Chapter 30
DREW
I’ve never been so aware of the paint section at Home Depot in my entire life.
Every can is a countdown to calamity, each color sample a reminder that in four days, I’ll be running my hands all over Jackson’s body while wearing nothing but a thong.
My nerves are as jittery as the flickering fluorescent lights above us.
“Ooh, Sunset Orange!” Gerard holds up a paint swatch like it’s the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. “This would look amazing with Nathan’s skin tone!”
Nathan’s face, which has been steadily losing color since we entered the store, contorts. “Please stop talking about my skin tone.”
“But we need to plan!” Gerard throws out his arms, nearly knocking over a display of brushes. “The performance is next weekend! We should coordinate our colors for maximum visual impact!”
Kyle rolls his eyes and shoves the cart forward with enough force that the wheels squeal against the concrete floor. He grabs a box of deck screws from the shelf and tosses them in with a metallic clatter that punctuates his exasperation. “The only impact you’re going for is traumatizing Nathan.”
“I’m not traumatized,” Nathan protests weakly. “I’m merely…concerned about the artistic integrity.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Oliver adds a gallon of wood stain to our growing collection. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re about to pass out.”
I grab a pack of sandpaper, trying to focus on the task at hand. Fix the deck. Simple. Normal. Not sensual at all.
“Drew!” Gerard appears at my side. “What colors are you and Jackson using? If you need suggestions, I was thinking jewel tones for maximum contrast against skin.”
“Haven’t thought about it,” I lie, because I’ve thought about nothing else since the blog post went live.
“You haven’t thought about it?” Gerard stares at me as if I’ve personally offended him. “This is art, Drew! You can’t wing it!”
“Watch me.”
The truth is, I’ve imagined every possible scenario.
My hands sliding paint across Jackson’s chest. His fingers tracing patterns on my back.
The way his breath might hitch when I touch somewhere sensitive.
The fact that we’ll be in a glass box, on display, forced into intimate contact while I pretend it isn’t tearing me apart.
“Maybe Nathan’s the Ice Queen,” I say, desperate to change the subject, and recalling what has been blowing up the group chat as of late. “Think about it—freshman, new to campus, probably overwhelmed by all the hockey ass on display.”
Kyle snorts. “So his response is to create a gossip blog? Or to take over one?”
“People cope in different ways.” I shrug, grabbing another pack of sandpaper I don’t need.
“Mm-hmm.” Kyle doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “And all that stuff about Gerard’s ass jiggling?”
“IT DOES JIGGLE!”
“But you noticed,” I point out, warming to the theory. “In detail. Multiple times.”
Gerard, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly gasps and places his hand on his chest. “Oh my God. Nathan, are you attracted to my ass?”
“NO!” Nathan shouts loud enough that an employee peers around the corner. “I mean—no. Obviously not. Why would I be? That’s—that’s ridiculous.”
“The lady doth protest too much,” Oliver murmurs.
Nathan’s mouth opens, closes, then twists to the side as his eyebrows knit together. A flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks crimson as his shoulders hunch forward and his hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’m not the Ice Queen! And I’m not attracted to anyone’s ass!”
“Okay,” Kyle says in a tone that means he doesn’t believe a word. “But hypothetically, if you were—”
“I’M NOT!”
“—would you use your insider knowledge to orchestrate events that force certain people into intimate situations?”
My phone buzzes before he can formulate a response.
Jackson
Hey, you guys still at Home Depot?
Me
Yeah, paint section.
Jackson
Perfect. I’m almost there.
“Drew’s making his Jackson face,” Gerard announces helpfully.
“I don’t have a Jackson face.”
“You totally do,” Oliver confirms. “It’s like your regular face but dopier.”
“Fuck off.”
We move through the store, loading up on everything we’ll need to fix the deck before spring break destroys it completely. The Hockey House has survived a lot, but seven straight days of partying might be the end of things without some structural reinforcement.
I spot Jackson through the window, crossing the parking lot in worn jeans and a BSU football hoodie that hangs impeccably well on his frame. My chest tightens with the familiar ache that’s become my constant companion.
“There’s your boy,” Kyle says, following my gaze.
Your boy. If only.
Jackson strides into the store, eyes sweeping across the aisles until they lock onto our group.
His whole face instantly transforms, the corners of his mouth lifting into that crooked smile I’ve grown to love.
I force my gaze to the floor tiles, counting the scuff marks to keep myself from showing him my “Jackson face.”
“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless as he reaches us. “Ryan said you might need moral support.”
“More like Nathan needs last rites,” Oliver says.
“I’m fine,” Nathan insists, then immediately undermines himself by swaying on his feet when Gerard holds up a paint swatch labeled “Peachy Keen.”
“Now, this would complement your skin perfectly!” Gerard exclaims.
Jackson’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline as he watches the exchange, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “Do I want to know?”
“Gerard’s planning their performance,” I explain, trying not to notice how Jackson’s hoodie smells of his detergent. “Nathan’s handling it well.”
“I can see that.” Jackson’s lips twitch. “He’s very…green.”
“That’s his complexion!” Gerard says. “Which is why we need warmer tones to balance it out!”
We weave through the towering aisles of the lumber section, the sharp scent of fresh-cut pine filling my nostrils.
Jackson’s shoulder bumps against mine as we round a corner, his footsteps falling perfectly in rhythm with my own.
I reach for a two-by-four just as his fingers graze the same plank.
The heat of his skin sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I snatch my hand away so fast I nearly smack it against the metal shelving.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time.
This is ridiculous. We’ve rubbed off on each other in a public bathroom, but now I can’t even handle accidental contact without my heart trying to escape through my ribs.
“So,” Jackson says quietly while the others debate deck stain colors, “about next weekend…”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Are you sure you want to do this? With me, I mean. You could ask someone else.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than intended. “I mean—no, I want it to be you.”
He smiles at me with those warm brown eyes, and I swear he can see straight through to the parts of me I’m desperately trying to hide. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We stand there, caught in a moment that feels suspended outside of time, until the overhead speakers crackle to life and the opening a new wave song drifts down from somewhere above the plywood displays.
I recognize it instantly. That haunting melody, those sparse electronic beats that somehow manage to sound both cold and achingly warm at the same time. It’s one of those songs that gets played at weddings and funerals alike, the kind that burrows into your chest and refuses to leave.
The singer’s voice floats through the store, and I feel each word like a physical blow.
Jackson’s browsing an end cap, completely oblivious to the way my world is tilting on its axis. He’s comparing two packages, squinting at the fine print like it actually matters, and all I can think about is how desperately I want him to look at me.
The question the singer asks echoes through the fluorescent-lit aisles, and I want to laugh at the cosmic joke of it all.
Can he hear me? I’ve been screaming at him without words for months now—every lingering touch, every loaded glance, every time I’ve pulled him close under the guise of this fake relationship. And he hasn’t heard a single thing.
Or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t want to answer.
My throat tightens. The lyrics feel like they were written specifically for this moment in a Home Depot, surrounded by lumber and paint and the wreckage of my carefully constructed walls.
Because it’s true. It’s so fucking true that it hurts.
Only Jackson. Only his stupid crooked smile, his perpetually messy hair, and the way he blushes when I tease him. Only the sound of his laugh and the warmth of his hand in mine.
I think about all the nights I’ve spent lying awake, staring at my ceiling, trying to convince myself that this is just a simple attraction. Hormones. Two people caught up in a convenient lie that got a little too convincing.
But simple attraction doesn’t feel like this. Attraction doesn’t make your chest ache when they walk into a room. Attraction doesn’t make you want to tell them every stupid thought that crosses your mind to see how they’ll react.
Gerard is saying something about complementary color theory, his voice a distant buzz beneath the music.
Nathan looks like he’s contemplating throwing himself into a display of two-by-fours.
Kyle and Oliver are debating the merits of different power drills.
And Jackson—good ole Jackson is right there, close enough to touch, and I’ve never felt so far away from anyone in my life.
The last words of the song hang in the air, invisible and impossible.
Only you.
Jackson Monroe has changed everything. The way I think about relationships, about the future, about what I want my life to look like. Before Jacky, I was content with hookups and surface-level connections, keeping everyone at arm’s length so they couldn’t get close enough to hurt me.
But now I want Sunday mornings, inside jokes, and someone to come home to. I want fights that end in apologies, lazy afternoons, and all the boring, beautiful mundanity of a real relationship.
I want it all. With him.
The song fades, but the damage is done. I’m standing in the middle of Home Depot, surrounded by my teammates and the guy I love, and I’m absolutely fucking terrified.
Because I can’t lose him. Not the way I lost my dad. Not by reaching for something real and having it slip through my fingers like water.
We load everything into our carts, Nathan still halfway to passing out at any moment, while Gerard continues his one-man show about color theory and skin undertones.
The familiar chaos of my teammates helps ground me, even as every molecule in my body vibrates at a higher frequency whenever Jackson stands this close to me.
At checkout, we realize we’ve bought enough supplies to build an entirely new deck, not just fix the existing one.
“Go big or go home,” Oliver shrugs, swiping his credit card.
We make our way to the parking lot, everyone grabbing bags and lumber. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the asphalt, and I find myself walking slower than necessary, not ready for Jackson to leave yet.
“Need help loading this stuff?” he asks.
“If you’ve got time.”
We work in a comfortable rhythm, tossing bags of screws and cans of sealant into the bed of my shitty pickup truck.
“You know, at first, I thought Sarah could be the Ice Queen,” Jackson says, watching Nathan’s latest meltdown about thong sizing. “But after the two of them had that little back and forth, it’d be pretty psychotic to fight with yourself online.”
“Exactly my thoughts.” I lean against the truck, studying Nathan’s face. “The timeline fits, and Nathan clearly has strong feelings about Gerard’s ass.”
“Don’t we all,” Jackson says, then immediately looks horrified. “I mean—”
“Relax.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “Gerard’s ass is objectively impressive.”
“Does it really matter who she is, though?” Jackson asks. “She’s some thirsty person lusting after beefy men. And let’s be real, Berkeley Shore has always been a little off.”
He’s got a point. This is the same school that once held a “Sexy Vegetable” contest, which was shut down after someone’s eggplant costume was deemed too anatomically accurate.
“Hey, Drew? Can I tell you something?”
I turn to face Jackson, and the expression on his face makes me wonder if someone in his family died or something. “Everything okay, man?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about Saturday. About us. And I—” He takes a deep breath, and I know with sudden, terrifying clarity what’s coming. “I need you to know that this isn’t fake for me anymore. I don’t think it ever was. I have feelings for you, Drew. Real ones.”
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for and dreading in equal measure. He’s standing there, vulnerable and perfect, offering me everything I want.
And…I can’t do it.
“Feelings?” I force out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. “You mean friendly feelings? Because same, buddy. You’re basically my bestest friend in the whole world at this point.”
His eyes dim like someone flicked a switch, his smile tightening at the corners until it’s just a line drawn across his face. His shoulders rise a fraction of an inch, and he takes a small step back that might as well be a mile. “Right. Friendly feelings.”
“The best friendly feelings,” I continue, because I can’t stop myself from making this worse. “Like, top-tier friendship. Premium buddy status.”
“Premium buddy status,” he repeats flatly.
“Exactly! We should get T-shirts made.”
Kill me. Someone, please kill me.
“Drew! Stop flirting and help me load this plywood!” Oliver calls from across the parking lot.
“Duty calls,” I say, already backing away like the coward I am. “Thanks for coming to help. Really good friend stuff. A-plus buddy behavior.”
Jackson nods, hands shoved in his pockets, feet turned slightly inward. “Yeah. Anytime.”
I escape, my chest feeling like someone’s reached in and squeezed my heart into pulp. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch Jackson walk to his car, shoulders hunched against a wind that isn’t there.
“You okay?” Oliver asks quietly.
“Fantastic,” I lie, hefting the plywood with unnecessary force.
“You know, if you push him away—”
“I’m not pushing anyone anywhere.”
“If you say so.”
“I goddamn say so,” I bite out right as I drop the plywood on my thumb. “Motherfucker!”
I cradle my hand against my chest, the skin already blooming purple beneath my thumbnail as Oliver’s face swims in and out of focus through the tears I refuse to let fall.
My mother always said karma was a bitch. And right now, I think karma is going to be the death of me.