CHAPTER 33 JACKSON
JACKSON
It’s like the universe doesn’t want me to get back to Delilah.
First I have to deal with Aiden’s bumbling attempts at emotional connection in the booth, then my programmed weather reports, and then a hasty meeting with the corporate HR representative about the promotion Maggie dropped in my lap like a grenade.
Any hope of a late lunch after Delilah’s Canton report disappears with school pickup, and then I’m living my waking nightmare.
I’m supervising the girl’s ice-cream date with our mother. In my kitchen.
Adeline decided she wanted to tentatively establish contact, and I decided I could let go of my own hurt and frustration to give the girls what they needed. I told Camille she could have one supervised evening, and we’d go from there.
Letting her in the door had been difficult, though.
“You need to try this time,” I warned her. “You need to listen. You need to be here.”
Her kohl-lined eyes had widened in the yellow glow of the porch light. “Of course I’m going to be here. This was my idea, remember?”
Then she waltzed through my front door and greeted the girls like two long-lost sorority sisters instead of the daughters she willingly signed over custody for.
I spent the duration of her visit in the living room, pretending to read the Farmers’ Almanac, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation.
But I did hear Camille’s laugh when she spotted the whiteboard next to the fridge with all of our important dates listed out.
Her light and breezy He still does that, does he?
When I walked her out an hour later, I stopped her on the sidewalk in front of a cherry red Mercedes that looked like it was held together by optimism and sheer force of will. The bumper had duct tape, for god’s sake.
“Don’t mess this up with them,” I told her, nudging my glasses up my nose, ignoring the familiarity in the curve of her chin and the blue of her eyes. I spent so long looking for scraps of affection from this woman. I refuse to do it in adulthood. “This will be your last chance. Do you understand?”
“Always so serious.” She smiled and pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry so much, Jackson. You’ll get wrinkles.”
Then she slipped into her car and peeled away.
Now I’m here. Standing at the bottom of the narrow steps that lead up to Delilah’s row home, staring at the screen of my phone, wondering if I’ve made a mistake.
But the girls are back at Aiden’s for a pre-promised sleepover after their ice-cream date, and I felt the walls of our empty house pressing in on me.
I was in my car before I could think too much about it.
Hey, I finally type out. Are you busy?
“Stupid,” I grunt. I’m no better than a sixteen-year-old boy. Might as well start throwing pebbles at her window.
But her answer comes through almost immediately. A picture of her in another ridiculous, oversized novelty T-shirt, holding a carton of Chinese next to her face.
Very, she says.
I grin at my phone.
Want some company?
“Hey!” Someone shouts from across the street. “What are you doing over there?”
I turn. An old man in a matching velour jumpsuit is leaning over the railing of his front porch, brandishing a pair of . . . knitting needles. An ancient portable heater sputters at his feet, a lumpy, presumably hand-knit blanket tossed over the aluminum folding chair behind him.
“Yeah, you!” He gestures at me again with the needles. “It’s the middle of the night.”
I clear my throat. “I’m waiting for—”
“Get out of here!” he interrupts before I can finish. He lifts his weathered fist, scowling. “Go on! Shoo! This is a nice neighborhood, you vagrant!”
A porch light turns on at the house next to Delilah’s. Two doors down, a dog begins to bark. I’m not doing anything wrong, but my fight or flight kicks in. I debate making a run for it.
Behind me, a door opens.
“That’s enough, Mr. Ribaldi.” Delilah’s voice floats down. She sounds like she’s laughing. “He’s not a vagrant.”
Mr. Ribaldi frowns, suspicious. “Then why is he loitering?”
“That is an excellent question.” Delilah balances her hip against her doorframe, poking around in her carton of Chinese. “Jackson?” she calls. “Why are you loitering?”
Fuck, it’s good to see her. All the tension that’s steadily been winding tighter at the base of my spine abruptly vanishes at the sight of her in her too-big T-shirt, flannel pajama pants underneath.
“I don’t know,” I yell back. “I think I’m kind of an idiot. Can I come inside?”
A loud bark of laughter drifts down the steps, curling around me like ribbon.
“Yeah,” she laughs. “Come on up.”
I can see her T-shirt better when I get to the top of the steps.
It’s one of those oversized bathing suit cover-ups with the figure of a woman in a hot pink bikini stenciled on.
Delilah is airbrushed across the bottom in lime green.
She spreads her arms wide, kicking out one leg and pointing her toe.
She still has my socks, apparently.
“I got it at the Boardwalk in Ocean City. Do you like it?”
“I do.” I stop at the top step and gaze up at her in the halo of golden light that spills out from her house. “Hey,” I breathe.
Her smile is quietly delighted. “Hello.”
“Sorry for just showing up like this.”
“Don’t be. Come inside before you get cold. Or Mr. Ribaldi shoots you with his BB gun.”
“He has a BB gun?” I eat up the space between us with three easy steps, brushing past her. She shuts the door behind me, resting her back against it.
“He’s appointed himself as head of the neighborhood security detail. He takes it very seriously.”
“While I’m not thrilled with his methods, I’m glad you have someone looking out for you.”
Delilah’s smile broadens before she looks down at her takeout box, poking at it.
“In the very loosest of terms, yes. Mr. Ribaldi looks out for me.” Her voice sounds sad.
Wistful, almost. Like I’ve touched a barely healed wound.
She pushes off the door. “Come on. I was eating dinner and watching Jeopardy!”
Like most homes in this neighborhood, the layout is small but cozy.
Family room, dining room, kitchen, all stacked in a straight, narrow line.
I didn’t notice the last time I was here, but colorful artwork crowds the walls.
A combination of photographs and hand-painted canvases, including the patron saint Dolly Parton presiding over the dining room table where Chinese cartons are spread out.
The furniture is simple, but colorful and well loved.
A cozy-looking armchair sits next to an overstuffed bookshelf, a thick blanket tossed over one of the arms, a book still open face down in the seat.
There are two mugs of something left abandoned.
A plate with half a muffin and a scattering of crumbs.
Delilah in every single detail.
“Expecting company?” I ask.
Delilah blinks up at me from where she was rummaging around in one of the bags. “No.” She emerges with a fortune cookie, shuffling over to the back of the couch and throwing herself over it. She lands with a huff, her hair wild around her shoulders. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Is it because I ordered enough Chinese for a family of six?”
“No.”
“It’s okay. The restaurant gave me four forks.
When the DoorDash guy came, he was looking over my shoulder for the party I was having.
” She pops open the cookie wrapper and grins at me.
“Party of one. I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I just got a little of everything.
I’ll eat the leftovers during the week.”
I slip off my jacket and toss it over the back of a velvet green armchair that I’d bet my next paycheck was rescued from Facebook Marketplace.
“Oh!” Delilah leverages herself up, leaning over the back of the couch.
She reaches for the bag on the dining-room table, knocking over one of the chairs.
I grab the back of her thigh to keep her from falling and she grabs one of the cookies with a small cry of victory.
She tosses it at me. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thank you.” I catch the cookie. “Though I don’t think I’ll ever understand Maggie’s decision-making.”
Delilah’s face softens. “You deserve that promotion, Jackson. You work hard.”
“Debatable,” I mumble. I rip open the plastic and crack the cookie. I read the fortune and snort.
“What does it say?”
I look at the tiny scrap of paper. “A light heart carries you through the hardest of times.”
“That’s better than mine. Mine said, A soft voice may be awfully persuasive.”
I grin. “Should I start talking in a whisper?”
She laughs. “Depends. What are you trying to persuade me to do?”
“I have a list.”
“You and your lists.” She tosses the rest of the cookie into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Where are the girls tonight?”
I drag my hand through my hair. “Back at Aiden and Lucie’s. I think the initial excitement of my early return wore off. There was some show they wanted to watch together, and the promise of peppermint hot chocolate.”
Delilah smiles. “It’s nice they have that together.”
I think of the way the girls ran upstairs when I dropped them off. The happy chatter. Aiden’s beleaguered sigh from the living room.
I know more about Olivia Rodrigo’s discography than I ever wanted to know, Jackson.
“Yeah, it’s good.” I let myself collapse onto the couch and turn my face toward her.
I’ve been missing this. Seeing Delilah at the end of the day.
Having someone to talk to and share with.
Unpacking all the things twisting me into knots and having someone carefully work their fingers through the strands, smoothing and settling until I’m calm again.
We only spent one week in the mountains, but it was enough to have me wanting her in all the empty spaces around me.
“I’m sorry about our lunch.”
Her smile dims and she readjusts her legs, tucking them close to her chest. “It’s fine, Jackson.”