15. SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS
15
SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS
THE POSTAL SERVICE
DINAH
“Jack?” I say quietly again, knocking softly against the apartment door. Owen asked me to give them a few hours to get Jack settled, but then had to leave for practice tonight. It gave me just the right amount of time to ensure the day went smoothly at Knotty & Nice and to close up shop for the next two days, my normal days off.
Unfortunately, in his rush to get to practice, Owen forgot to leave me a key, so Jack will have to drag himself out of bed to let me in. Which is why I’ve been steadily knocking on his door for the past ten minutes. I’m starting to get worried and forming a new plan for breaking and entering just as the sound of the deadbolt slipping in the door clicks and Jack appears, shirtless and rumpled.
He has a strange sort of neoprene mask on his face, resting just above his eyes. His hair is a disheveled mess, face pallid and covered with sleep marks, and all I can think about is the urge I have to wrap him up in a burrito blanket and whisper words of affirmation in his ears.
“Dinah.” Jack sighs, eyes closing when he finally seems to come to himself and realizes who’s been knocking at his door.
His deep, gritty voice sends shivers down my arms, but I can’t help but hope I haven’t made a huge blunder in taking Owen’s advice. He does not look pleased to see me. Before doubt sets in, I step forward and hold out my hand for his.
“Let me take care of you, Jack?”
He wordlessly steps aside, opening the door with a shaky hand, and allows me to pass by. He’s resigned as he slowly pads behind me into the darkened living space. But as I reach for the light switch, Jack’s calloused hand grasps mine, sending a zip of electricity between us.
“Please don’t,” he says, voice scratchy with disuse. “I’m… The lights—”
“Oh, yeah. Light sensitivity, right?”
“Right,” he sighs again, and hearing that exhaustion in his voice tugs at my heart.
Keeping a tight hold of his hand, I find the kitchen counter in the dark and set down the small bag of supplies I brought then lead him towards where I assume his bedroom is.
“Let’s get you back to bed, Jack.”
He follows silently, and I’m not sure why the intimacy of truly holding Jack’s hand for the first time or entering his most personal space doesn’t feel more strange.
When I reach the only bedroom, a soft light emits from an alarm clock, casting the room in a green glow. One of the articles I read about TBIs mentioned green light therapy to decrease migraine intensity which makes me wonder if Jack’s color choice is coincidence or intentional.
Directing him back to the rumpled bed in the center of the room, I’m hit with the scent of body wash and something floral, but masculine. It’s uniquely Jack which, wonder of wonders, brings an unexpected smile to my face.
“ Cat ,” he whispers, and Chipper obediently jumps on the bed, waiting until Jack’s somewhat settled before curling into his side.
I pull the fluffy down comforter up over his body and then find the heating pad exactly where Owen told me I would. Plugging it in and laying it over Jack’s still form, I lean closer and hear his low groan.
“Too much? You need the heat, right?”
“It’s good,” he answers.
Owen warned that Jack wouldn’t be chatty, and I might have to do some digging to figure out what exactly he’d need at different points over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But he did provide me with a guideline of what to expect, what meds he’d need, the dos and don’ts of intense migraines such as these, and a list of his doctors’ phone numbers.
“Need cold, too?” I ask hesitantly, noticing the way he flinches each time my voice breaks the silence.
He shakes his head slowly and holds out his hand, brushing it against mine. “Water? Stay.”
Tears mist my eyes. This is the ugly and the beautiful Emory is so afraid of, but I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Holding the straw to his mouth, I say, “I’m not going anywhere, Jack.”
And I don’t.
“How do you always know?” Jack asks quietly after his meds seem to be kicking in and I’ve sat quietly at his bedside for hours. The first few here were rough, with him intermittently falling into deep, but what seemed like pain-filled sleep then waking up in bursts of energy to throw up in the trash can kept tucked under the bed. He’s since gone to the restroom a few times, brushed his teeth, and stayed hydrated, as far as I can tell.
“Owen told me—”
“No. I know why you’re here. My brother is a meddler,” he mumbles. “How do you always know… when it’s me?”
“Do you mind that I’m here?”
He reaches out and pulls my hand into his, where Chipper paws playfully at us both, growing bored with our inactivity. “No, Polly. I’m… I’m embarrassed. I don’t want you to see me this way, but… I’m glad… you’re here.” This is the most he’s spoken in hours, and it’s clearly hard for him to form complete thoughts. Or at least to verbalize them.
I let my thumb stroke his. “I’m glad too.”
“So?” He’s waiting for an answer, but after our talk last week, I’m nervous to answer honestly. I’m anxious about this thing between us that feels new and shaky, but that we’ve finally labeled as something .
“I know you, Jack. There’s something about your eyes. The way you move and speak and… look at me. I know when you’re Jack and when you're Jackson.”
He looks momentarily disappointed until I add, “But it isn’t ever a you or him thing for me. It's you and me. Always just—”
“Jack?” he asks, hopefully, but I finish as honestly as I can.
“Just you and me. Both versions of you.”
Jack closes his eyes again, like he’s in pain, and nods his head. I can’t help but reach up, brushing the stubborn lock of hair from his forehead. “You should get more rest. I can make up some eggs for you, or I brought Bacon Bites with me in case you’re in the mood for those when you wake up. Owen said…”
“What did Owen say?”
“Owen said he thought my Bacon Bites might make you… propose.” I grin wide and proud, though Jack’s eyes are closed. They are really stinkin’ good.
“There’s still time, Dinah Belle.” There it is again. Dinah Belle. The moniker Jackson uses, slipping off Jack’s tongue, and he doesn’t even seem to realize. “Come on, Polly. Sit with me.”
“I am sitting with you, Just Jack .”
He opens one eye and a familiar, flirty smirk ticks up one side of his face. “You’re sitting in a chair a world away.” He pats the empty place on the bed beside him. “You’ve been here for hours, and that old chair can’t be comfortable. Come sit, Polly. I won’t bite.”
I roll my eyes, but acquiesce, sinking on top of the fluffy comforter and crossing one leg over the other. Chipper pounces onto my lap before Jack scoops him up, laying him to rest on his bare chest and abs. Thank goodness he isn’t wearing his glasses right now. I’d spontaneously combust. The image of this man cradling a kitten against carved pecs and a light dusting of hair across his tan skin is going to be burned into my brain for all eternity. I’ll undoubtedly wax poetic about it to Emory over ice cream in the days, weeks, and years to come.
This moment. This man. This adorable, rambunctious kitten—who’s no fool—curling into Jack like he knows a good cuddle spot when he sees one. It’s all far better than any romance I’ve ever read. And it’s real.
“You have so many books.” The green of the lamp casts the floor to ceiling pipe-shelves covered in books, baseballs, and potted plants in a mysterious shadow. If I weren’t so comfy, snuggled up to Librarian Ken , I’d go see every title on that shelf for myself.
“You droolin’ over my books, Dinah?”
“Maybe,” I say, shrugging and biting my lip. “Tell me what you’re reading right now.”
He pulls the cold mask over his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Romance, of course.”
“Liar.”
He’s been holding my hand since I sat down, but gives me a tug to lie closer to his side, curling me into his chest where Chipper greets me with a wide yawn and meow like he owns the place.
Yeah, yeah. You’ve got the best spot in the house, my dude. Move over.
Jack makes a contented sound as he nuzzles his face against my hair and shifts deeper into the bed. Wowza, this version of J. Jones is quite the snuggler, and I am not complaining one bit.
“I’m reading the Bible, a book on cultivating unique floral designs, and a medical journal on the success rate of psychotherapy for patients after a traumatic brain injury.”
“Wow. So, pretty sexy stuff.”
“What can I say? I like to keep things spicy.”
“Anything poignant in those non-fiction bangers?”
“You’re sounding pretty judgy, there, Dinah Belle.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “The Bible’s always a banger. Texture and the rule of three keep floral designs poppin’.” He takes another deep breath through his nose. “And from what I’ve read so far, most patients see cognitive and emotional improvements when psychotherapy is offered as rehabilitation after a brain injury.” He squeezes my hand, and without missing a beat asks, “What are you reading right now?”
“A contemporary marriage of convenience between best friends who won’t admit they’ve been in love with each other for their entire friendship but are obviously just achin’ to make out. It’s a banger, too.”
He chuckles softly. I feel it reverberate across my skin and down to my bones. “Have it with you?”
“Course I do. What kinda romance reader doesn’t have a book at their fingertips at all times?”
“Read to me while I drift?”
I’m not sure how long I managed to stay awake, reading through the delicious tension of two characters who obviously want to be together but won’t just take the leap and admit it to themselves. Jack laughed softly at the right times and grew quiet during the more romantic.
At some point, I got up to get him more meds and water, and we must have fallen asleep because I just woke up to a warm weight wrapped around my waist. I’m curled in on myself, surrounded by the scent of Just Jack. He should probably bottle that aroma and sell it in the shop downstairs… And, whoa, I slept over at Jack’s house. In Jack’s bed. Beside Jack!
My heart takes flight, and I’m just positive that my rapidly increasing BPM is gonna wake up the man currently pretzeled around me. Just as I suspect, one of his thumbs takes a gentle, grazing tour over the stretch of skin where my shirt has risen just slightly above my jeans. He pauses and pulls my shirt down. For some unforsaken reason, my mama’s voice flutters through my mind reminding me to save room for Jesus and that modest is hottest .
I snort against my better judgment, close my eyes and turn over, feeling the rush of heat fill my face. I so did not mean to sleep over. I anticipated taking care of Jack and sleeping on the couch, not a slumber party where we wake up next to one another and one of us acts like she belongs in the loony bin. Especially not when we have yet to define the relationship.
I also really hate that my next thought is, Yikes! Emory is never gonna let me hear the end of this. I’m putting myself through a pretty extensive bit of mental turmoil when Jack’s hand travels from my waist, up my arms, and to my cheeks, where he cups them in his big hands and holds me like I’m something worth treasuring.
“Open your eyes, please.” His voice is gruff, but tender.
When I obey, it's that same tenderness I see as his clear hazel eyes search mine, looking for an answer I will certainly try my hardest to give him. Then, when he lowers his lips, slowly but confidently, he runs a delicate pattern of kisses across my mouth with such devotion, I don’t know why I let doubt ever creep into this brain. With the way he’s kissing me now, I can’t see myself ever regretting the way this morning has played out. Slumber parties are awesome.
It’s sweet, but sensual. Filled with all the words and questions and answers we can’t quite articulate but have all the time in the world to explore. I pull him just a little closer, echoing his need with my own, and let my fingers play where his hair meets the nape of his neck.
He’s the first to pull away, a smile on his lips and his forehead resting against mine. “Good morning, Dinah Belle.”
I peck his lips one more time and can’t help the giggle that escapes when he groans like he’s in pain. Kissing Ken.
“Good morning, Jackson.”