Chapter 6 #4
I slipped onto the worn front seat of his truck, the leather splitting beneath me.
A hairline crack etched the length of the dashboard, I noticed as I slid across.
The seats sagged but retained a hint of their original blue color.
Jackson followed, and his entire body filled every inch of available space.
Despite the cramped quarters, he settled in, his long legs stretching and finding precarious angles, evidence of the years he’d spent behind the wheel.
“How long have you been in Camden?” His voice was a low, deep murmur cutting through the quiet.
The question hung in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled. Outside, the landscape passed by in a blur of shadows. I sat up straighter, hesitating, weighing the consequences of my response. “Not long,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“Do you plan on staying?” he asked, sliding a look at me with an eyebrow arched. He made my insides leap, looking at me that way.
“No, just passing through.”
“Where are you from originally?” His questions rolled out like waves—relentless. And I found myself wanting to answer them, wanting to be truthful.
“South Carolina,” I said, more easily than I’d expected.
“The whole state, huh?” he said with a hint of a smile. “Okay, so why Camden?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just making small talk.”
I leaned back in my seat, folding my arms. “I was on a Greyhound bus, and it broke down. So I stayed.” Again, I didn’t know why the truth seemed easier than a lie.
“You looked around Camden and thought, Ah, yes, this is the paradise I’ve been searching for?” His chuckle echoed around the cab.
“Not exactly,” I said, picking at my fingers. “I missed the replacement bus the next day, and Camden isn’t on a regular route.”
“How did you start working for Walt?”
“He needed help. I needed a job.”
“Where were you headed?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“And you really don’t answer any of them.”
“Mississippi,” I said, finally giving in. “That’s where I was headed.”
“Do you have family there?”
“See? More questions.”
“Do they make you feel uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” I said without thinking.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know you. And…”
“And what? Finish that.”
“That!” I said, frustration bubbling up and spilling over. “Why do you do that?”
“What? Ask questions?”
“No—” I stopped, trying to find the words. “Push.”
“People are too guarded. Conditioned to give superficial answers and not the real ones just below the surface.”
“Maybe people are guarded for a reason.”
“That’s fair,” he said, nodding. “How about one more question?” His voice turned serious, and the air between us tightened and shifted. The space around me grew smaller. “What happened to your face?”
I turned toward the window, letting the blur of passing scenery fill my vision, but I could still feel his gaze heavy on my skin. I thought the bruise had healed enough.
“Folks in Camden might not be able to see the traces, but c’mon, I know what a bruise on dark skin looks like,” he said, head inclining slightly.
There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but he didn’t.
The darkness outside somehow deepened even more, casting fleeting velvet patches of reflections across his face.
He had spoken softly, but it didn’t cut through the tension now hanging between us.
“That’s none of your business,” I said, the fire reignited within me. Who did he think he was? I needed to regain control. I needed to get out of this truck, away from him.
“Look…” Remorse seeped around his words. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe that,” I said, my tone sharp.
He placed a hand over his heart. “I’m being sincere.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I shot back at him. “Is flower farming really that dangerous?”
He smiled and touched the cut above his eye; a drop of blood appeared on his finger. “We were clearing some land. A tree fought back. It’s nothing.” He reached into the glove compartment, brushing my knee. “Excuse me,” he said.
I shifted my legs out of his way, but the brief contact lingered, crackling like static. I felt off-balance, the way you feel when something is familiar but you can’t put your finger on what, exactly.
“A tree, huh? Maybe you should consider a different line of work,” I said, trying to deflect the moment’s awkwardness with humor.
His laughter returned as he dabbed at the cut with a napkin, a genuine sound that filled the cab once more. “Maybe I should. Like what?”
“Anything less dangerous. A postal worker. A librarian.”
“Aha! I like that. Both of those deal with paper—dead trees. I could constantly be mocking my archnemeses.”
“But watch out—books can hurt if thrown,” I said, the banter between us flowing easier now like a river unblocked.
He snickered. “I probably should get used to something being thrown at me.”
It took me a moment, but then I remembered what Walt had told me. “Is this about the town hall?”
“Real talk of the town, apparently. You should come. Help Luke and Tibb protect me.” His gaze flickered to mine before returning to the road, a quiet question etched in the lines of his face.
“Are you afraid?” The words slipped from my lips before I’d realized how they’d sober the moment.
His eyes locked on mine, steady and unflinching, and in that silence, I felt it—pressure that squeezed the air between us.
In that moment, his eyes weren’t just watching me; they were pulling something from me and telling me something, something deeper than the playful facade we had maintained.
“Not anymore,” he whispered. It was a confession that landed with a quiet strength.
Beneath his tough exterior, there was something softer, an unmistakable tenderness that bled through the cracks of his rough edges.
This discovery unnerved me. In another world, another life, he might have been an anchor, a silent promise of protection.
A man worth exploring feelings with. Yet I struggled to make sense of this feeling, one that I had never felt for another.
Tomorrow sparked in the dark, a knife catching the moonlight, and would ultimately sever our connection.
As we continued down the road, understanding and curiosity bridged the gap between two strangers in a truck brought together by chance. And that was enough. It had to be enough.
Jackson pulled into the campground parking lot and shut off the engine.
The truck sighed into silence. He stepped out first without a word, his boots hitting the ground with a thud, and before I could move, he extended his hand to me.
I accepted it, an acknowledgment of the trust forged in a brief amount of time.
“Safe and sound,” he said, leaning against the truck.
“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze as I took two steps back before turning and walking away.
“You’re not going to say it?” His words trailed after me.
“Good night, Jackson,” I called over my shoulder.
“Good night, Leigh.”
As I walked away, I sensed his eyes pressing against my back, a gaze I chose not to meet with my own. Sometimes what remains unspoken is as profound as what is said.