Love and Relativity

by Rachael Wade

  There was no denying it, as much as I hated to admit the fact: Jackson was one fine sight. His thick, wild brown hair was so dark it was almost black, and his strong jaw, plump lips, and piercing blue eyes turned heads wherever he went. He always seemed to have a visible shadow of stubble, as if he were deliberately late for a shave.

  But what really sealed the deal was his infectious, carefree attitude. His middle name should have been ‘mischief,’ and miraculously, this somehow added to his appeal. He was a legend on the island. Throughout high school, I’d heard he’d made the newspaper numerous times for being involved in all sorts of fights and property damage, and for purposely chasing Ms. Stein’s cat up a tree. It took them two days to actually get the poor thing down, and when asked why he did such a juvenile, stupid thing, he just shrugged and said, ‘boredom makes you do stupid things.’

  Well, yeah. Apparently.

  Still, he somehow managed to keep every girl on the island wrapped around his little finger. Didn’t matter the age or walk of life—they all melted around him. The sweet 65-year-old Ms. Stein forgave him for the cat incident almost instantly, citing something about Jesus and his disciples’ penchant for forgiveness, and every time he broke some poor girl’s heart, she would take him back anyway the minute he flashed her a smile. That smile lit up a room. Always wide, always perfect, always accenting his plump lips. Jackson Taylor was the whole tempting, sexy, albeit frustrating package: playful, charming, and rebellious. All together, it made for one delicious dish.

  I was reminded of this every time he did this I-know-you-want-me thing he was doing right now, leaning into me over the bar. Even as Ruben and Jeff, his wingmen, gravitated straight to Whitney to launch off into their joke-cracking ritual to vie for her attention, I was reminded of it when I met his crystal blue eyes, unable to focus on anything else around me except those mesmerizing pupils.

  He leaned in closer and placed two hands on each side of me, resting them on the bar, his black Egyptian ankh tattoo peeking out from below his shirt sleeve when it rode up against his tan, firm arm. I backed up slightly, savoring a whiff of his typical sunscreen and cologne scent.

  “Oh, Jackson,” Whitney chimed in, swatting Jeff and Ruben away, “go drool over the other regulars tonight, will you? Or haven’t you figured out by now that she’s immune to your charm?”

  “Ha.” His eyes lowered to my lips once more before returning to meet my poker-face gaze. “She’s not immune. Just hasn’t figured out how great of a catch I am yet.” Pushing off the bar, he gave me my personal space back, and a small part of me—one I instantly resented—was bummed by the fact. Jackson had made his intentions clear—he’d wanted me—for three years now, since I started coming in to Pete’s. But I’d also made mine clear. Not only did I have no desire to be just another notch on his bedpost, I also had history with him now. Anything more than our sort-of friendship would only complicate things. “I see how it is. You girls just aren’t in the dancing mood tonight. Damn shame, because I’ve been working on my lawnmower move, and you’re totally going to miss out on witnessing that level of brilliance.”

  “What a tragedy.” I shrugged with a faux pout, turning to Whitney.

  “We can see it perfectly fine from across the room,” she said sweetly.

  “Fine. But I have a Grammy-worthy performance for you ladies about an hour from now, and I refuse to let you miss that one.” Jackson’s favorite karaoke song to sing was “Santeria” by Sublime. I had to hand it to the man, he nailed it every time, tipsy and all.

  I grinned and shook my head, swiveling around in my stool to pick at my shrimp. “Oh, we look forward to it, Celine Dion.”

  “Michelle and Kayla are on their way, man,” Jeff’s deep voice butted in. He started texting at Jackson’s side, giving Ruben and Whitney free range to chat. No matter what Whitney said, I knew she had this weird thing with Ruben. He was tall, built, and Latino—very much her type—and as obnoxious as he was around his friends, his persistence was starting to grow on her. When the two of them talked, they tended to disappear underneath this bubble and the whole world just dropped away around them.

  It was kind of like with me and Jackson, although any prolonged time I spent with him made me want to strangle him, and vice versa. Saying we were polar opposites was putting it mildly. His persistence was irritating, but over the past few years, a strange sort of comfort evolved from it, so every now and then, I cut the guy a break.

  Hence the agreements to engage in mortifying karaoke performances with him.

  “Tell them to bring their friend Kelly,” Jackson said to Jeff, his voice low while he peered down at the text message.

  “Yeah, she was hot, man. Didn’t she say she’s coming tomorrow?”

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Taking a healthy bite of my shrimp, I waved to Pete for another drink and tried to tune out of their conversation. I so didn’t want to hear about their shenanigans with Michelle and Kayla tonight. They were nice girls, but completely naive to the guys’ antics, and it was painful to watch.

  Jackson cleared his throat and tugged a lock of my hair, wrapping it around his finger to get my attention. “So...‘Santeria’? After I play one game?” His arctic eyes snapped to mine and he dragged his feet closer, the tips of his shoes hitting my stool’s legs. Sun-kissed skin peeked through the holes of his worn-out, relaxed t-shirt, causing my eyes to wander down to his chest. He seemed to notice my ogling, a pleased grin playing across his lips. He always noticed.

  “If you insist.”

  “I insist.” Turning on his heel for the pool table, he started belting out “My Heart Will Go On,” and Jeff followed him, chiming in with the rest of the bar in booing his performance. Ruben joined them a second later, finally prying himself away from Whitney.

  Picking up where we left off before Troubles ‘R Us made their appearance, Whitney and I rambled on about our day. Pete eventually shooed us away from the bar after one too many drinks, and before we knew it, the karaoke mic was calling. Jackson was waiting with that expectant smile of his, toying with the mic stand.

  “It’s on like Donkey Kong, Em. Shit, can you stand?”

  “Very funnnny,” I giggled, grabbing the mic. “Um...I think so.”

  “No face planting allowed tonight, you got it? Now hold still.”

  Each time Jackson belted the chorus, I laughed until my stomach hurt, saving me from actually having to sing much of the song. Every few seconds he’d reach out and steady me, taking swigs of his beer in between verses. I somehow stumbled through our performance with some of my dignity still intact, and then it was Whitney’s turn at the mic while the guys gathered around to play another round of pool. She started singing her own personal tribute to Adam, something about if he liked it, he shoulda’ put a ring on it.

  “You get better every time we do that song!” I smiled wide at Jackson, leaning over the pool table. My head was starting to spin and I wanted to hug everyone. Bad sign.

  “You get worse every time we do that song.” He laughed, smiling back while he waited his turn to play, cue stick in hand. “I think it’s time you got some water.”

  “Heyyyy now, I’m fine. Don’t start with me.”

  “Emma, water. Now.” He pointed behind us to the bar.

  I pushed away from the pool table and leaned back on the wall. “No. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  “Don’t ‘here we go’ me!”

  He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He twisted around and called out to Pete. “Hey, Pete! Two waters, por favor!”

  “I cut her off half an hour ago, Jackson. Don’t go giving her any of your beer, now,” he hollered back. “I’ll call her a cab.”

  “Yeah, don’t go giving me any of your beer, Mr. Elevator Sex,” I slurred, grabbing the Corona from his hand.

  He dropped his cue stick and wrestled me for it, his grin reaching epic proportions. “What did you just call
me?”

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourselfff.”

  “I knew you fantasized about me, baby, but damn. I didn’t picture you as an elevator sex kinda girl.”

  He won the war for the beer and Pete delivered two waters, shooting me that take-it-easy look. “I don’t fantasize about you, Jackson. And that proves you know squat about me, ‘cause I’d love to have elevator sex.”

  He choked, spewing his beer everywhere. “Is that an offer?”

  “You’d be the last person I’d want it with.” I stuck out my tongue and sloppily cracked open one of the water bottles.

  “Please. Who would you want it with, Scott Morgan? The dick would be too worried about scuffing up his loafers. He’s so damn uptight.”

  “What do you know about Scott? I’m not even interested in him. And he does not wear loafers!”

  “He seems to think you still are. Just last weekend Ruben and I were at Kayla’s party and he was going on and on about how you won’t stop calling him.”

  “And you bought that?” I got close to him—too close—to look him in the eye. “I went out with the guy twice.”

  He tilted the water bottle back toward my lips, encouraging me to keep drinking. “What did you see in him, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged, glancing around for Whitney. Some unfamiliar redhead was at the mic now and she was nowhere to be found. The bar noise was growing louder, and the room started going blurry each time I moved. It was time to go. “We had a lot in common.”

  “Like what, ironing socks? Discussing your favorite cleaning products? Come on, Em.”

  “I’d rather be a neat freak than be a slob. You’re so messy.” I slapped my hand on his chest and he caught it, holding it in place, resting his free hand on the corner of my hip to steady me.

  “Right now, you’re the messy one.”

  “I’m going home.” I tried pulling my hand from his chest but he wouldn’t budge, his eyes scanning my face.

  “You love my mess.”

  “No, your mess gives me a headache. You know what else does? Chris. He’d never have elevator sex with me. He barely wanted to touch me. That’s when I knew...” The image of him and the ditzy freshman came to mind, and I was ready to hurl. “I gotta go, Jack.” I covered my mouth and clutched my torso. “I’m soooo tired and I think I’m gonna be sick. Have you seen Whit?” I tried pulling free again and this time, I succeeded, but I wasn’t cut free from his grasp for long. I lost my balance and gripped the pool table. Jackson’s arms shot out to catch me.

  “Shit, Emma, you shouldn’t have drunk so much. You know how you get with liquor.”

  “Leave me alone.” I shrugged him off, looking around again for Whitney. “Isss not your job to take care of me.”

  “Just let me help you find Whit so you can catch a cab together, come on.” He gestured to his pool buddies that he was ditching and took me by the hand, leading me toward the door. “There’s a good possibility she’s outside.”

  “Huh?” I bumped into his shoulder as he guided me. “Why?”

  “Because Ruben’s outside. I saw him sneak out a few minutes ago.” Opening the door, we stepped out onto the porch to find Ruben and Whitney sitting on the hood of her car, making out. “What’d I tell ya?”

  Whitney came up for air. “Emmm!” She slid off the hood of the car and straightened out her skirt, dashing over to meet me. “I don’t want to go home yet. I’m having soooo much fun.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Jackson? Take her home? Pretty please with sugar on top?” Whitney begging. Now that was a sight. “You know it’s the anniversary of her—”

  “Yes, Whitney, I’m well aware.” His hand tightened around mine. “But no can do. Pete called her a cab; she’ll be fine.” He let go of my hand and eyed a black SUV as it rolled into the parking lot. A cab pulled in behind it and my shoulders sagged in relief. All I had to do was make it home and into bed, and this night wouldn’t come for another year.

  Kayla and Michelle emerged from the black SUV, squealing with laughter, and Whitney quickly changed her tune. “Never mind, Em, I’ll go home with you.”

  “What?” Ruben perked up, at her side in an instant. “Wait, Whit, let’s go back inside and hang out—”

  “See you fools later,” she said, linking arms with me and pulling me toward the cab. Kayla and Michelle’s laughter grew louder as they approached the front porch, latching on to Jackson and Ruben to drag them up the porch steps. They were gorgeous and all decked out as usual, with their perfectly bronzed skin, big boobs, and stilettos. I couldn’t help but look down at my simple jean skirt and heels and feel plain in comparison.

  “Wait a minute.” Jackson darted back down the porch steps and trotted around the front of the cab to the driver window, towing Kayla with him. She just laughed and started texting in her other hand, barely sparing the driver a glance. Pulling out his wallet, Jackson paid the driver and leaned into him, his voice hushed. Whitney and I slid into the backseat. I might have been smashed, but I could make out what he was saying.

  “Please don’t take Prescott Lane. Take Palermo to Fourth and then turn on Olympia.”

  I leaned back and let myself sink into the smelly leather seat, taking a deep breath as I did. My gaze caught Jackson’s through the driver’s window before we pulled away, and those harrowing words passed between us.

  I’ve got you.

  Thank you.

  Chapter 2

  What possessed me to wake up at the crack of dawn the next morning and call Whitney was beyond me.

  “You’ll go? Seriously?” she squealed into the phone. I pulled the receiver from my ear.

  “Yeah, but damn, Whit, I am hung over. Can you tone down the princess cheer just a tad?”

  “Oh, hell no. You’re not coming if your ass is going to be grumpy all morning. It’s a three hour ride and I’m not putting up with that shit.”

  “Aw, I love you, too. Where’s the sisterly love? And how are you not at all hung over? You drank just as much as I did last night.”

  “Meh.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “I stayed hydrated and slept like a rock. You haven’t drunk that much since...you know. And you know how you get with liquor.”

  I yawned and then groaned into the phone, rolling on my side to peer out my bedroom window. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “’Cause it’s true. You can never have more than three drinks, or you’re down for the count.”

  “Don’t sound so smug.”

  She laughed. “I know you way too well, Em.”

  “Okay, so when are you picking me up?”

  “Thirty minutes. Bring something cute to wear. We’re going out tonight!”

  My stomach rolled at the mere thought of going anywhere alcohol was involved. I groaned again and clutched my stomach, gripping my pillow tight.

  “Oh chill, sister,” she snapped. “The party’s at the hotel we’re staying at, so you can go straight to our room whenever you want, and you don’t have to drink a thing. I just want your company.”

  “If you say so...”

  “I say so. See you in 30. Get your ass outta bed!”

  Good Lord, she was awake. And way too bubbly for my poor, hung over brain to handle yet. “Mmmkay, see you soon.”

  Packing a small bag for the weekend, I glanced around my quiet, tidy bedroom. Just last night, I was looking forward to having a little solitude this weekend. When I woke up this morning and picked through my brain’s fuzzy memories, I recalled Jackson’s words to the cab driver the night before, and suddenly I wanted to be anything but alone.

  I snatched up my Kindle and stuffed my bikini and a few pairs of clothes in the bag, then finally decided on a dress for our night out. I picked a teal halter number that hit just above the knee and clung tight around the waist and hips. Casual, but not too casual. Good. Zipping up the bag, I grabbed a pair of black strappy heels to go with it and out the door I went.

  Whitney pulled into th
e apartment building parking lot as I was coming down the stairs, and I stalled when I spotted someone else in the SUV’s passenger seat.

  She rolled down the window and smiled that don’t-look-so-surprised smile. “Hey, chick, Enrique can help you with your bag.” The guy in the passenger seat, who now had a name, stepped out of the car and came toward me, extending his hand.

  “Hey mami, nice to meet you.”

  “Um, hey...Enrique.” I shook his hand and glanced at Whitney. “My bag’s not very heavy. I’ve got it, thanks.”

  Whitney hopped out of the car next, sprinting by me to head up the stairs. “Don’t listen to her, Enrique.” She pointed to the bag. “I have to pee before we hit the road, Em. Let me in real quick?” She dashed past me and Enrique shrugged, reaching for my bag. I awkwardly handed it over, then shot up the stairs after her.

  “Whit?” I whispered when we reached the apartment door, quickly unlocking it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Sssshhh.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind us. “I don’t actually have to pee, I just wanted to talk to you first. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but late last night, I made a few stupid drunk phone calls to bring someone along since you weren’t coming. And it’s just...I need to make Ruben jealous.”

  I leaned against the back of the door and crossed my arms. “Seriously? You’re resorting to preschool jealousy tactics now? What has gotten into you?”

  “He has!” She let out a frustrated sigh and shook her full head of raven hair, the loose curls bouncing above her shoulders. “Okay, well, not like that. Not yet, anyway...”

  “Whitney...”

  “I know it’s incredibly stupid and it just makes me one of those petty, shallow chicks, but I really like him, Em. He confuses me. Sometimes I really think he’s into me...but then Michelle and Kayla show up, and he’s all over them. It sends me mixed signals. He needs to make up his mind, and this is sort of... an incentive.”

  “Of course, he’s into you. He and Jackson are exactly the same and you know this, Whit. There are no mixed signals; the signals are crystal clear. They pursue us because we’re the only girls on the entire island they haven’t had.” I exhaled and pushed myself off the door to squeeze her shoulders. “You’re gorgeous, gifted, hard working, and you cut through all the bullshit. That’s why people like you, because you’re authentic. Any dude would be a lucky bastard to have you, and the fact that you’re acting this way over Ruben of all people is a little concerning, to be honest. It’s not like you. Why not cut to the chase? Just tell him how you feel?”