well.”
“You have one brother? Jacob? He’s older?”
“True.”
“Is he Pippy and Peter’s dad?”
“True.”
“So…he’s…”
“Twelve years older—he’s my half-brother.”
“Oh! Wow…more than a one word answer. I feel quite privileged.”
He grunted, but I saw a corner of his mouth creep upward.
Bingo.
“Okay…so…back to it then. Um…you became the CEO two years ago after your brother became ill?�
�
His face tightened, and immediately wanted to retract my insensitive question. I opened my mouth to-
“Don’t you say it.” He dropped his hand on my knee.
I froze and looked up at him.
How did he know I was about to apologize?
“If there were restrictions on the questions you could ask, I would have said so. And that one…is true.”
I exhaled as he removed his hand. “But it wasn’t what you wanted to do—work for the family company I mean?
I hadn’t read that online, but there was something on his face that indicated such.
“It wasn’t my plan, no.”
“You said you’d traveled a lot after college…what were you doing?”
“Living my dreams…or so I thought.”
I wanted to ask him more, to find out what the mysterious Jackson Ross was doing prior to becoming a corporate man, but I didn’t.
“Are you close with your brother?”
He smiled at me, as if grateful for the diversion.
“We’ve had our issues, but yes. He’s a very good man. Tell me about yours,” he added.
I nodded. Warmth spread through me that he had remembered our conversation last night when I mentioned Briggs.
“I could write a book about Briggs. He’s quite the character. A reformed bad-boy by the world’s standards, but even through his rough seasons, he’s always had the most loyal heart. He’s funny, spontaneous, strong-willed… and he loves Cody as if he were his own. He just married an incredible girl, too. She’s tamed him quite a bit.” I smiled, thinking of Charlie. “I’ve never seen him happier.”
Jackson went quiet, then, and so did I. I gazed out the window, watching the crowded sidewalks slide behind us. Life here was so different from what I knew; yet as I glanced at Jackson, I realized different had many definitions.
And sometimes different was exactly what was needed.
**********
Whatever notions I had convinced myself about earlier in regard to Jackson being a normal man in camo shorts slid to wayside the second we pulled into his condo’s garage. I was far from well-versed in New York real estate, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Jackson’s condo was…expensive. With several grocery bags in hand, and a movie rental for Cody, we walked through a lobby that made the corporate apartment building I’d been staying at look like a second-hand store. We rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor—to which I didn’t cringe or imagine myself tragically plummeting to my death—and entered the French doors to Jackson’s home.
All Who Dream (Letting Go) Page 9