Chapter 14 - Jackson
By the time I make it back to my car, I hate myself a little for the way I handled things.
I’ll admit I overreacted. But when he hesitated at the possibility of us being together after the semester ends…well, it hurt.
The exhaustion of pretending like I don’t care hit me all at once, heavy and dull, like it had been waiting for the right moment to flatten me.
Because the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of fighting with everyone, of pretending it doesn’t get to me when people pull away. It feels as though that’s all anyone ever does. My dad. My girlfriend. Now Isaac.
I keep telling myself that I don’t care. That I’m used to it. But it stings, and the more I try to ignore it, the sharper it gets. That familiar feeling of being unwanted.
This time, I got angry.
That’s why I lashed out. For once, I wanted to hurt back.
But the look on his face when I threw Dylan’s name at him?
That wasn’t anger.
That was pain.
And now I feel guilty for it.
Leaning back against the headrest, I close my eyes and let out a long breath, trying to keep the weight of everything from crushing me even more.
I stay there until the windshield fogs over, my own breath ghosting across the glass. Finally, I start the car and head home. The drive takes about ten minutes, but it feels longer before I’m finally making the turn onto the small, quiet road that winds its way toward the house.
When I pull into the driveway, I spot my dad’s car already parked. I was hoping he’d still be at work.
The two-story brick home looms at the end of the long, gravel drive.
It was built by my dad’s grandfather, and my dad has spent the money to keep it in decent shape.
New roof, freshly painted trim. But there’s still a history here, the red brick darkened over the years, weathered by storms and winters.
The black shutters are a little faded, and ivy snakes up one corner near the porch like it’s trying to reclaim the place.
Off to the right, the guesthouse sits at the edge of the property, tucked near the tree line. It’s smaller and newer, the siding painted a muted gray that almost blends with the woods behind it.
From here, it looks like a different world entirely. Quiet. Detached. A space where I can breathe without feeling like I’m being measured against someone else’s expectations.
I should go straight there, skip the main house entirely and avoid the risk of running into my dad. After the day I’ve had, I’m not sure if I could stop any slight interaction between us from turning into a confrontation.
I don’t know if I can stomach the feeling of being unwanted even more today.
However, I’m fucking starving, and once again, there’s no food in the guesthouse. I skipped lunch because I was too excited and nervous to return to Isaac’s office at the end of the day.
Isaac.
When did I start thinking of him as Isaac instead of Professor Kendall?
Getting out of my car, I reluctantly walk up the steps of the front porch to the main house, using my key to unlock the door as my stomach rumbles. The first floor is quiet, so hopefully that means my dad is upstairs in his study, buried in work like he always is.
The scent of coffee hits me as I turn the corner toward the kitchen, not fresh but not stale either. Somewhere in between.
I come to a stop just inside the kitchen when I see my dad sitting on a stool at the island, his laptop open in front of him, sleeves rolled up and reading glasses perched low on his nose.
He looks out of place, sitting here in the kitchen with a legal pad on one side of his computer and an open meal prep container on the other.
Like he’s trying on normalcy and hoping it fits.
“Since when do you work in the kitchen?” My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to.
He peers up at me only briefly before his eyes flick back down to his screen. “Had some files to go through and got tired of staring at the same four walls. Thought I’d work down here for a bit while I eat.”
From what I know of my dad, that sounds like a flat-out lie.
As I remain hovering near the doorway, my stomach growls, loud in the quiet.
The glow of his screen casts enough light on his face that I can make out the subtle twitch in the corner of his mouth. That little sign that maybe, at some point in the past, he was actually capable of a smile.
“There are a couple extra meals in the fridge,” he says without taking his eyes off his laptop, fingers moving over the keys. “Made a little too much when I cooked this weekend. Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out too slowly, and I’m sure he catches the suspicion in it.
I move to the fridge, and as I open the door, the sound of typing stops. I can feel his eyes on my back, assessing, cautious. Like he’s trying to determine which version of me he’s getting today. The one who’s too tired to fight or the one who’s more than willing to throw his words back at him.
Grabbing one of the containers, I open the lid to find au jus pot roast with carrots and potatoes, and my mouth waters. The fact that it’s one of my favorite meals and my dad made extra only increases my suspicion.
But I try to ignore it as I pop the container in the microwave. It hums to life, and I stare at the spinning plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“How are classes going?”
Well, that’s new.
He’s never actually asked me how school is going, usually just voicing his opinions on how he thinks they should be going, what he thinks my future should be, and how my life should look in five or ten years.
When I don’t answer after a few seconds, he tries again. “Not having trouble with any of the other students again, I hope. Professors treating you okay?”
I have half a mind to tell him I got spanked the other day just to see the look on his face.
Instead, I spin around and blurt out, “Why are you really down here?”
Because there’s no way he’s just hanging out here in the kitchen just for a change of scenery. Or to see my reaction to him making one of my favorite meals. Or to ask me about school and have a casual, civil conversation.
Sure enough…
He takes a deep breath, shuts his laptop, and removes his glasses before setting them down on the counter. “I wanted to apologize. And we both know how terrible I am at that.”
“Because you never do it?”
He lets out a breath through his nose that’s almost a laugh. “That’s one reason.”
I peer back at the microwave, willing the countdown on the clock to move faster, feeling entirely too uncomfortable in the presence of this side of my dad I haven’t seen in years.
He hasn’t always been an asshole. In fact, he used to like my company. There were times I couldn’t get rid of him.
Before my mom died, he was the perfect family man. He worked a lot but not nearly as much as he does now. He took us out to dinners and on vacations. He was there for the important things.
For months after my mom died, he couldn’t sleep in their room.
He’d fall asleep in the living room while we were watching a movie, which we did a lot because neither of us could stand the silence.
If I got up to go to bed, he’d wake up and pretend like he was good to finish the movie even though his eyes would be shut again minutes later.
Like he didn’t want to be alone. I lost count how many times I slept on the couch while he spent the night in the recliner.
Somewhere between then and now, he changed. Maybe it was his grief. Maybe it was loneliness. Whatever it was made his armor harder, his walls higher, his edges sharper. I stopped trying to find my way past it all years ago. Or maybe I never tried all that hard in the first place.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, “What did you want to apologize for?”
He lowers his gaze and reaches up to scratch at the short beard along the side of his face. “This is your home, Jackson. It always has been, and it always will be.” His eyes finally meet mine. “I’m sorry for making you feel unwelcome.”
Unwelcome.
Unwanted.
I clear my throat and turn back to the microwave. “It’s fine, Dad. You were only trying to help me grow up.”
“That’s true. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do because that’s part of a parent’s job. But another part is to protect their kids.”
The microwave beeps, interrupting him. I open the door and pull out the container. As I move around the kitchen, grabbing silverware and a can of soda from the fridge, he continues. This is so fucking weird that it’s difficult giving him my full attention.
“I don’t know if I’ve done a good job of that. I hope you know if you ever need me for anything, I’m here.”
Once I have everything for dinner, I stop on the side of the island. There’s sincerity in his eyes along with a heavy sadness I haven’t seen there in a long time.
“Is everything okay?”
I realize it’s been too long since I’ve given a shit when it came to my dad, but in my defense, it’s been just as long since he’s given me a reason to give a shit.
He nods, giving me that barely perceptible hint of a smile. “Just had to get that off my chest.”
That’s it. No lecture. No argument. Just a quiet truce hanging between us.
When he doesn’t immediately stand to stalk off to his study, I’m tempted to sit and have dinner with him. But I really do have a lot of schoolwork to catch up on, and with the trend of where we usually end up after a conversation, I’d hate to ruin a good one for once.
“Thanks, Dad. Good night.”
“Good night.”
As I go out the back door and head down the walkway to the guesthouse, dry leaves skitter like bones across the ground, their faint scratches following me as the last traces of daylight bleed away.
I replay the conversation with my dad over in my head and wonder if he finally heard about my being outed.
Maybe that was his way of saying he’s okay with it?
He’s known Bodie’s gay for nearly as long as I have, and he’s never had a problem with my best friend. He still let me stay over at his place and him at ours. He gave Bodie a high school graduation gift and even wrote him a recommendation for a job.
Maybe I’ll talk to him about it.
But not tonight.
Unlocking the door to the guesthouse, I step inside and flick on the lights.
I let my bag slide off my shoulder and land with a soft thud in the middle of the couch.
Placing my dinner on the coffee table, I sit down and pull off my hoodie, tossing it over the back of the sofa.
As I get out my laptop, a couple books, and my notes, I kick off my shoes.
While my computer boots up, I take my first few bites of pot roast. I let out a literal moan as the first taste of the au jus hits my tongue. It was one of my mom’s recipes. I think most of what my dad meal preps is.
I let myself enjoy it, eating slowly as I go over a few notes and everything that’s due over the next week. As I pull up my internet browser to start on a research paper, I try really fucking hard to ignore the way the screen glows at me, glaring.
Dylan hasn’t sent another email. It’s like he knows that one was enough to taunt me, just patiently waiting until I reply.
I told myself I wasn’t going to. That I was going to ignore it because even if it really was from Dylan, it doesn’t matter. I no longer have interest in blackmail. And whatever he has to say, it’s not going to change the way I feel about Isaac.
But then my professor’s words from earlier come back to me.
You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Before I can stop myself, the cursor moves with the glide of my fingers, and I open up my email. That damn message is still sitting in my inbox, provoking me.
The cursor hovers over the reply button for a long time. I shouldn’t. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me not to.
But I’m not sure rational thought is winning tonight.
Maybe I’m no better than Faust ready to sell his soul for a little knowledge.
I type out a reply.
If this is really Dylan, tell me what happened to you.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
It feels like a trigger being pulled.
For a long time, I just sit there, listening to the wind outside moving through the trees and whispering against the windows. Part of me wishes I could take the message back. The other part is waiting with bated breath for a response.
Then it comes.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
Isaac happened.
A pulse of adrenaline hits me. I glance around the room as though irrationally expecting someone to be standing behind me.
I type fast before I can lose my nerve.
What did he do?
The next response comes quicker this time.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
He lied.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart won’t stop pounding. My fingers remain hovering over the keyboard as I’m torn between exiting out of my email and begging for more.
Finally, I type out my next question.
About what?
I stare at the screen as the cursor blinks back at me.
The next reply takes a little longer this time, like whoever’s on the other side is enjoying stretching this out just to see how long I’ll wait. Tormenting me.
If this really is Dylan, how? Why now? And if it’s not, then why pretend?
Could he really be alive, hiding, trying to warn me? Or is it someone else entirely, someone who knows too much about me? About Isaac?
My stomach twists. It’s ridiculous, sitting here letting some stranger play mind games through a screen. But I can’t look away. Every second that passes feels deliberate. Calculated.
When the answer finally comes, it’s only one word.
But it has me doubting everything.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Re: Hello, Jackson.
Everything.
Everything.