The Usual Family Mayhem

Chapter Twenty-Two

I dressed up for dinner. By that I mean I didn’t wear lounge pants, though I was tempted. This time of night called for napping on the couch, bad television, and a gooey dessert. I went with a T-shirt dress. It literally looked and fit like an overly long tee. It matched the bargain white sneakers I’d picked because heels were an unnecessary burden placed on women by the fashion industry.

My life got much easier and less painful once I came up with that justification for dumping uncomfortable shoes.

Jackson, of course, beat me at this adult game, too. He outdressed me. He’d taken off his navy suit jacket and rested it on one of the dining room chairs. A chair at the table with dishes set and a candle burning.

This guy knew how to woo. Not that he was wooing me, but I could see from this setup that he’d perfected his dinner with the ladies game. Not bad for a man who worked twenty hours a day.

He set a glass of white wine on the kitchen island in front of me and turned back to the stove. From this vantage point I saw the way his white dress shirt tugged across his shoulders as he fiddled with a pan. He moved around, flipping this and adding that, showing off his cooking skills and a few other attributes.

That running nonsense worked for him.

Both the promise of food and the man lured me in. Speaking of dinner . . . The feast smelled like pan-fried chicken was the star. A salad peeked out of a bowl on the counter. I approved of the combo.

We’d known each other forever but being here, at his house like this, unsettled me. Not in an uncomfortable way. More like diving into the unknown. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Every move I made came off as fumbling and awkward. The chance of me tripping or falling or doing something else equally ego-deflating increased with each second.

This was Jackson. The guy I grew up around. The one who rolled his eyes at me and viewed me as a natural disaster making landfall on his turf. Yet, I wanted to be here. That said something about my personality. I would unpack and assess that later, back in DC. Away from his pull.

A thousand conversation starters flipped through a Rolodex in my brain. Without thinking it through I landed on the one sure to mess up the peaceful calm of the kitchen. “I have a question for you.”

Jackson smiled at me over his shoulder. “Shoot.”

Was the dimple new? The cute butt, impressive shoulders, and adorable face already kicked my ass. I didn’t need new reasons to conjure up an image of him in my muddled mind.

I took a fortifying gulp of wine. “Why does your dad think I’m a nuisance?”

Jackson laughed. “Well, as long as it’s an easy question.”

“I’m serious.”

The conversation hadn’t started that way. I’d asked to break the silence before it had the chance to turn uncomfortable. The quieter the room, the more likely I’d rush in and say the wrong thing. But this suddenly mattered. I wanted to know what I’d done to make Harlan put on a fake smile to hide a snarl every time he saw me.

Jackson switched off the burner and moved the pan off the residual heat. When he turned, the starkness of his expression said I wasn’t going to like his answer.

“He’s not an easy man. He doesn’t always come off as genuine,”

Jackson said.

That was not a Quaid family secret. “No kidding.”

“If it’s any consolation, he’s annoyed with me right now, too.”

I had experience with a shockingly bad father, so I knew how devastating that could be. But Harlan wasn’t a killer. He hadn’t abandoned Jackson.

“He’s not warm. He doesn’t like many people, though he pretends to. Most of what he says and does is aimed at getting everyone to do what he wants. The political world, with all its compromises and competitiveness, suits him. Father-son bonding? Not so much.”

Jackson acted like he’d delivered another news flash.

“Dad has these goals for me. He doesn’t care if I share the same goals. Protecting the family name is more important to him. His public persona.”

Jackson walked over to the table and scooped up the plates. A few seconds later, he brought them back into the kitchen and began filling each with food. “As an only child all the pressure falls on me to carry the legacy he thinks he’s handed down.”

That was a lot. “Wow.”

“He uses Mom’s memory as emotional blackmail but insists he doesn’t. Do it for her. She would have been so proud.”

Jackson looked like he wanted to say more, but he stopped.

All of that fit with the bullshit Harlan tried to sell me about how he’d been such a considerate and loving husband. “He told me you had a solid reputation and a bunch of opportunities, and I was going to ruin all of it.”

Jackson fumbled the plate. It tipped in his hand, but he straightened it before major food wreckage occurred. “What? When did he say that?”

“I’m paraphrasing, but he dropped a few hints at the restaurant.”

We divided the salad and sat there as if we’d done this sort of domestic thing forever. Like this was a regular occurrence. Wrong. We’d eaten together about a billion times over the years, but the two of us, sitting alone in his condo by candlelight, never happened before. I wasn’t clear why it was happening now. Jackson had extended the surprise dinner invitation to throw Harlan off . . . or so I thought.

The signals coming from Jackson since I’d landed in North Carolina made my mind race and all my good intentions flee. What did he want? Did all of this mean anything? His throwaway lines. Those comments he made that crossed into a gray area. Flirting? Placating? Was he being supportive or setting me up for a fall?

So many questions. So much fear in digging around for clarification. Right now, our relationship hovered in the safe and sarcastic, joke-around, we-both-love-the-same-people sphere. If I said the wrong thing, asked the wrong question, I could tip my hand and expose the lifelong crush I tried to destroy, bury, and ignore on a daily basis. No one could withstand that much embarrassment.

Stay focused. That was the key. “So, back to the reputation thing. What opportunity does he expect you to capitalize on?”

“Right.”

Jackson hesitated for a few tense seconds. “Dad wants me to run for office.”

If he’d said his dad wanted him to join the circus I would have had the same, stunned reaction. “Politics? You?”

“Dad’s proposal came with a PowerPoint presentation. Be happy he didn’t whip that out at the restaurant and show you all of his hard work.”

“That’s not weird at all.”

“His plan is for local office and eventually the governorship.”

Jackson performed a wildly out-of-place shrug. “That was the point of my lunch at the tavern. Dad set it up. I was meeting with connected types who would help run and finance a campaign if they thought I was worthy of their investment.”

Jackson wasn’t phony. If anything, sometimes he was a bit too honest for comfort. He wasn’t the put on a fake smile type either. I tried to imagine him attending potlucks and kissing babies and . . . nope, couldn’t see it. I’d never heard him talk about politics or raising money, which made the whole idea even stranger.

“Is this your secret dream?”

“No.”

Jackson didn’t yell but came close.