“Let’s have dinner tomorrow night.” She sounds happy, ridiculously happy. I love it.
I grin into the receiver. “Definitely.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Yes. Talk soon!”
She signs off with the smooch of an air kiss, and the line goes dead.
When I get back to the bedroom, Jackson is still sleeping. He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and young. All lines of worry are erased and his features are smooth, completely at ease. This image is almost enough to chase away the one that’s been in my head all night. Almost. I barely slept, and even when I did, his haunted eyes showed up in my dreams. His emotion was so...deep. Like I’ve only just scratched the surface with him.
He yawns and stretches, opening his eyes. They’re sleepy, but back to sweet colors of blue and green. I smile. This is the Jackson I know.
He leans up and kisses me, then groans and shields his eyes from the overhead light. “I’ve got an awful headache.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Me too.” I’ll be downing water and nursing a queasy stomach all day.
He laughs dryly. “Aldo was a nice guy, but I’m questioning his intentions this morning.”
“We should pick up your car while it’s still early,” I say, even though leaving the house is the last thing I want to do. “They had that twenty-four-hour tow sign.”
He dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have my assistant go.”
I stare at him. “You have an assistant?”
“Yeah,” he says like it’s a perfectly normal thing to have.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “For errands and stuff. And business on my father’s side.”
“Why?” I repeat, my brain still not processing.
He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal.”
I don’t know many people who have had “assistants.” Actually I don’t know anyone who’s ever had an assistant, not the kind you can call on a Sunday to go fetch the car you were too drunk to drive home last night.
“What’s the name? Of your assistant?”
“His name is Robert. Maybe you can meet him sometime.”
After a few bottles of water and aspirin we get out of bed and shower. I feel better—sluggish, but better.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Jackson asks, watching me as I brush through my hair.
“Why don’t I make us breakfast?” I offer, feeling inspired.
He tilts his head to the side. “Can you cook?”
“Kind of.” It’s possible that my cooking skills are as sorry as Taylor’s. But I don’t tell him that, of course. I want to try.
“What can you make?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I can make eggs, toast—all kinds of things.”
He looks skeptical but agrees. “I do have some work to do this morning. Just don’t burn the kitchen down,” he calls over his shoulder, joking, but I’m not sure he should be.
* * *
I’m aware of how ridiculous I must look—bopping around Jackson’s sleek kitchen in a blue bikini, stirring pancake batter and singing to Justin Bieber. But this morning I don’t care. Today I feel like being ridiculous and happy.
My cell phone rings. My dad’s calling. I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and ear so it won’t drop while I mix the batter and answer with a hello.
He yells into the receiver. “What’s with all the noise, cook? Geez!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m making breakfast.”
“What in the world for?” He sounds like he’s frowning.
“For Taylor,” I lie.
He laughs. “Are you tryin’ to kill her?”
“Very funny, Dad.” I shake my head. “Is there a reason you’re calling?”
The prescription pill bottle flits through my memory. I should ask him, but this doesn’t feel right. And I want it to be right when I ask him. He hides things so easily. And not talking to him in person will only make it easier for him to hide.
I bite my lip. I can tell myself I’m waiting for the right time, but I’ve got a bad feeling that running is what I’m really doing. Avoiding the subject, because I’m worried it will be worse than I’m expecting. I’ve always been awful with confronting my feelings.
“Just wanted to let you know Billy and I are goin’ fishin’ tomorrow.”
The image of him and Billy floating in the middle of a lake somewhere chases away the feeling in my gut. It’s sweet. “That’s cool. I’m sure we can manage without you for the day.”
“Alright. I guess I’ll leave ya to it.”
“Make sure you check in tomorrow,” I say, even though I know he won’t. Like a defiant six-year-old, he’s never been much for taking orders.
“Sure thing. Don’t burn the house down!”
He chuckles then clicks off the line, and I scowl. What’s with all the warnings? I’m not that incapable in the kitchen. Am I?
I let my mind drift while I cook. I want to remember the medication I found in his medicine cabinet. Getting information out of him is like pulling teeth. It would be much easier to do a little research on my own. I just can’t seem to find it, like the information isn’t in my head anymore. I’m going to have to ask him. That’s all there is to it.
The first pancake is undercooked. And I burn the second one while I’m trying to make coffee. The next few have similar fates. I hope Jackson likes me for me and not for my cooking skills, which apparently really are nonexistent.
“What’s going on here?”
I spin around and Jackson is in the doorway, turning down the iPod dock. He looks amused.
“I think the real question here is...why is a twenty-three-year-old man, such as yourself, listening to Justin Bieber?”
He leans against the frame and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I flip the last pancake from the pan. “Oh, I think you do. Because it was on your iPod.” I hold the pancake-batter-covered spoon to my mouth and sing along as I spin in circles.
He crosses the room in four big steps and lunges for me. I squeal as his hands cover mine, and he wrestles the spoon from my grip. He directs it toward my face, batter dripping from the end. I scream and run for the other side of the breakfast bar. He chases me, and it’s not long before he catches me. I’m laughing. He’s laughing. And I feel like a little kid again. The wooden spoon drops to the ground with a thump at our feet.
He lifts me by the waist, carrying me under his arm, back to the stove. I’m still giggling when he sets me down and pushes me back to the counter. Then his hands tangle in my hair and he’s kissing me. And my body starts to relax, naturally leaning into him.
I squeeze the muscles of his back and feel them flex beneath my touch. His hands leave my hair and travel down my body. Across my ribs, past my waist and to my hips. He squeezes with his hands, tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth at the same time.
I’m breathless when he pulls away and a little confused, because my head is still spinning. He laughs softly and reaches around me to turn the stove off.
“You’ve got batter here.” He brushes his fingertips across my cheek then my forearm. “And here.”
I flush.
“And you’re biting your lip,” he murmurs. I release it automatically. He leans in and kisses me, our tongues mingling for a second before he pulls away. He takes a step back and glances around, laughing when he sees the mess I’ve made. “Did a bomb explode in here?”
“Yeah, actually...I think one did.” I look around in pseudo shock. “Is this something they teach you in the military—observational skills?”
He grins and shakes his head. “I’m hungry. Let’s put these pancakes to the test.”
* * *
I sip my coffee and watch him. He takes another bite and chews robotically. That’s how I know they’re bad. But he’s eating them. He’s eating my pancakes that I burned. So I guess he does like me.
“How are they?” I ask, stifling my laughter.
The tendons of his neck pop out when he swallows, and I can tell he’s trying hard not to make a face. “They’re...good.”
I roll my eyes. “How are they really?”
He laughs. “I had better food while I was in the army, and some days we had canned peas.”
I clutch my hand over my heart. “Ouch!”
He leans over and kisses my forehead. “You made them though, so I love them.”
I made them, so he loves them. I say it a couple of times in my head, drawing absurd connections. If he loves the things I make, does that mean he loves me? It’s a long shot, but I’ll take it.
Jackson snaps me back to attention when he asks about my plans for the upcoming week. We decide to reserve Thursday night for dinner with his parents.
Thinking about it makes me want to throw up. And not just because I’m hungover. It’s not every day that you share dinner with millionaires...billionaires? Who knows what they are. They’re rich enough for it to matter.
* * *
“What’s eating you?” Jackson asks later.
I swim mindless circles around him in the pool. “I don’t think your parents are going to like me.” I dunk my head underwater in a halfhearted attempt to drown my thoughts. It doesn’t work.
“Why wouldn’t they like you? They’ve met you before.”
“Let’s see.” I drum my fingers on my chin. “Because I can’t cook, I’m messy, socially awkward—I’ve got a weird dad? I don’t know! The list is endless and I’m just having trouble channeling it right now.”
He laughs. “They’re going to love you.”
Because you love me?
Oh, what I would do to hear those words. I’ve really got to get a grip on myself. These feelings are making me act like a lunatic. Maybe I just need to say how I feel instead of spending all my time speculating about what he’s feeling. Would it be that awful to get all of this off my chest? It would be liberating. Would it suck that bad if I said it and he didn’t say it back? Actually...that would suck pretty bad.
He grabs me by the hips, putting a stop to my nervous treading. His gaze locks on mine and holds it. “Tell me what’s going on behind those eyes.” The way he’s looking at me is almost enough to make me crack.
That I love you is what I want to say. But what I say instead is, “That I’m going to get a sunburn.”
* * *
The next night over dry martinis at dinner, Taylor fills me in on all the details of the proposal. By the time she’s finished I feel like I was present for the entire thing. They had dinner in the middle of Landry Park. She said violins played, and he got down on one knee.
For a few minutes we obsess over how perfect her wedding is going to be then she changes the subject. “How are things with Jackson?”
I sigh. “We’re having dinner with his parents on Thursday.”
“Yikes. Aren’t they—”
I know her words before they come. “Rich, yes.”
She laughs. “It sounds like y’all are getting serious.”
I try to play it down. “I’ve met them before.”
“Not since you became his girlfriend.” She isn’t helping.
“You aren’t making me feel any better.”
“You’ll be fine.” She leans back in her chair and smiles. “You look really happy.”
“That’s because I am really happy.”
I’m happy beyond reason. The happiest I can ever remember being, and it’s scary. It’s scary because it can all be taken away. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket and all that, but whatever.
My mind drifts to something my dad said when Manny and I officially ended things. He told me, “If you were happy before he came into your life, you can be happy when he’s gone.” It all made sense then. When it was Manny we were talking about. But when I think about that statement pertaining to Jackson, it feels all wrong.
Because now that I’ve had him, I know that my life could never be the same again. The happiness I have now is in an entirely different spectrum than my happiness before. And it makes my old life look pathetic.
* * *
I meet Jessica for dinner on Wednesday night. I’m leaving the restaurant when I see him. Stewart. And he’s all alone. There’s an old man walking his dog down the street, but his back is to us and he’s headed in the other direction. He’s standing beside my car, puffing on a cigarette. I consider turning and going back inside, but he sees me before I get the chance.
He flicks the cigarette to the ground and a smug smile crosses his lips. “Hello, Charlie,” he greets as I near, his voice cool. Unemotional.
I cross my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?”
He grabs my elbow and pulls me against him with force. The sudden jerk takes me by surprise, and I’m against his chest before I can move. “I just thought I would pay you a visit,” he says through clenched teeth.
He reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I squirm in an attempt to slip from his grasp. He barely wavers with my attempts, and as my attempts to get away from him grow stronger so does my fear. Because he isn’t letting me go.
I shove against him hard. “Let me go.”
His grip tightens. “Stop that, you little bitch!”
My mouth snaps shut. His tone is cold and threatening. I start to panic.
He presses his mouth against my ear, and his rancid breath spills down my neck. “You don’t think I don’t know the real reason I got fired?” I open my mouth to say something, but he shakes me roughly. “Shut up!”
Tears blur my vision. I don’t want them to be there, because I don’t want him to know how scared I am. But they are.
A twisted expression crosses his face. “Where’s your daddy now?” He runs his tongue across my throat, licking from the notch of my sternum to the line of my jaw. My stomach heaves.
“You’re sick!” I lift my foot to stomp on his, but he’s got me pinned against the car before I even begin my descent.
He shakes me again, harder this time. “Shut the fuck up. I’m going—”
“Hey! Stop! What’s going on here?” My entire body lights up with relief when I hear the voice. I jerk my head around to see a couple. They’re standing three or so feet from us, completely alarmed.
Stewart crushes his lips to mine, forced and cold. Then he pushes me with all his strength, and my back crashes into the door of my car. Pain vibrates through my back as the blow resonates, and I crumble to the ground. He disappears into the night without looking back.
The woman rushes to me and helps me to my feet. She’s talking to me, but I’m having trouble making out her words. I take deeps breaths and force myself to concentrate. She’s offering to call the police and an ambulance. I shake my head and say anything I can to put her mind at ease. I think I even smile at her. I know I’m scared and shaken—not in my right mind. But there’s only one person I want to see. I thank the couple. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I get into my car and drive across town.
* * *
I’m trying to keep my steps calm, but by the time I make it to Melvin I’m running. I head straight for the elevator and begin pressing the up button repeatedly. I do it until the doors slide open and I stumble inside. I take a big breath when the doors shut behind me, but I still don’t feel safe. The elevator doors open again, and I rush into Jackson’s foyer.
He emerges from his study and stares at me like he’s confused. “Charlie? What’s going on?”
I run the rest of the way and launch myself into his arms
. I cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping me on the ground and bury my nose in the fabric of his soft shirt. It smells like him. It makes me feel safe. My throat gets tight as a sob threatens to push its way out. I try to swallow it back but fail.
I cry pathetically, sobbing and gasping for air against his chest. One arm wraps around my waist, and he places the other on the back of my head. Then he pulls me closer until I’m enveloped by his strength. It’s exactly what I need—to be held and protected. And to cry.
We stand there for a long time. My legs get weak, but my skin relaxes as the crawling sensation of Stewart’s touch is chased away by Jackson’s soothing one.
I pull in a deep, ragged breath and let my tears rest. “I need to lie down.” As the adrenaline wears off, I start to feel the pain. In my back and in my head.
He inches back and stares into my eyes with a concerned expression. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“Yes.” I rub my temples with my fingers. “I just need some water and some Advil.”
“Okay.” He sounds reluctant. “Go lie down. I’ll be up in a minute.”
I trudge up the stairs with weak, shaking knees. In his closet I shed my clothes and slide one of his T-shirts over my head. Once I’m curled into a tight ball beneath the warm duvet, I feel better. I feel safer.
The bed dips when Jackson joins me. He places two pills in my hand and hands me a glass of water. I put them in my mouth and take a drink of water. Then I set the glass on the nightstand.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Why are you so upset?”
“I saw Stewart tonight.”
He stills, and every muscle in his body gets rigid. “Where?”
“On Mason Street. He was standing next to my car when I left the restaurant.” Talking about it makes my stomach churn.
“Why was he there?” His voice is quiet, too quiet.
I close my eyes and try to remember his exact words. All of the details are blurring together now. “He knows I’m the reason he got fired.” My voice wavers, and for a couple of seconds I’m scared I may cry again. I stammer on. “And he grabbed me and shoved me...touched me.” I shiver and pull the duvet tighter to my chest. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I can’t.”
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