53. Jackson
FIFTY-THREE
Jackson
It took me two days to drive back home from California, only stopping for sleep and gas, desperate to be as far away from there as possible. There were paparazzi lined up outside of my house, and they watched, their cameras flashing like strobe lights as I packed up my essentials and tried not to run them over as I left.
I pray they don’t follow me back home.
As the miles tick up on the speedometer, the memory of Blakely haunts my thoughts, reminding me of all the ways I had her and how easily she tossed me to the side. She caved and let others dictate her life.
I don’t buy for one second that she’s really with that prick DJ. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that Blakely just couldn’t find it in her to stand up for us when it counted. After all the ways I stood for her, holding her up, she let me fall at the first sign of trouble.
Her letting me go was a blessing. But that doesn’t make the sharp ache in my chest dull.
Pulling into my mom’s driveway, I’m hit with nostalgia, remembering all the times I worked on this very car over on the shady patch of grass off the gravel drive. I was determined to make this beauty purr, finish the job that my father and I started—before he got too sick to turn a wrench.
I didn’t tell my mom I was coming home. I didn’t tell anybody. Didn’t want to have to explain things before I had a chance to let them settle within myself.
Sucking down a deep breath and forcing the sadness down, I leave my car, spinning as I hear the screen door creak open.
My mom’s hands are over her heart, her wavy, blond hair blowing in the breeze, a beaming smile on her beautiful face.
“Jackson!” she yells, racing off the front porch and hurtling herself into my arms. I wrap my hands around her, breathing in her scent. She smells like home and I sink into her embrace, suddenly feeling like a little kid lost in his grief, desperate to have her take away the pain.
She leans back in my arms, her hands coming up to rest on both sides of my face, gazing into my eyes.
My chest throbs, a lead weight heavy in the bottom of my gut.
“What did I do to deserve this?” She smiles, her eyes crinkling in the corners.
I force a grin. “ Surprise. I’m home.”
Her brows furrow. “What do you mean you’re home ?”
“I mean, I’m home.” I shrug.
She backs away and I reach into the back seat, grabbing my duffel bag and following her in the house. I throw it next to the coat rack, following her into the kitchen.
She grabs two mugs from the counter and starts the kettle before spinning to face me. “For good?” Her brow quirks.
“Yep.” I snap the hair band on my wrist, pulling out a chair to sit at the round kitchen table.
She sighs, her gaze looking right through my tough exterior. “What the hell for?”
I bark out a laugh, not surprised at all by her line of questioning. My mom’s never been one to mince words, especially when she’s trying to drag out information. The carpool moms loved to gossip whenever we moved to a new state, calling her crass, but she paid them no mind. Growing up with a military man as a husband forces a thick skin. So does fighting cancer.
Sighing, I run my hand through my hair. “California wasn’t everything I dreamed of, I guess.”
“But what about your dream, baby?”
The teakettle whistles, and she pours us both a cup, walking over and placing one in front of me before she takes a seat at the table.
“Dreams change.” My stomach churns.
She hums. “Don’t give me that nonsense. You’ve been working toward this your whole life. Back when you were sixteen and begging me to let you get your hands dirty at the shop.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, I got that job because we needed it. You were working yourself half to death, and I wanted to help. Not because it was my dream.”
Her forehead scrunches as she leans back in her chair. “Baby, I wasn’t working myself to death because of money. I was doing it so I didn’t have to face the truth of being alone. If I worked, I could pretend he was still coming back home.”
My jaw clenches, fingers tightening around my mug of tea, allowing the burn from my fingertips to distract me from the throbbing in my soul. “Well, so was I.”
She blows on her tea, nodding. “That’s fair.”
We sit in silence for the next few minutes, sipping on chamomile and enjoying the quiet. Or maybe we’re both reflecting on the ways we’ve handled life ever since Dad’s death. Going over all the things we did right and all the ways we could have done things differently.
Then, even though I try to fight it, my mind wanders to Blakely. And despite the betrayal that swirls in my gut—the hurt that clamps around my lungs with every breath—I wonder how she’s doing. If she’s maybe, possibly, missing me as much as I somehow still miss her.
Sighing, I force the thought away, mad at myself for not being able to push her to the side as easily as she did me.
My mom’s hand reaches across the table and covers mine. “What’s wrong, Jackson?”
I smirk. “Who says something’s wrong?”
The left side of her mouth lifts. “A mom always knows.”
I’ve always kept my problems close to the chest, not wanting to dump my issues on her when it was clear the load she carried was close to making her knees buckle from the weight. With Dad gone, it was my job to be the man of the house. And the man never crumbles beneath the pressure; he’s there to hold everyone else up.
But as she looks at me with questions in her eyes, my heart yearns for understanding, so I blow out a breath and give in, desperate to have someone in my corner who I know will choose me. Someone who loves me without conditions.
“How did you survive after losing him?” I ask.
At first, I don’t think she’ll answer, that she’ll change the subject like she usually does.
Her mouth parts, her eyes growing glassy. “A minute at a time. And when that didn’t work—a second.”
My fingers tangle in the chain around my neck, telling myself that if my mom can get through Dad’s death and somehow make it to the other side, I can get through losing Blakely. At least I know she’s still out there, living. My chest squeezes, hoping her father shows up for her. That the look I saw in his eyes wasn’t a trick of the lighting—that he heard me when I told him she needed help.
I can’t bear the thought of her being all alone when she’s in need.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I blurt out.
My mother’s brows draw in. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“With Dad.” I swallow, the lump in my stomach surging through my chest and into my throat. “I should have been there. Should have—” My voice cracks and I shake my head. “I missed his last moments.”
“Oh.” Her chin wobbles as she sucks in her lower lip. “Honey, he never blamed you for that. Neither of us did.”
A tear slips out of the corner of my eye, my hand reaching up to brush it away.
“Your dad…he was so proud of you, but it was because of who you were, not because of what you did.” She takes a slow sip of tea. “And you did more than your fair share. More than you ever should have had to.”
“No, Mom, I?—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “We all have our burdens to bear, and letting you be the one to shoulder him when he couldn’t stand is one of mine. But if you’ve been holding on to this…skewed version of yourself, out of some type of guilt over not wanting to see him in his final moments, I’m here to tell you that, baby, you’ve got to let that go.”
My throat feels raw as I swallow. “I don’t know if I can,” I whisper.
She sighs. “You’ve always been a nurturer. Ever since you were a little boy. I used to take you with me to the hospital and show you the nursery. Do you remember that?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, well that’s a shame. You loved it.” She laughs. “Always wanted to go in and hold them. Asking the nurses if you could help.”
I smile, trying to force the memory but coming up blank.
“You have a heart that gives until it bleeds, Jackson, and that’s a quality to be proud of. But it’s not your job to pick up everyone else’s pieces.” She blinks, her eyes watery. “And if I’ve let you live your life thinking you somehow let us down by not doing enough, by not being there…” She goes quiet, glancing down at the table. “Well…I guess we both have some self-reflection we need to do, huh?”
I don’t respond and she doesn’t say anything else. We simply sit and drink tea in silence, her hand grasping mine and me doing what she says we should.
Reflecting.
And the longer I do, the more I think that maybe behind the heartbreak, behind the hurt of everything that’s happened in my life, there’s a single catalyst.
Me, trying to atone for my past mistakes.
Filling the hole left by my father with this urge to be what everyone needs, heartbreak suctioning to my bones and leaching all the marrow, desperate to cling to something that feels real.
So while losing Blakely guts me, the thought of ever loving someone else is like a carotid artery that’s been punctured, and I know that placing all the blame on her isn’t entirely fair. It isn’t going to help.
I’ll live through the break and somehow I’ll learn to move on.