Jesus. I need to get out of here.
I listen for signs of life but the apartment is quiet so I hurry into my jeans from last night. I fold Jackson’s T-shirt and boxers and lay them neatly at the foot of his bed even though I’m sure he’ll just toss them in the wash.
I creep down the hall and pause at the threshold of the darkened living room. Jackson’s sleeping form sprawls on the couch under a utilitarian fleece blanket.
Hmm. The urge to flee is so strong in me, but I’m tempted to stop and look around at the evidence of Jackson Wirth as a grown-up. Better safe than sorry. I settle for a quick scan of the room.
In the years I’ve been gone, the baseball gloves have been replaced, the general happy chaos of his teenage room swapped for tidy, minimalist furniture. He’s different, I remind myself, but some parts of him still feel so much like the same.
A desk sits in the corner of the room and a flash of paper hanging above it catches my eye. I suck in a breath, glancing at the couch before I creep closer.
Don’t be such a stalker, I tell myself. But there—the card is exactly like I remember from when I picked it out. My heart goes tight in my chest and I have the distinct sensation that I can’t breathe. That maybe I’ll never be able to breathe again.
I found the card in Boston after I heard the news about Mr. Wirth last year. The day felt too bright, too fragile, and I wandered around the cold aimlessly until I spotted a quiet bookstore and a small sympathy card that said on the front, There is no good card for this.
Inside I wrote, “What a shitty thing, to have him gone. I’ll be the first to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason. Because this sucks and there is no reason for it.”
For months after that kiss and my escape to Boston, Jackson had tried to reach out to me—sending funny text messages or long emails, depending on the day. But I’d ignored every one of them. By the time I sent that card, it had been years and Jackson had stopped trying. Still, I signed it “Love Natalie.” There are some times you need to tell the truth, and sympathy cards are one of them. I hope he was able to read between the lines and know the other things I hadn’t written: I miss you. I miss us. I’m sorry.
I guess some little part of me wanted to see if things could change, if they could be different. But he was done by then. I never heard back from Jackson, and I have to admit it stung.
“You were the first one who didn’t try to make it better,” Jackson says from over my shoulder.
I jump, guilty, but Jackson doesn’t look mad. Just vulnerable. He stands in his living room in a threadbare shirt and low-slung sweats, a little more human than he was in the glow of the bar lights. That being said, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair is undeniably a good look for him.
“I miss him,” I tell Jackson in the silence after his words, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. I miss the afternoons when Jackson and I would tag along to Wirth & Sons to do inventory or ring up orders for old ladies. I miss the way Mr. Wirth would slip us a twenty after our visits to the store so we could grab a pizza. I miss sitting in Jackson’s kitchen, tucked between the four Wirths, their easy, happy noise a contrast to my quiet life.
Once, the summer before college, Mr. Wirth called me down from the tree house to help him fill the bird feeder and squirrel feeder. Everyone else was gone and it was just the two of us, pouring seeds into the feeders and waiting for the wildlife to parade through.
“One day he’ll see what’s in front of him,” Jackson’s dad said, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized he wasn’t talking about the store or college, but about me.
I don’t know why he rooted for me when it was so obvious that Jackson would never see me that way. Sixteen months later, I dropped out of college and a few more years after that Mr. Wirth was dead.
Jackson rubs a hand over his neck. “I miss him too,” he admits.
I’ve always been so caught up in the idea of staying away from Jackson, so sure that I was right, that I never reconsidered my position. For the first time since hearing about Jackson’s dad, I feel like I did the wrong thing. I should have come back for Jackson, for his family, for the funeral in the tiny cemetery next door to the church. Even my mom came back from Florida for the Wirths. I should have been here.
Regret hurts, a flinty little stab in the spot just above my stomach, and I feel even worse knowing how much bigger Jackson’s loss was. Is.
I push my features into a smile I don’t feel. “Good thing we’re on our way to getting you some money for the general store.”
“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. Speaking of which, did you want to get some work done? I’ve got some errands to run but I can move them around.”
He doesn’t say anything about last night and I don’t either. I don’t even know what the right thing to say would be. I still don’t know how I feel. Only that we’d been on the brink of something and I stopped it before it went too far.
I can’t stay. I need to get out of this room and remember how to breathe again.
I give Jackson a tight smile. “Let’s take a rain check and I’ll brainstorm later. I’ve gotta go.”
“Wait.” He throws his arm across the doorway. “You don’t have your car. Can I drive you?”
I brandish my phone like a shield. “I’m going to walk,” I say. “GPS. I’ll be fine.”
He drops his arms and lets me pass.
I make my way back to Hooligans without needing to check my GPS after all, and point my car in the direction of home. This town is ingrained in me, all the streets that I know by heart, the air that always smells like plants, even in winter when it’s all sap and pine instead of flowers and grass.
I make a last-minute detour, letting memory guide me through town until I find myself parking in the dusty lot in front of Wirth & Sons. I grip the steering wheel and look through the front window of the store. Should I really go inside? At last I climb out of the car and make my way into the store, jumping a little when a bell rings over the front door.
I step over the threshold and it feels like stepping back into another world—one filled with the sound of my laughter, me and Jackson and Conor and their dad and a hundred inside jokes.
Being here without Jackson, though, feels something like trespassing, and the store feels different, too. The building pumps out an overly air-conditioned breeze and there’s less whimsy than before. The crazy unnecessary things have been condensed to a small section near the register: a rack of postcards, a book about New England bird watching.
I browse the aisles, not really knowing what I’m looking for until I hit the home maintenance section and a yellow-and-green bottle catches my eye. I skim the directions on the back, then haul it to the front register where a middle-aged man sits browsing through a plant seed catalog.
This must be Mr. Wirth’s business partner—Jim Boyle, I think his name was. He looks normal enough—a few fine lines creasing around his eyes, the small balding spot at the back of his head touched with sunburn. I hold my breath and realize I’m waiting for him to make one wrong move, to cackle like the bad guy in an action movie, or something.
“Uh oh.” Jim Boyle looks up at me. “Who’s in trouble?”
For a second I think he means me or Jackson and I freeze, guilty. But he doesn’t know that I know Jackson.
My confusion must register on my face because he holds up the bottle he’s just scanned. “Sick plant?”
Relief washes over me and I relax my fingers. “Yes. A fiddle leaf fig tree.”
“Ah,” he says with recognition. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s got some droopy brown leaves. It just looks pretty miserable. I’ve been trying to move it to get good sun but…” I shrug. “No luck.”
“That’s your first problem. Fiddle leafs do like indirect sunlight but they’re creatures of habit. Don’t move the tree, but you can rotate it.”
I think of Precious’s happy window in Boston, the one overlooking the Chinese restaurant where I’d
eat crab rangoons whenever I didn’t want to cook. Is it weird that my plant is suffering post-breakup as much as I am? I feel guilty for having taken a good thing away from my plant and that’s when I realize last night with Jackson affected me more than I thought.
Mr. Boyle bags the plant vitamins and slides the bottle across the counter to me. “You’re on the right track with this. Add a capful and some water directly to the soil.”
“Will do,” I promise, taking a last glance around the store before I head home. Wirth & Sons doesn’t look bad, but it doesn’t feel right either. Jackson should be here. And if he wants his store back, I need to do everything I can to help him.
Chapter 24
I meet Abby at her apartment at six carrying bags of Chinese takeout.
“Pork fried rice?” she asks, answering the door in a V-neck tank top and shorts with a scalloped hem.
“And orange chicken and General Tso’s. And wontons for Nico.”
“I’m impressed,” Abby says.
“And I’m hungry.” Nothing like a little fried food to soak up the dregs of booze in my system. I spent half my last paycheck at The Bamboo Dragon, but if I’m going to eat my feelings, I’m going to need a lot of food.
Nico hugs my knees before asking me, “Where’s Jackson?”
Abby rolls her eyes. “He’s been talking about Jackson ever since you babysat. And also some sort of macaroni and cheese. Can you help a girl out with a recipe?”
I sigh. “The mac and cheese was not my doing, but I’ll see if I can get a recipe from Jackson.”
Abby quirks up her eyebrows but doesn’t comment.
We walk into the kitchen and Abby pulls a stack of china plates from the cabinets while I open containers of food. She inherited her godmother’s fine china after Nico was born, and I love that she uses it no matter what the occasion—that even Chinese takeout is special enough for the fancy plates with their curling rose pattern. The plates are precious because they are loved, not loved because they are precious, and that distinction makes all the difference.
I barely have a chance to scoop orange chicken from the containers before Abby sets in. “Not that I don’t love when you bribe us with food, but what’s the real reason you’re here?”
“Can’t a girl just want to see the cutest kid on the planet?”
Nico beams at me, but Abby levels me with a bullshit-cutting stare. “You sent an SOS text.”
I did. Dammit.
I shove a forkful of chicken in my mouth, trying to figure out the best way to describe it. “So after you left last night, Jackson took me home.”
Her eyes widen and she turns to her son. “Nico, honey, want to eat in front of the TV tonight? Mommy needs to talk to Aunt Nat in private.”
“Mega Trucks?” he pleads, already scampering down the hall.
When Abigail returns from the living room, she drops into the chair across from me. “You did not…”
“No!” I push a spear of broccoli around my plate. The crunch of a car crash echoes from the next room and I wince. “But I might have. I wanted to. Before I realized how stupid that would be.”
Abby nods and I don’t know if she’s agreeing with me or just acknowledging the truth.
“I just don’t know what to do, Abs. He’s Jackson. Part of me will always want him. But he’s my business partner. And I’m leaving. And it’s Jackson.”
“And he hurt you.”
It stings to hear it laid out so bluntly.
“Yeah, he did. A long time ago.” I purse my lips. “The thing is, I don’t think Jackson ever tried to hurt me. Not on purpose.” I take a half-hearted bite of fried rice and the food and heartache lodge in my throat. “You know, when I first came back to town I didn’t want to see him. But the more he’s pushed his way into my life, the more I’m okay with it. I like having him around. But it also feels too easy to forget what happened.”
“Well, what do you want?”
Everything.
This business—this path out of Swan’s Hollow—I know they’re the right things. I want my business to line up as fast as it can so I can start the rest of my life. But right now, until I have a product in my hands, I have to wait.
In the meantime, I can’t keep making this mistake with Jackson. Yes, I have lingering feelings for him and, yes, every time I get near him my body fills with this warm rush, but I’m not going to get burned again. We’ve never talked about that night, he and I, in the time since I’ve been back. There are all those years in between us now, stretched out and filled with other distractions. And I could use a distraction now.
I chuckle. “I want to be Delilah Overbrook in my real life.”
When I’m working on my business, when I’m Delilah, I’m not just a badass boss. I’m sexy and confident and bold. And I want to feel that way all the time. I can be Delilah of a black lace balconette bra and thigh-high stockings. I can be Delilah who remembers how to flirt with her eyes, who doesn’t let her bitterness seep out of her. I can be Delilah, who isn’t afraid that every man she meets is going to let her down.
Abby covers my hand with hers. “Because Delilah Overbrook wouldn’t hold a grudge?”
My shoulders drop. “I’m starting to think I need to just let it go.”
“I can’t tell if you’re talking yourself into this or out of it,” she says. “But I want you to be happy.”
“Me too,” I admit. A tiny vase of daffodils sits on Abby’s table and I reach out to touch the edges of a petal, soft and fragrant against my fingers.
“Also, you need to blow off some steam.”
I snort. Between Jackson and looking at porn and thinking about lube for every waking hour, my body’s practically vibrating with tension. “Any suggestions, O Wise One?”
Abby tosses a fortune cookie at me and sticks out her tongue. “Actually, yes. How much do you know about Tinder?”
Chapter 25
I twirl a strand of fettuccine around my fork, coating it in a rich vodka sauce before taking a bite. The fresh taste of tomatoes and cream explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes in contentment. Il Trattoria knows how to make a luscious plate of food.
When I open my eyes I catch my date, Brandon, staring at my lips. A blush spreads across my cheeks and I clear my throat. “So, um, you said you did project management?”
Brandon nods. “Yep, not too much to talk about there.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “But I want to hear more about your business.”
I’ll bet he does. Since the moment I made the mistake of saying I own a lube company, Brandon’s looked at me like I’m God’s gift to the state of Massachusetts. And by gift I mean sex toy.
I wave away the question. “You know, it’s probably like any online business. The kind of product doesn’t really matter.”
“I don’t know about that. ”
Under the table he bumps his legs against mine. I inch back and cross my legs, regretting the low-cut black dress I selected tonight. Where had I gone wrong? Abby and I had both scanned Brandon’s Tinder profile for red flags and come up empty. There were no self-indulgent shirtless pictures or bro-y quotes. He’d said he liked Faulkner, for chrissakes.
“If it’s a bad product, no one’s going to buy it.”
“True,” I admit.
“So it’s a good lube then?”
I don’t want to play into whatever weird fantasy is scrolling through his mind, but I do need to be my own champion. “Of course it is.” I already know Brandon won’t be getting a goodnight kiss tonight, but I’m still determined to have a good time. I take another bite of my fettuccine because that, at least, is still working for me.
Brandon doesn’t even bother to pull his eyes away from my cleavage. “Maybe you can give me a free sample.”
Nope, not even my food can salvage this train wreck of a date. I sigh and set down my fork. Before I can retort, Il Trattoria’s front door opens with a jingle. I suck in a breath as I catch sight of the woman giving her name to the hostess.
It’s none other than Mrs. Keaton.
Oh god.
I duck my head, pulling a curtain of hair over my face and trying to ignore the look Brandon gives me. Oh shit, shit, shit.
I thought picking a restaurant two towns over for my date would give me some measure of anonymity, but it looks like I thought wrong. The worst part of it, though, isn’t that I’m out to eat with Brandon while Mrs. Keaton saw me and a shirtless Jackson together just a few weeks ago. The worst part of it isn’t even that it’s a shitty date with a dude who turned lecherous the second the mention of sex came up. No—the worst part of it is I’m not here as Natalie. Tonight I’m supposed to be Delilah Overbrook. If Mrs. Keaton finds out, there’s no telling who she’ll blab to. My business will be over before it even starts.
Tears rise in my throat and I swallow them down. I wanted, for just one night, to live like the person I’m trying to become. I guess this is what I get for trying to escape the small-town stranglehold Swan’s Hollow has on me.
I risk a glance over Brandon’s shoulder and watch Mrs. Keaton light up as she recognizes me. She’s five feet four inches of unadulterated social power. Beside her, Mr. Keaton practically cowers.
Mrs. Keaton wraps her pashmina around her shoulders and raises a hand in greeting. The blood drains from my face as I watch her thread her way through the tables. I have to stop this. Now.
I scrape my chair back from the table and toss down cash for my portion of the check.
“Is that our cue to leave?” Brandon asks, halfway to his feet.
I pull down the hem of my dress and scowl at him. “Just because I happen to own a business and just because that business happens to be about pleasure doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you tonight. Better luck with your next date.”
I stomp away to intercept the Dark Angel of Gossip.
I catch Mrs. Keaton by the elbow three tables away from my seat. “Mrs. Keaton, hi.” I nod my head at her husband. “Mr. Keaton.” Next to his overeager wife, his smile appears genuine and warm.
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