CHAPTER 15 DELILAH
DELILAH
There’s a pattern to Jackson’s on-air anxiety.
He spends the morning taking meticulous notes on the forecast, rubbing his eyes every so often beneath his glasses, nudging them up with his knuckles.
Rubbing his thumb over the bridge of his nose.
A flurry of anxious activity and then . .
. stillness. He grows more and more quiet as we approach our broadcast time until he eventually turns completely silent.
He sets up our shot on the small deck that loops around the back of the property, his movements jerky and agitated.
I chatter away, but it’s like he’s slipped beneath the surface, sinking down to a depth I can no longer reach.
Eventually, I stop trying, coordinating with Mark while Jackson gazes out at the view.
He looks like something from a conservation catalog, standing there at the edge of the deck.
Hands braced against the red-paint-flecked railing, his shoulders one sharp line.
Blond hair a smudge of gold against the dark forest that spills out beneath our feet, all the way to the wide expanse of the lake, stretching out, out, out to the horizon.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also incredibly sad.
I hate that Jackson doesn’t trust himself enough to do it right. That he’s stuck in his own head, likely caught in a loop.
That he doesn’t trust me enough to help.
Mark pulls me to the side, doing a half-assed job of pretending to fix my earpiece while Jackson does his best impression of a baroque statue six feet away from us.
I slap Mark’s hand away when it gets caught in my hair, pulling. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“I’m trying to have a discreet conversation with you, not that it matters much. Weather boy over there is in full meltdown mode.” He frowns. “And I thought you were a handful,” he mutters under his breath.
We turn in unison to look at Jackson, pacing now, right outside the double doors that lead back into the lobby of the hotel.
Both of his hands work a circuit through his hair, the crisp lines of his white button-down clinging to his biceps.
I asked him in the room if it was his Saturday shirt, but he ignored me completely, straightening the cuffs and smoothing down his tie.
Jackson stops on a dime when he notices us staring, looking like a bespectacled deer caught in headlights.
I give him a thumbs-up. He grimaces back.
“He’s going to be fine.”
“He better be,” Mark sighs.
There’s something in his tone that sounds like a warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His severe expression falters, eyes darting away to scan the view. He fixates on one of the oak trees closest to the hotel, its long branches reaching out over the roof.
“Nothing.”
“No, no. It was something. What’s going on?”
Mark sniffs, propping both of his hands on his hips. “I just want you to put your best foot forward, is all,” he says slowly and carefully. “You’re a talented broadcaster. I’d hate for someone to . . . find a reason to detract from that.”
My mouth hinges open, my jaw somewhere on the weathered deck we’re standing on.
“Mark,” I say faintly. “How long have we been working together?”
His mouth twitches down into a frown. That, at least, is familiar. “Three years, more or less.”
“And in those three years, you’ve barely remembered my birthday.”
He glances at me, offended. “I’ve gotten you cards.”
“You’ve written It’s your birthday on the back of 7-Eleven receipts.”
“Those receipts had coupons on them,” he mutters, defensive. “Thought you’d like a Slurpee. Sue me.”
“I do like Slurpees!”
“I know!” he shouts back, throwing his hands up. “That’s why I got you one for your birthday!”
On the other side of the deck, Jackson stops his pacing and stares. His blue eyes flick back and forth between Mark and me, growing sharp when he sees whatever my face is doing.
“Everything okay?” he calls.
So he can communicate. That’s good.
I manage a thin smile. “Everything is fine.”
He holds my gaze for another moment, assessing, then resumes his loop around the deck, slower this time. I notice he’s changed his path. Now he’s swinging back around the opposite way, keeping me in clear view.
Mark thrusts my microphone battery pack against my chest, then one of the aux cords. I fumble to grab them both before they drop, matching one of Mark’s scowls with my own.
“I didn’t realize you cared.”
He huffs. “Of course I do, Delilah.”
I think of all the times I’ve wiggled my way into costumes.
The absolutely ridiculous shots I’ve had to maintain.
One time, specifically, where Keith decided right before our broadcast that it would be better if I was standing in waist-deep harbor water, and I had to wade my way in.
I had smelled like old crab pots for days. Mark never said a word about any of it.
“You’ve had an interesting way of showing it,” I say, some of my frustration welling up and over.
“This sudden concern for my well-being would have been nice during that report on the monkeys at the Baltimore Zoo, or at the Preakness, or the literal hundreds of other times I’ve been forced to look like an idiot. ”
Mark stops fussing with his camera. “I thought Keith was just messing around.”
“Yeah, well. I seem to be the only person he bestows that particular honor upon.” I press two fingers between my eyebrows, then drop my hand. I don’t have time for this right now. “Thank you for your concern. But I can manage this broadcast just fine.”
Mark looks conflicted, but he doesn’t say anything else on the subject. He seems to understand that I might try to strangle him with an aux cord if he does.
“Delilah—” he starts.
All right, maybe not. “What?” I snap.
He’s staring at his camera in earnest now, turning the contrast dial up and then down again. “I have another question for you.”
I stare at him. “Which is?”
He clears his throat, then clears it again. “It’s about—it’s about Gianna.”
“Okay?”
He seems to war with himself down there in his hunched position, scratching roughly at the back of his head beneath the fabric of his beanie. Then he stands, plants his hands on his hips, and levels me with a look. “Is she seeing anyone?”
I blink, then blink again. Even if I had a road map for this conversation, I’d be surprised by every turn. “Like . . . romantically?”
Mark’s eyes drag skyward, his mouth moving soundlessly. “Yes,” he agrees reluctantly, clearly hating whatever it was inside of himself that insisted he should ask this question.
My frustration shifts to amusement at the absolute agony carved across his features. “I don’t think she is, but she’s always been a bit of a wild card in that department. Why do you ask?”
“That’s not your business.”
I huff, slingshotting right back to frustrated. “You asked me.”
“No one said you had to answer.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to grab Jackson. We’ll be at our marks in five minutes.”
I slip my battery pack in the front pocket of my jacket and intercept Jackson on his next turn around the deck.
I grab him by the wrist and start hauling him over to an alcove tucked around the bend of the porch.
It’s a small, private spot—likely used by catering teams in the summers—sheltered by the bare branches of the oak tree.
I push Jackson in first, then quickly follow. It’s a tight fit for the both of us, and I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
His alarmed, frantic eyes, bright and focused on me.
“Uh.” He tries to rearrange himself so he’s not pressing me against the wall, but all he does is nudge his knee between my thighs.
He abruptly stops moving, exhaling a harsh breath in an explosion of misty white.
He props his hand somewhere above me, his body stretched out in one long line. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Yeah. I got that. When you hauled me bodily across the porch.”
My mouth twitches. It’s not like he put up a fight. “Are you doing okay?”
He nods, then releases a delayed breath. He sounds like a balloon losing air. “I’m fine.”
He is not fine. He looks like he’s being held at knifepoint. This broadcast is going to be a disaster if he goes on like this. He’ll be made into a meme that’s circulated no less than twenty-six thousand times. The thing with the floating head is already making the rounds.
I grab his arms. “Why did you want to work in weather?” I ask.
On the other side of the deck, there’s a heavy thud as Mark sets up the tripod for the camera.
From this angle, we can just barely make out his legs and the tiny pieces of white tape I put on the deck to note our spots.
Jackson turns his head, but I grip his chin, turning his face back to mine.
“Jackson,” I say, firm. Direct. “Why did you want to work in weather?”
Some of the fog clears. “I don’t know, I guess I—”
I shake my head. “No. You know. What was it?”
“I guess I like how reliable it is,” he confesses quietly. “I like reading the data and figuring out what’s going to happen next.”
I grin. Of course that’s it. That’s so delightfully in line with every single thing I know about this man.
“And when the girls were young . . . did you ever talk to them about the weather?”
He nods. “All of the time. I couldn’t remember any good stories when they first came to live with me, and we didn’t have children’s books, so I used to read them weather reports to put them to sleep.
” He swallows hard and a shaky, trembling smile curls the corners of his mouth. “It worked every time.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I bet it did.” I squeeze his arms through the thick material of his coat. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go on the air in a handful of minutes. You’re going to stand next to me and look into that camera and pretend you’re talking to your sisters. Easy as that, okay?”
He doesn’t look so sure. “All right,” he agrees. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good. Practice.”
He blinks at me. “Practice?”