CHAPTER 9 DELILAH #2
“Yeah, you’re right. I would never.” Another easy grin lights him up, transforming his face. All those severe lines, melting into something warmer. Is this how everyone else gets to see him? Does he save all his hard edges for me? “C’mon, Delilah. Tell me the truth. I can handle it.”
“What do you want to know?” I laugh.
“Do I have a face for TV?” His half smile tumbles into a full one. “The first time we met, what did you think of me?”
“I think the first time I saw you, you were climbing out from the trunk of your car.”
Pink touches the base of his throat. “That’s because you always park too close to my car door. Sometimes I can’t open it.”
“Sure.”
He mutters something under his breath. “All right, fine. How about later, then? At the start of this whole thing. What did you think?”
I remember his blue checkered shirt. The press of his body against mine. Too-sweet coffee and no air in my lungs. “I thought, Where did this man come from and why is he on top of me in this hallway?”
“When you found out you had to work with me,” he clarifies with a huff.
“In Keith’s office. Or at the café, I don’t know.
” He scratches roughly at the back of his head, some of the longer strands of his blond hair sticking up at odd angles.
My fingers itch with the insane urge to smooth them back down.
I press my palms to my thighs and clear my throat, feeling flustered. This news van has never felt so small.
“Never mind,” he says gruffly, his eyes intent on the road. He digs his knuckle into his cheek, jostling his glasses and then straightening them again. “I didn’t mean—”
“When I saw you sitting at the counter at the café,” I interrupt, “I thought it was a shame you’re so handsome because you have the personality of a wet piece of cardboard.”
There. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Jackson takes several seconds to process. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “You think I’m handsome?”
I snort. “I think you’re focused on the wrong part of that statement.”
“I don’t think so.” He grins, so sudden and uncharacteristic that it takes me several seconds to process. “I thought your smile was weird,” he offers.
“What?”
“Your smile,” he says again. “I thought it was odd.”
“In what way?” I ask, offended.
“You’re always smiling,” he answers. “Even when you don’t want to be.” His fingertips tap their way across the top of the steering wheel. “It’s weird,” he adds as an afterthought, that little line appearing between his eyebrows again. Thoughtful.
“I don’t like this game anymore.” I burrow back down into his jacket. “I say you’re handsome, and I get Your smile is weird.”
“Would you rather I lie?”
“No. I never want you to lie to me.” Maybe that’s the best part about working with Jackson. He’ll never tell me something untrue. He won’t tell me one thing, but mean another. I’ll always get the truth.
Still. He could use a little finesse.
“What’s wrong with being happy?” I begrudgingly ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Not if you actually feel it.”
I draw a tiny snowflake in the condensation on the bottom-right corner of the window, my eyes suddenly tight. “I feel it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Usually. Most of the time. When it matters, I guess.
“Hmm,” Jackson offers, and something about the short, knowing sound has frustration pulling tight across my shoulders. I sit up straighter, his jacket slipping down to pool in my lap.
“Well, I’m certainly not feeling it right now,” I snap.
Jackson rolls his lips against a grin and my stare turns narrow-eyed. I imagine the satisfaction of a spitball, right to his temple. A crumpled up Post-it note to the middle of his forehead.
“You’re infuriating, do you know that?”
“I’ve been told a time or two.” He hits the blinker, shifting over lanes while checking the mirrors. “Do you want to know another thing? Something I thought when I saw your broadcast outside of the aquarium?”
I didn’t realize he’s been watching my broadcasts. I pick at a stray piece of thread poking out at the bottom of his jacket, twisting it around and around until it snaps. Curiosity is a terrible thing.
“What?”
“I was . . . irritated . . . by the turtle costume.” The blush on his neck creeps up, along the line of his throat. “So do with that what you will.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Yes,” he sighs. “You do.”
The realization is a slow-moving thing, slowly bouncing from synapse to synapse until the connection is a tenuous thread.
“Jackson,” I gasp. “Were you attracted to the turtle suit?”
He shifts, uncomfortable. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“Was it the shell?” I ask with a wobbling voice. There’s a laugh caught in the middle of my chest that I’m frankly afraid to let out. “Or was it the finned hands that did it for you?”
“I think it was your enthusiasm, actually, and your ability to make everything look easy,” he answers lightly, smacking the turn signal off. That shuts me up. My laughter sputters and dies, that tight feeling spreading from behind my eyes to the bridge of my nose.
“Oh,” I say. “I see.”
Jackson grunts in vague agreement, then merges over again. I glance out the window at the trees speeding past, my eyes tracking the billboards. One in particular catches my attention, and I make a split-second decision.
“Take the next exit,” I tell Jackson.
“What? Why?”
“Because I want to see something.”
He takes the ramp without further explanation. The news van slows considerably as we rumble around a sharp turn.
“Delilah?” he asks.
I need to get out of this van. I can’t be this close to him—wrapped in a jacket that smells like his coffee and cologne—when he’s being sincere.
Plus, my stomach has been grumbling for the past hour, and the peach rings aren’t doing it for me anymore.
“Time for a little spontaneity,” I say. Up the road there’s a large rotating sign creaking above a parking lot proudly boasting brEAKFAST ALL DAY. Except ALL DAY is spelled with two upside-down sevens, and the A is another color entirely. Below the sign, handwritten in spray paint, is:
ASK US ABOUT OUR FAMOUS HOT TURKEY SANDWICHES
“Oh no,” Jackson says. “I have no desire for food poisoning, thanks.”
“You said you wanted to try different things, right? Disrupt your routine?” I gesture out the window with wide eyes.
“I didn’t say I wanted to die in Appalachia from salmonella.”
“Hot turkey sandwiches,” I emphasize. “Presumably, it’s cooked through. You’ll be fine.” I wiggle happily in my seat. I hope they have French fries. And milkshakes. “It’s a sign.”
Jackson ducks his head and peers out the windshield. “I’m pretty sure that’s a piece of plywood, Delilah.”
The van slows to a creep as Jackson reluctantly enters the parking lot. He picks a spot near the back, though there’s not exactly a shortage of choice. There are only two other cars in the lot. He cuts the ignition, but otherwise remains motionless in the front seat.
“Great, let’s go.” I unclick my seat belt, then reach over and do the same to his. I push my arms through the sleeves of his jacket and wedge open the passenger door. I hop out without waiting for him. “Turkey sandwiches await!”
For a second, I don’t think he’ll follow. Then I hear a car door slam and boots against the pavement.
Somewhere behind me, Jackson sighs, weary. “This wasn’t in the timetable.”
I smile into the collar of my stolen coat.