Chapter 13
Thirteen
I took my first walk with Jackson later that night.
The evening was still young, but darkness had already draped the sky.
Jackson waited just outside the cabin, exactly where he’d promised.
Of course he was there. He meant what he said, was always where he said he would be.
His face lit up with that warm grin when he spotted me, and I ran to catch up with him.
I had made the decision to walk with him, but not that I would talk.
I could walk. I could walk all day and night, if he wanted that.
The rhythm of it, one foot in front of the other, felt effortless compared to the enormity of opening up about my past. There were so many risks involved, if only he knew.
I had never told anyone what happened to my family or the events leading up to it.
I could barely face that myself. That secret was mine to keep, my cross to bear.
Yet I was tired of running from myself. I didn’t want to be this person anymore, and I longed to discover a different self.
Life on the Flower Farm offered me that.
Jackson promised me that. He, Tibb, and Luke wore the scars from the traumas of their pasts and had lived to tell their stories.
If they could, maybe there would be hope for me too.
I had walked away from the wreckage of the bus crash seeking freedom, a purpose, not merely from the bars that had confined me but from the bars in my mind.
Walking was my start. I knew I had to keep moving, because I couldn’t stand the idea of standing still any longer.
Later, the words would flow like a river—easily, freely.
In time, I would learn that talking to Jackson didn’t hurt; it was the opposite.
But this first walk, Jackson didn’t speak either.
I looked over, and his head was tipped back, a faint smile on his lips as if he was perfectly at ease in the quiet.
We walked side by side as the evening went from warm to cool, the only sound the river, the burbling of water over stones. Then:
“They’re still talking about your chicken,” Jackson said. “Luke was reheating the leftovers when I left. He couldn’t get enough.”
Earlier that evening, I’d stood in the kitchen, hands coated in flour once again, making fried chicken for dinner.
Two meals in one day, and I was already starting to feel like my old self.
The girl who cooked for her family. I still hadn’t gotten used to the idea that I could belong to a family again.
But I didn’t let the thought bother me. I even liked it.
I paired the chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, crisp green beans, and homemade rolls.
The kitchen once again hummed with the sounds of appreciation and the clinking of forks against plates.
“We just ate a couple hours ago,” I said.
“He said he couldn’t get the taste out of his mouth. It’s that good, you know?”
A modest smile tugged at my lips. “I’m glad everyone liked it.”
Jackson’s brow furrowed. “You have a hard time accepting compliments. Why?”
You are such a pretty girl. You are such a pretty girl. You are such a pretty girl.
The words beat in my mind like a persistent drum.
I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said quickly. He possessed an uncanny knack for reading between the lines, and I should have known a vague response would not satisfy him. “You know…you just don’t know how to express it.”
I met his gaze, sensing the depth of his question, but my mind was elsewhere.
“Where did you go just now? You tuned out for a second. Where did you go?”
“How did you know that?” I asked, though deep down I already knew the answer. He could see through me, and it baffled me.
“Take your shoes off,” he instructed softly.
I looked at him warily. “What?”
“Just take them off.”
It was then that I noticed he was barefoot, his long toes wriggling in the grass.
“Why?”
“Try it.”
I didn’t argue. Because if I was taking my shoes off, he wasn’t asking me to talk. This was better, easier, than that. I bent down and removed my shoes and socks. The blades of grass tickled my toes. I straightened up, slightly skeptical. “Now what?”
Jackson began walking again, his steps quiet, each one sinking into the grass. “Let’s go.”
I hesitated, holding my shoes in one hand and watching the ground. “I can’t walk without shoes.”
“Why not?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Because I may step on something,” I said, tiptoeing carefully through the grass. The prison floors had been disgusting; we hadn’t been allowed out of our cells without shoes anyway.
“Then don’t step on something. Watch where you step.”
I followed him, eyes fixed on the ground as I walked through the uneven terrain.
“Feel that?” Jackson said, pausing to allow me to catch up.
I stopped. “Feel what? It’s just grass.”
He smiled. “It’s more than that. Think of it as a connection, a bridge between us and everything that’s real. When we’re grounded, we’re reminded of our place. How does it feel?”
“I don’t know.”
Jackson stepped closer and looked down at me. “Close your eyes and tell me what you feel.”
“I tried this with Tibb, and it didn’t go well.”
“You’re not meditating. You’re just telling me what you feel. Close your eyes. I’ll talk you through it.”
I took a deliberate step forward. The soft blades tickled my feet.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the moment settle around me.
For a second, I let go of everything that gnawed at me, blocking out Deacon Ridley’s voice and the anxiety about this walk with Jackson.
Instead, I tuned in to the feel of the grass, the blades that wrapped around my feet.
“What do you feel? Just start talking,” Jackson asked, his voice a guided hand.
“I feel the grass between my toes,” I said.
“And what does it feel like?”
“Soft and scratchy.”
“What else?”
“It tickles a little.”
“Do you like the feeling?”
As if in response, a playful breeze stirred and the long grass brushed my feet, heightening the tickling sensation.
A smile unfurled across my face, spontaneous and unexpected, and I heard Jackson’s smile, the slick sound of his lips sliding across wet teeth.
And there was something in that sound that made me smile harder.
“Why did you smile?” Jackson asked.
I opened my eyes and found him staring at me. He was close now—too close. Closer than I’d realized, our bodies inches apart. The proximity made my heart race. “Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered.
I shut my eyes again, feeling the warmth of his gaze even though I couldn’t see it.
“Why did you smile?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.” The words came slow. It was a silly thing to find funny, the sound of another person’s happiness. It tickled me but also surprised me, how freely my smile kept arriving without permission, the audacity of it.
“Think about it.”
“I heard you smile.”
“Good, and why did that make you smile?”
“Because…because…” I paused, searching for the words. “I thought it was funny that I could hear you smile but not see it. I didn’t know it was possible to hear a smile.”
Jackson’s laughter, gentle and light, drifted and filled the quiet space between us. “Do you feel anything else?”
I did. The rapid beat of my heart thrummed in my chest, and I wondered if he could see it.
I felt nervous about his proximity. Nervous that I didn’t mind it—welcomed it, if I were being honest. It stirred up memories of our first meeting at the farmers market, a moment charged with attraction.
But I couldn’t tell him any of that; I didn’t understand the feeling myself.
So I waited a moment before answering. “No.”
“Good. It worked.”
“What worked?”
“You are not thinking about whatever you were earlier. When you were walking, you were watching your feet. You were present in the moment. You were right here, right now. Not there, wherever it was.”
He was right: It had worked. And even though I was now reminded of the memory, Deacon Ridley’s voice wasn’t as persistent. I immediately went back to thinking about the grass beneath my feet. And Jackson’s smile.
“It’s called grounding. When your bare feet come in contact with the earth, free electrons flow into your body. Grounding helps us to harness Earth’s natural energies to calm us. We’ve become so separated from our bond with nature and from the very essence that once tethered us to the land.”
“Did your uncle teach you that?”
“In a way…yeah,” he said. “It started with our walks, but I discovered being barefoot by accident. I liked the way the earth felt under my feet and the way it centered me. I found it calming, almost meditative. Grounding reconnects us with our place in the world and reminds us to be where our feet are.”
“I would have never taken you for the tree-hugger type,” I said, half amused.
He chuckled to himself. “You sound like Luke. Some people dismiss it as pseudoscience. Maybe it is, but it works for me. It worked for you. Throughout history, our ancestors walked, sat, and slept on the earth. They farmed with their hands and lived in harmony with the outdoors. We’ve severed that bond.
Reconnecting with this natural energy is essential if we’re going to counter the disconnection we’ve forced upon ourselves. ”
He was wise, and that immediately drew me in. “What did it feel like for you? The first time?” I asked.
He sighed deeply. “It felt like waking up. It was as though the earth was speaking to me. It was a depth of intimacy that I had never known. When we lose touch with that, we forget how deeply interconnected we are.”
“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Know how you feel…be able to say it so freely.”
“I didn’t always. It took years.”
“But…you’re healed now.”