CHAPTER 40 JACKSON
JACKSON
The turtle suit is trying to kill me.
It’s at least two sizes too small and there’s no air flow. I’m roasting alive under the bright lights of the studio with Delilah’s remote in the palm of my hand. The decision to wear the turtle suit was a last-minute one and I’m sort of regretting it now, but here we are.
Standing in front of a weather map with a turtle shell on my back, staring into the fathomless depths of Mark’s camera while Keith paces the length of the studio like a wild animal.
He can’t interrupt me when I’m live on the air without looking like an ass, so all I need to do is stay live on the air.
I’ve had better ideas, but I’ve also certainly had worse.
All I care about is that Delilah gets the time she needs to talk to Ava.
Easy enough.
Or it would be, if I’d had any sort of script when I stepped onto this set. Instead, I’ve been following every errant thought that crosses my mind, including the history of ancient scientists. For once I’m not trying to fight the weather rambles. I’m leaning in.
“Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit was, uh—” Next to the camera, Keith gestures wildly as he attempts to force me off, his face beet red and fuming.
I covertly flick him the middle finger. Delilah did say the camera hits from the waist up, right?
Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now. “Fahrenheit was a German scientist. Born in 1686. And while most of the world adopted the Celsius system in the mid-twentieth century—”
“Jackson,” Simone interrupts from the news desk, her chin in her hand and a laugh in her voice. “Do you think you could tell us what to expect with this afternoon’s rain showers, and not about old German scientists?”
I’m grateful for the redirect.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Simone.” I squint at the reference screen to the right of the camera, nudging my glasses up my nose.
The strap for the turtle shell digs into my neck.
This is a sensory nightmare. “Looks like there’s about a thirty percent chance of showers.
That means there’s a thirty percent statistical probability that at least 0.
01 inches of rain will fall at any given point within the forecast area during the specified time period.
It’s not about how much of the area will get rain, but rather the likelihood of rain at that specific location.
That’s, uh, that’s a common misconception about forecasts. ”
Keith shifts his body so he’s standing fully in front of the screen I’m supposed to be reading from, blocking it.
We make eye contact. I don’t look away. When we first started this thing, Delilah told me to pretend I’m talking to my sisters.
But I’m not thinking about Penelope and Adeline right now.
I’m thinking about Delilah, and her doughnut sled and her pale pink car with the dinged-up bumper.
I’m thinking of the way she looks curled in my sheets and the way her breath hitches when she’s excited.
The microphone in her hand. That overflowing box of things she couldn’t fit in her trunk.
“It’s no secret that I’m not the one who is supposed to be reporting the weather right now.” I drag my attention away from Keith and look into the camera. “Delilah should be here.”
The set is almost eerily silent. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears. The heavy whomp whomp whomp of my heart.
“It also shouldn’t surprise you that I haven’t gotten much better at this over the last couple weeks. I think I’m always going to be a bit of a mess when it comes to broadcasting.” I lift my arms and drop them. “But I wanted to try. For Delilah. Because she always tries, even when it’s hard.”
Behind the camera, a door quietly eases open and shut. Delilah stands at the very edge of the too-bright light that spills from the television set, blinking at me in shock. I see her mouth move, but I can’t hear what she says.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” I tell the camera.
I tell her, watching as her face softens.
“But I think underestimating Delilah Stewart might be the worst of them. But I can promise you, I won’t make that mistake again.
” She twists her hands together and I forget for a second that I’m live on the air.
Until Simone clears her throat from the other side of the stage, and I forcibly drag my attention back to the camera.
“We don’t deserve her, Baltimore, but we’re going to do our best. Okay?
” I clap my hands together. “Okay. Here we go. Partly sunny skies. Maybe. I don’t know, guys. Read the Farmers’ Almanac.”
I toss the weather-clicker-thing over my shoulder and step off the set, heading straight for Delilah.
I grab her wrist and tow her after me, ignoring the press of people around us.
It looks like the whole station made it to the studio for that report, and a late rush of nerves has me feeling jittery.
Keith bellows Delilah’s name, but I don’t look back.
I urge her along faster, encouraging her in front of me, blocking her body with mine.
Gianna can handle Keith. I’m sure Mark would love to watch.
I finally stop in between a stack of old speakers and an unmarked door, the space narrow but secluded. It’s quiet back here. As private as a television studio in the middle of a broadcast can be.
Delilah stares up at me, her body pressed to mine.
“You’re wearing the turtle suit,” she whispers.
I nod.
A wet, choked laugh sputters out of her. “Why are you wearing the turtle suit?”
I curl my fingers around her wrists, rubbing my thumbs over the butterfly wings of her pulse. We’ve shared so much with each other, but this feels different. This feels like cracking open a door to a hallway I’ve never been brave enough to explore. I pull in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
“Because I wanted you to know you don’t have to be alone anymore.” Her fingers twitch and I slide my hands up so we’re palm to palm. I tangle our fingers together. “I wanted you to know that if you have to dress up as a turtle, then I’m going to dress up as a turtle too.”
Her pretty eyes are wet, luminous. “Don’t make any promises. Turtle suits might very well be in my future again.”
“You got your job back?”
Delilah nods, pride flashing across her face in the dim light of this too-narrow back-set hallway. “Ava offered it to me. She said she’ll take care of Keith. Early retirement.” She huffs. “It’s more than he deserves, honestly, but I’ll take it. Turns out I can be assertive when I want to be.”
I snort. “Of course you can. You got several weeks of practice giving me all sorts of trouble.”
Her face softens. “You like my trouble,” she whispers.
She says it like a secret, like a confession, and I hear all the words that fill the space in between. How long are you going to want my trouble?
Delilah has been the brave one, the strong one, the resilient one this entire time. Maybe now it’s my turn.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.” I make sure she’s looking at me when I say, “I will. Always.”
She shifts closer, resting her chin in the middle of my chest. One tear glances down her cheek, and then another. “Always,” she whispers back.
I let go of her hands so I can cup her face instead, wanting so badly to feel the shape of her beneath my palms. My thumbs rub at those damned tears.
“This morning, when I was getting in the turtle suit, I was thinking about that thing you always say,” I tell her.
“At the end of every broadcast. And now, back to you.”
“I know it’s silly, but—”
I shake my head. “It’s not silly. It’s yours.” I have to swallow around the heavy press of it. The realization that this is true. This is right. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
“But I was thinking about it and thinking about all those run-ins we’ve had with each other over the years. The pudding incident. The car parking. That time you broke off my rearview mirror with a hockey stick.”
“Did I?”
I nod, tucking some of her hair behind her ears.
“You did. It’s almost like—it’s almost like the universe kept bringing me back to you.
Or, I don’t know, throwing you directly in my path.
And now,” I say with a grin, “back to you. Every mishap, every accident, every—” I laugh.
“Every hallway collision and spilled coffee. It’s always been me coming right back to you.
You’re the end of every sentence, Delilah. I’ve just been too stubborn to see it.”
Her lower lip trembles before she catches it with her teeth. “You said you don’t believe in fate.”
“But I believe in you,” I rasp. “God, Delilah. Do I believe in you.”
Her face crumples and her nose scrunches, the cutest little divot between her eyebrows.
“Don’t cry,” I laugh.
“Then don’t say things like that to me.” She sniffles, composing herself with a shuddering inhale. “Does that mean you could love me?” she asks. “Someday? Because the way I feel about you, Jackson, I—”
I cut her off with my mouth against hers. I angle her chin up with a press of my thumb and I’m—I’m too rough, a little desperate, but it feels like my whole body is humming.
I pull back and Delilah sways after me. Our noses brush and I dip down to drag another kiss against her mouth. Two, just because I can.
“Yeah,” I whisper and she sighs out something sweet. “I can love you in the mountains and I can love you back home. Watch and see how good I’m going to be at it.”
She laughs, then peppers kisses all over my face. My cheeks, my chin, the tip of my nose and the bridge of my glasses.
“And now?” she asks, holding on to me tight.
“Back to you,” I reply, curling my arms around her. I pull her closer until I can feel her heart tucked to mine. “Always right back to you.”