TWENTY-FOUR Tourists
E LLIANA
It’s a Sunday in mid-November when the four of us decide to take a trip to the National Mall. It’s chilly but there’s not a cloud in the sky as we wander around the monuments and memorials.
I suggested this outing of ours because it was one of the places my parents and I used to visit when I was a little girl. But that’s not the only reason. What I’m keeping to myself is how much I need to go somewhere that isn’t Blingblang or the house.
Diego and the police have made no progress ferreting out whoever broke into my store, and that’s despite the addition of handwriting on this one. I’m trying to stay strong—and I am—but after having this dream last night about cards flying at my bed and slicing into me like razorblades, I needed a fucking change of scenery.
Maybe due to Thanksgiving coming up so soon, the place is packed, and despite being outdoors, I can hear a lot of chatter as families and large groups mill about. There are parents pushing strollers, people playing fetch with their dogs, and even what appears to be an entire high school class here, but I like it.
All this is working out to be a good diversion for me.
I’m using the camera on my phone to take pics of nearly everything we do, not because I don’t have lots of photos of all these historic landmarks, but because I don’t have any pictures of my guys.
It’s high time I fix that. So I’ve been snapping everything from individual shots to candids of the three of them when they don’t even know their photo is being taken. I’m having a blast doing it, too, especially when I catch the three of them doing specific poses only each individual would do.
Tristan is glowering at some of the high school kids, ostensibly due to them munching on hot dogs and potato chips rather than something higher brow. Come to think of it, the man has never served us junk food. Maybe it’s some sort of nutritional hard limit for him.
Noah keeps pointing out possible hazards like he’s the Fire Marshal.
“There sure are a lot of steps around here without easy-to-reach railings.”
And...
“Those people on bicycles should be wearing their helmets. What are they thinking?”
And...
“There should be a hydrant nearby, and I don’t see one. Guys, this is serious. That’s a huge violation. Maybe I should contact... Oh, wait. There it is.”
I glance at Jackson, and we have to stifle our snorts. Noah going all uptight on us like this is hilarious.
Jesus, I’m so glad we did this today.
After hiking about in all this magnanimous sunshine, we approach the long reflecting pool that leads up to the Lincoln Memorial. Some teenagers are tossing a frisbee back and forth as we stroll by, and since it’s almost one in the afternoon, I’m about to ask the guys about hunting down someplace to eat lunch when I hear an abrupt yell.
“Heads up!”
I turn to look in that direction just as a teenage boy jumps backward to catch the frisbee. He’s running full out, and his momentum causes him to slam into Jackson. Both of them splash sideways right into the reflecting pool.
The teen pops right back up to his feet, but Jackson doesn’t.
I know the pool isn’t deep. It’s something like a foot and a half around the edges and no more than two or so feet deep down the middle. But Jackson is still lying there face down in the water.
“Quit clowning around,” Tristan yaps at him, but I don’t think he is.
Noah must not think Jackson is either because he rushes in after him. He’s only just flipped him over when Jackson regains consciousness all at once. And what’s more, as soon as Jackson comes to, he cries out.
And I don’t mean a brief startled yelp. He lets loose a blood-curdling terror-fueled shriek .
Everyone in sight stares at us, no doubt wondering about the commotion, and Jackson only stops shouting once his lungs empty of air. His green eyes are as wild and hysterical as I’ve ever seen them.
When he realizes he’s still in the water, he shoves Noah away—which, let’s face it, due to his size barely moves the boy at all—and scrambles out of the pool as if it’s scalding him. Soaked to the bone, he races off, and I’m so stunned it takes me a second to go after him.
Fortunately, Noah has faster reflexes than I do and zooms off on the same trajectory.
Tristan takes my arm to give chase, and together we clamber over to find Noah standing by Jackson as my guitarist bends double clutching at his knees. It’s the kind of scene that makes me pause. Apparently on the same page, Tristan nods at me and as we approach, we’re on our guards.
“It’s going to be okay,” Noah is saying to Jackson on repeat. But Jackson just shakes his head continuously.
Whatever’s going on, it can’t be good.
Because of the lower temps, we’re all wearing jackets, but Jackson’s black leather version and ripped jeans are completely water-logged, so I’m sure he’s freezing. And yep, as I examine him more closely, I can see that he’s visibly shivering. I don’t detect any injuries, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have some.
Also, all the color has drained from his features. And the right side of his mouth and cheek are jerking upwards in what appears to be a facial tick.
What in the ninth level of hell is that shit?
When I can catch Noah’s eye, I mouth silently, “Is he hurt?”
All Noah does, though, is lift his hands helplessly.
“Jackson,” I start, edging closer. Tristan stays right on my ass as I do. “Are you injured?”
He goes on shaking his head, but I don’t necessarily think this is in response to my question. He hasn’t peeked up at me or anyone else even once.
“How about we go get you checked out? Make sure everything’s on the up and up?” I suggest, thinking about the emergency room. The closest one would be at the George Washington University Hospital.
“N-no,” Jackson says, at last. But that’s not what I want to hear.
“I think we should,” I tell him, and Tristan backs me up.
“Listen to the lady, would you?”
“Sh-shut up, Tristan,” Jackson barks at him with an outrage that far outpaces anything it makes sense for him to experience. Even with his teeth chattering.
Noah extends a hand like a stop sign and speaks to him in a low patient voice. “Buddy, he’s worried about you just like Elle is. We’re all worried. We just need to make sure you’re all right.”
“I c-can’t...” Jackson stammers, and I can’t tell if this is due to being chilled or something else. “I can’t get dunked like that.”
I mull over his explanation but can’t make heads or tails of it.
“But that kid didn’t dunk you, he crashed into you is all.” Tristan replies with a frown. Trust Tristan to go with the tough love solution.
For the first time since our arrival, Jackson looks up. “Yeah, and he did it into the fucking water , for Christ’s sake. And I don’t do water. Not when I can drown...” he suddenly stops speaking and storms off, this time not moving with as much speed.
“What? Can’t you swim?” Tristan calls out to him using an incredulous tone, and I smack him on the chest. Hard.
But Jackson remains speechless. He offers no comeback as his shoulders droop. It’s easy to shadow him while keeping our distance, so the rest of us do, watching him as he shuffles off toward my Infiniti.
When he gets there, he simply waits by the passenger door, still not saying a word. Noah and Tristan each send me an inquisitive glance, and I unlock the doors, shrugging. Only once we’re inside and in our own perfect cone of silence do I propose anything else.
“Lunch or home?”
Jackson says nothing and stays twisted away from us as he peers out his window.
“How about lunch, then home?” Noah offers, and I nod in acquiescence.
“Tristan? Any suggestions for a take-out order?”
“Strongest quality would probably be the Blue Crab. It’s the best quickie seafood in town.”
“No seafood,” Jackson pipes up out of the blue. I wait for him to say why, but he doesn’t.
“What do you have against seafood? Is this why you wouldn’t eat my shrimp scampi that time?” Tristan asks, sounding offended.
Still, all Jackson does is issue another harsh headshake as if he’s given his final word on the matter. We end up calling in an order for some Italian, and I request four varieties of pasta with four different sauces for us to share, keeping my heated seats on for him and the blower on high.
Jackson vanishes the minute we arrive in the garage, and initially, I’m not bothered by this. I realize he needs to change out of those wet clothes, so he won’t get sick. But when he doesn’t reappear, Noah stares upstairs in the general vicinity of Jackson’s room.
“He’s not coming down to eat, is he?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Think I’ll take some up to him,” Noah volunteers, but I grab onto his hand.
“I’ll do it.”
I take a couple more bites, then carefully balancing his plate, troop up to check on Jackson.