by Rachael Wade
He held my gaze a moment then stood to his feet, taking hesitant steps toward the door. When he reached me, he paused and reached into his pocket, handing me the spare key. His eyes lifted to mine, and I searched deep for something other than anger and hurt, the only things remaining between us, but there was nothing. “I’m sorry about Jen,” he said. “Have a nice life.”
Ah, ever the charming prince.
I shut the door behind him and slid down the back of it, slumping to the floor, knees pulled tight to my chest. For the first time all weekend, I let my head fall and allowed myself to feel the full weight of my sobs. Jen, please forgive me.
***
“Miss Velma, I can read two more pages, but then I have to go home. My shift ends at 5:00. Casey will be taking over for me, though, okay? She’ll take good care of you.”
“Casey hates to read to me.” Velma pouted, crossing her arms and turning to look out the window. She was snuggled up in bed, her feet wrapped tight beneath the blanket, just the way she liked it.
“Well, I’ll talk to her about that. I promise. She does bring you your favorite hot chocolate, right? How about I have her bring you a cup from the dining room when she gets in?”
“It’s 90 degrees out and I’m old, not crippled. I can get my own damn hot chocolate. You young people. You all think we’re either deaf, dumb, or blind.” Her head snapped back in my direction, her pointer finger wiggling in my face.
Oh, boy. Here we go. I shut her Robert Frost poetry collection and rested my hands gently in my lap.
“Let me tell you something, honey. When your boobs fall south and that pretty skin of yours looks like you’ve been tanning in a nuclear war zone, you’ll see what I mean about independence. When the looks are gone, all you’ve got left is your spirit, and ya gotta use it until you lose it. That and the occasional sponge bath from Francisco, but soon his ass will be just as wrinkly as mine. Beauty fades, but a strong will keeps ya young and springy.”
“Yes, Miss Velma.”
“So you tell that Casey to go help Mr. Waldorf find his teeth, because I won’t be needing her tonight.” She huffed and pulled the quilt tighter to her chest, just beneath her chin, returning her gaze to the window.
“Yes, Miss Velma. You have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I glanced at my watch and exited, racing to my car to get to class. I was beginning to regret not taking some of my courses on-line. Getting off the island a few times a week was nice, but after changing diapers, giving baths, and going on scavenger hunts for canes and denture glue all day, the commute was starting to wear on me. Just one more semester of this and I’d be home free, able to transfer out West next summer to get my Bachelor’s degree. All I was waiting on was that acceptance letter. I figured I’d let it make the decision to move for me. If I got in to the college I wanted, I’d know the time was right to pick up and leave. If not, I was resigned to stay here on the island. If that were the case, maybe leaving the state wasn’t meant to be after all.
All through class, my mind bounced between Jackson, Chris, the mountains of laundry awaiting me at home, and whatever came of Whitney’s weekend in Orlando. I didn’t respond to any texts or phone calls all day Sunday, instead sneaking away to the beach for the afternoon to drown my sorrows behind my Kindle. I’d apologize to Whitney later for being a neglectful friend. For now, I’d accepted what Jackson had assumed—that she was my best friend and would understand. Jackson hadn’t called or texted. I wondered how his eye was doing, and then my mind drifted to the way his lips tasted and how I’d latched onto him in his truck like a crazed, hormonal teenager, and I put the kibosh on that train of thought.
My apartment welcomed me that night with the smell of burnt noodles—last night’s epic dinner fail—and trash that desperately needed to be taken out. I dropped my bags in the hall and started shuffling through mail when a knock on the door startled me, causing me to hesitate at the doorknob. Please don’t let it be Chris. Please don’t let it be Chris.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Whitney called out, her voice muffled.
I released a sigh of relief and opened the door. “Hey, Whit. I’ve been meaning to call you, I just—”
“Nuh-uh,” she grumbled, pulling a plastic bag from her teeth. Her hands were full with two buckets and another set of bags. She squeezed past me and set everything down on the kitchen counter. “Don’t even try and talk your way out of this one. When you go on a road trip with Jackson Taylor and fall off the grid for two days, it’s your best friend’s duty to demand answers. Now what has been going on?”
Ah, the dreaded inquisition. The same one Jackson had been putting off since Saturday night.
“It’s a long story.”
“Spill.”
“I don’t know where to begin.” I tossed the mail onto the counter and peeled off my shoes. I was still in my peach pink scrubs and in need of a hot shower.
“Oh, I don’t know, how about you and Jackson sneaking out after some crazy-ass boxing match? Or how about why Chris Douchebaggery Williams called me on Saturday night? Shall I continue?”
“He called you, too?”
“Yes. Why he still has my number is beyond me.”
“A lot of things Chris did this weekend are beyond me.”
“So?” She waved her hands in the air, then tugged at her maid uniform t-shirt to untuck it from her pants.
“Oh, Whit. It’s a mess.” I hopped up on the counter. “There’s all this shit I didn’t know about Jackson’s dad—well, just all this shit I didn’t know about Jackson in general—and I guess that guy he fought at the hotel was running his mouth about his dad, then Jackson ran his mouth about the guy’s friends, who I happened to be dancing with, and they both just exploded and started beating the crap out of each other. Then Chris showed up at my place Saturday night, proceeded to let himself in—he still had his damn key!—and started a fight with Jackson, and the next thing I know, Jackson’s throwing punches again.”
“Holy crap. This has more drama than Mean Girls.” She pulled up a chair and sat, tearing open a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Keep going.”
“Well, Jackson busted Chris’s nose, took off, left me with Chris, Chris wanted to talk about...you know, everything, and Sunday I went MIA because all the Xanax in the world wouldn’t have tamed the anxiety attacks.”
“Oh girl, you need this more than I do.” She handed me the ice cream and the spoon, and I gratefully dug in. “Why did you leave with Jackson on Saturday night? And how’d you handle things with Chris?”
“I’m still trying to rationalize that one, Whit. All I know is after Jackson told me what had sparked the hotel fight, I wanted to be there for him. He was hell bent on driving home, and I couldn’t let him drive if he was angry and drinking...and I...”
“Yeah?”
“I made out with him.”
“What?” She flew to her feet and grabbed the ice cream back.
“I told you it was a mess! I don’t know what the hell has gotten into me.”
“I’ll tell you what has gotten into you,” she mumbled in between a scoop of ice cream. “The Jackson Taylor virus. That boy is like a bad rash. He spreads.” She waved the spoon around in the air then pointed it at me. “Now you’re infected. There’s no going back, sister.”
“Yeah, thanks, Whit.” I yanked the spoon from her hand. “What am I supposed to do?”
“First off, how was the kiss? Was he good? I know there was that one time, but ya know...”
I cringed. “Ridiculously good.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “I guess it was bound to happen again. You two have been at each other’s throats, flirting for years now. But you know how I feel about Jackson. He, Ruben, and Jeff are hell on wheels. They’re yummy alright, but there’s a price to pay for tasting that forbidden fruit.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. What about Ruben and Enrique? What happened after I left?” I pressed my lips together and worke
d to maintain indifference. Jackson mentioned how Ruben had wanted to drive in Whitney’s car to be near Kelly, and they seemed awfully cozy at the party Saturday night. I wasn’t sure I wanted to let on that I knew that information just yet, not if things turned out well for her and Ruben after I left the hotel.
“Nothing. He and Kelly were all over each other all weekend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, girl.”
“No need to be sorry.” She pouted. “I knew there’d be no getting through to him. I don’t know why I even bothered. I guess I just...”
“You really care about him, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well, give it some time. Maybe down the road he’ll grow up and realize what he’s missing out on.” I touched her shoulder and gave her a small smile.
“Nah. By then it’ll be too late. I won’t wait around for him. It’s okay, though. I’ll survive. Enrique and I actually had a great time, so we’ll see what happens.”
“Good.”
“Did Chris make you talk about...ya know.”
“Not really. But that was his excuse for showing up at my place. Said he needed closure and that he feels bad about not going to the funeral. I nixed that convo fast and sent him packin’.”
“Serves him right. Well, girl, if Jackson’s throwing punches at Chris on your account, he’s got it bad.” She stood and started sifting through the bags on the counter, pulling out all kinds of cleaning products and sponges. My eyes lit up at the sight.
“I think the kiss was just a lapse in sanity.”
“It was certainly not that.”
“He doesn’t...feel anything for me...not like that. We were just tired and…”
“If you really believe the words coming out of your mouth right now, you’re delusional. You’ve been playing cat and mouse forever, Em. Just...don’t let him get too close. Jackson might be fun in the boudoir, but his boots are gone before the sun comes up. I know you know, but...don’t expect anything from him.”
I chewed on my lip and studied her face as she opened two brand new packs of purple rubber gloves. “You and Jackson haven’t ever...have you?”
Whitney’s eyes bugged out of her head. “Oh, God no! You think that’d happen and I wouldn’t tell you?”
I shrugged. “Guess not.”
“Damn right, you guess not.” Her brows knitted together like she was offended. Thankfully, the offense was short lived. A grin spread over her lips and she handed me a pair of the gloves, motioning for me to jump down from the counter. “I think I have enough answers about the weekend to satisfy my curiosity for now, and judging by the look on your face, you’ve had enough talking about Jackson and Chris. I know you worked all day and just got home from class, but I say we blow off some steam. I had a feeling you had one hell of a weekend, so I brought more than ice cream to lift your spirits.” Taking my hands in hers, she wiggled on the rubber gloves then clapped her hands. “I brought the hotel’s very best all-purpose cleaner and brand new scrub brushes just for you. Let’s tackle the bathroom first. I’ll get the music and booze flowing.” She squealed and skipped over to the stereo to blast the Red Hot Chili Peppers, then filled us two shots. We clinked glasses and downed them, then scrubbed away the weekend’s events. No matter how much elbow grease I put into shining the bathroom floor, I couldn’t extinguish one thought.
What would I do when I saw Jackson at Pete’s on Friday?
Chapter 6
I didn’t have much time to worry about how to handle the awkwardness with Jackson Friday night. He showed up on my doorstep the next day around dinner time, bags of groceries in hand.
“Hey,” he said, eyeing my scrubs. “Whitney said you’re usually home by 5:00. No class on Tuesday nights, right? You said something about Mondays and Wednesdays, so...”
“Um, yeah, no class.” I wiped my hands on the dish towel I was holding, drinking him in. His eye was still in bad shape, but not nearly as swollen as Saturday night, and despite the cut on his lip and a nasty scrape on his cheek, he looked insanely good. A simple white t-shirt hung loose around his torso, and a pair of black jeans with holes at the knees sat snug on his waist, his favorite charcoal-colored boots on his feet. He must’ve been born in those boots. Every time I saw him in them, I’d noticed a new knick or scuff mark that hadn’t been there before.
“You gonna invite me in?” He lifted the bags in his hands with an uncharacteristically shy smile.
“Oh!” I snapped out of it and moved aside, holding the door open. “Sorry. Can I get you a beer or something? I didn’t expect to see you until Friday night.”
“Yeah, sounds good. I brought dinner. I’m going to cook...if you don’t have plans, I mean.”
“No, no plans.” I shut the door behind him and hurried to the kitchen counter, busying myself with the dishes. Think, Em, think. Every part of me was fully aware of his presence as he followed me into the kitchen: the motion of his arms as they lifted the grocery bags to the counter, his straight-from-the-beach scent, and the way he carefully avoided my elbows while he started to prepare the food next to me.
“Do you like fettuccine?”
I eyed the groceries he’d set on the counter.“No. I’ll eat the vegetables you have there, though. Thanks.”
He looked down at the noodles, disappointed. “Okay, where do you keep your cutting board?”
I pointed to the drawer to his left.
He grabbed the cutting board, turned to retrieve something from the fridge, and then his throat cleared behind me. The leather soles of his boots shuffled against the tile floor until the tips gently hit the backs of my heels. His hands found my waist, and his nose the base of my ear. An involuntary shiver rolled down my spine and I dropped the glass I was washing into the sink. It landed in the soapy water with a muffled clunk.
“We need to talk about what happened,” he said, his lips touching my earlobe.
I reached for the counter ledge and my shoulders tensed. “We do.”
His touch moved from the base of my ear to the back of my neck. He rubbed his nose up and then down, planting a light kiss just below my hairline. “Please don’t be angry with me about Saturday night. I’m sorry I lost my cool with Chris.”
“I’m not.” I slowly turned to face him, bringing my cheek to his lips. “How’s your eye feeling?” I reached out and touched it. He winced. “I’m sorry for the things he said to you. I know you were just watching out for me. He had no right to be here.”
“Did he leave after I left?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t let him stay, Jackson.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
We locked eyes.
“Okay, well, not entirely what I meant,” he clarified.
“Chris and I are done. There’s nothing going on there. I thought the way I spoke to him that night made that clear.”
“Look, it’s your business. I just know how those things go, that’s all. When you have that much history with someone and he shows up wanting to talk, it’s usually because he’s looking to repair something.”
I turned fully around to face him, my hands on his chest. There was an unsettling look in his eyes, anxiety mixed with anger mixed with...vulnerability. Seeing the combination made me even more unsure of what to say about our relationship. Were we still just friends, or had I decided at some point over the weekend that I was okay with just being another one of his hook-ups? I didn’t think he’d ever use me like that, given what we had gone through together. But the feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that the different girl every weekend was just Jackson’s way, and he wasn’t going to change.
The flipside to that thought was considering what he’d be to me. I didn’t want to be the one to hurt him, and most of all, I just wanted our relationship—whatever it was—to remain intact. I let out a soft laugh. No matter how many times I wanted to strangle the man or how many times we’d quarreled at Pete’s, there was no denying it.
We were friends.
Shifting his hands from my waist to the counter behind me, he slid them past my hips and leaned in. “So what am I to you, Emma? What are we doing?”
That distracting pull, that spark that I so often denied existed between us surfaced, and all I could think was, I need more time.
I slid to the right and gently nudged his arm aside to step away, moving to the other side of the kitchen counter. He turned around to face me, the small kitchen space bridging an awkward gap between us. “I don’t know, Jackson. I meant what I said Saturday night. I care about you.”
“You care about me.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t help me understand this,” he waved between the two of us, “or where we go from here.”
“All I’m saying is that I don’t know if we go anywhere from here. I’m not sure a kiss means anything changes between us.”
“It changes everything between us. Did the first time, whether you’ll admit it or not.”
“No, it didn’t. And it doesn’t have to.” I shrugged. “I mean, I still feel the same about us as I did before.”
He widened his stance and crossed his arms. “Which is how, exactly? You’re telling me you’re still not interested in me.”
I pressed my lips tight and dropped my gaze to my shoes. If I told him the truth, even though he already knew it, voicing it would launch us into uncharted, scary territory—something I wasn’t sure I wanted to face just yet. If I lied or skimped on details for the sake of avoiding my conflicted feelings, I’d only add to his confusion and my list of reasons to evade him—other things I wasn’t sure I wanted to do.
“We’re...friends,” I said, my voice cautious. “I never thought of it quite that way until this weekend. I’m not sure I want to risk losing something I just figured out I have.”
“Friends who are obviously attracted to one another.” He released his arms to his sides and took a careful step forward. “I know I didn’t imagine the way you kissed me in my truck. I might have initiated it, but you wanted it just as bad as I did. Just as bad as you wanted it the first time. You know I’m right, so don’t even try and bullshit me.” His earlier shyness disappeared at the mention of the kiss, his gaze now cool and confident. This was familiar for him, knowing when a woman wanted him. He took another step closer. “You begged me once before. Parted your legs for me and pulled my mouth to yours, remember?”