EPILOGUE DELILAH
EPILOGUE
DELILAH
“It’s a little muggy out here today as the humidity settles in, which means storms might be on the horizon.
” I glance down at the notepad in my hands—a new addition, courtesy of Jackson.
The sparkly stickers decorating the front of it were my idea, of course, and the glitter pen shoved through the spiral is part of a set from the girls.
But the Post-it note smooshed in between the cover and my notes is all Jackson, and I smile as I read it quickly.
Then I remember I’m live on television and I have a broadcast to finish.
“Storm chances are hovering around forty-five percent, but I expect that to increase as the afternoon wears on. Stay cool out there, Baltimore.” I snap the notebook shut. “And now, back to you.”
The little red light on Mark’s camera goes out and he straightens, giving me a thumbs-up.
To the left, Jackson continues eating his ice-cream cone, his long legs stretched out in front of him on the park bench.
The girls are practicing their cartwheels on the grass behind him and something warm and fuzzy settles in my chest.
This is how our Sundays go.
Sheets that smell like Jackson’s shampoo, and a coffee on the nightstand, kept warm by one of those fancy electric coasters.
Voices and laughter drifting up through the floorboards.
Pancakes on the counter. A kiss brushed against my temple and more, later.
Indecent ones stolen up against his closed bedroom door when I go upstairs to change.
Weather broadcasts live from the park, Jackson waiting—always waiting—to the left of the camera.
Post-it notes stuck in notepads.
While Mark packs up the equipment, I wander over to Jackson, his blue eyes shining at me from behind his glasses. I settle myself on the bench next to him, leaning against his shoulder heavily until he relents with a sigh, holding the ice-cream cone in front of my face.
Plain vanilla custard. Nothing extravagant for Jackson. The occasional swirl of chocolate, if he’s feeling daring. “One of these days,” I tell him, around a mouthful of stolen ice cream, “you’re going to get me in trouble with your little notes.”
Jackson smiles at me, pleased. “I told you. I like your sort of trouble.”
My heart does a happy little flip-flop in my chest.
I was so worried that I’d be a phase for Jackson.
A test to himself to prove that he could deal with my chaos on a daily basis.
That he could be fun. But he’s shown me—with every cup of coffee, with every pack of candy hidden in my jacket pocket, with every note taped to the window of my car—he’s shown me that I’m not a novelty.
I glance at the note in my hand. A simple I love you written in his neat, slanting handwriting. A frankly disturbing-looking smiley face right underneath.
I like these notes so much more than the ones he used to leave me.
Though he still corrects my parking. And grumbles about the half-empty coffee mugs I leave all over the house. That hasn’t changed.
I pat his knee. “Ready to go?”
He nods and stands, letting me have the rest of the ice cream cone.
We’ll go to Skullduggery after this for a box of pastries, then spend the afternoon with Grandpa Gus.
He’s been teaching the girls how to play chess, and they’ve been teaching him how to do various TikTok dances.
More and more of his days are becoming fuzzy, but at least they’re filled with laughter instead of frustration.
Jackson pulls a stack of napkins from his pocket and busies himself with cleaning off his hands, quick, efficient movements that I’m far too focused on. He calls the girls and they go running to the car, dark blond hair streaming behind them.
Then he looks at me and smiles, his hand sneaking its way back to his pocket.
He fumbles with something in there and my flip-flopping heart turns to a free fall.
He’s been doing that a lot lately. Toying with the small piece of rose gold I found buried in his sock drawer three weeks ago.
He likes to carry it around with him, I know.
Probably waiting for the perfect moment.
For all the details to come together exactly right.
But I’ve never been one to worry about the details. The big picture suits me just fine. And I know that with Jackson, I’ll always be coming right back to him.
So I can be patient.
I can also sneak a peek in the sock drawer every couple of weeks.
His face softens the longer he looks at me and he holds out his hands.
I launch myself into his arms instead, laughing when he grunts.
He urges me closer, both arms wrapped around my middle, the look on his face so damned earnest I want to stay in this moment forever.
On a hill that overlooks all of Baltimore, sun on my skin and Jackson’s adoration warming me from the inside out.
“Jackson and Delillaaaaahhhh!” someone yells from far off in the park. “Weather togetherrrrrr!”
Jackson rolls his eyes, but I laugh.
“I knew it would stick!”
“Like a staple to the head,” Jackson grumbles, but he’s smiling.
“You really don’t miss being on TV with me? Not even a little?”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”
“But you got so good at it!”
His eyebrows arch up. “I think you’re biased.”
“Actually, I think I’m the expert.” I wiggle my way out of his arms and twist my fingers through his, towing him toward the car. “I can’t believe you won’t report the weather with me anymore.”
“Why would I restrict myself to three times a day when I can have you whenever I want?” He steers me toward the passenger side of his car, opens the door, and guides me in so I don’t smack my head against the top.
He rests his forearms against the frame, smiling down at me while I situate myself. “I got everything I wanted, Delilah.”
“A promotion? A newfound confidence in the European model?”
“No, baby.” His blue eyes shine bright in the afternoon sun. “You.”