Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Our relationship unfolded the way winter melts into spring: It doesn’t announce its arrival—it slips in imperceptibly, the subtle rise in temperature, the tender return of the grass, until you’re standing in the middle of it.
In the weeks after my catharsis, Jackson refused to leave me alone at night.
After his own breakthrough, the nights were the hardest for him, he said, and he didn’t want me sleepwalking, so he stayed in my cabin.
It wasn’t something we discussed, only the unspoken understanding that neither of us wanted to face the solitude that the night brought.
Every evening after dinner and our walks, Jackson would return to the main house and shower.
Soon after, a knock would echo throughout the cabin.
It was just a knock, the kind I’d gotten used to, the kind that signaled his return.
But as the days passed, it sounded different, lighter, softer, than the knocks of earlier days.
It wasn’t the same casual tap, this one filled with an acknowledgment of what had shifted between us. What had shifted in me.
I’d had a breakthrough, a significant one.
The fog of grief and guilt, the pain of the fire, the loss of Lila, had draped itself over everything, every thought, every step I took.
It clung to me like skin until I stopped questioning its presence and accepted it as part of me.
But in the weeks that followed, when I thought about the flames, about Lila’s face, it still hurt.
Some wounds never fully heal, and this one never would. But it hurt a little less.
“How did you forgive your mother and start grieving her?” I asked Jackson one night on one of our walks.
Jackson sighed. “When I realized that she wasn’t perfect. I learned how to remember her fully, hold on to the good things, the good memories of her and her imperfections.”
“It’s hard to think of Mama and not blame her for what happened to my family.”
“You may never stop feeling that way, and that’s okay. Grief is tricky, especially in our case, because of how things ended with our mothers. We never got closure. But you have to make your peace with her and what happened.”
“Tibb said the same thing. I told him its easier said than done.”
“Yeah…it is. You numbed yourself, and there’s no shame in that.
It’s how you survived. How I survived. But so much that holds us back is self-inflicted.
I used to think that I could rush through my grief, that I could somehow bypass the pain.
Until I saw grief for what it was. Not something to get rid of but love holding on to. ”
“I just want to get back to myself.”
Jackson laughed. “You’ll never get back to your old self.
That person had a sister, a mother, a father.
They were part of who you were. You can’t go back to her.
You have to learn to be this new person and live without them.
It’s not just missing them but mourning the part of yourself you lost. Part of you died too. ”
He would never know the truth of these words, words I had uttered just months ago when I walked away from the bus crash.
“What happened to you was unfathomable,” Jackson continued, “so you have to dig deeper, into love, hope, and purpose. And that’s what you hold on to with everything you’ve got.
And every day, you’ll get stronger, and a new person will emerge.
” Our nights together were extensions of our walks.
We recounted the day and what we wanted to accomplish on the farm tomorrow.
Jackson often spoke about his mother—told her stories, described her laughter.
I pushed myself to see Mama as a person instead of a list of offenses, to recall the good things about her, like her beauty, her love for Daddy and for us.
Each night, as the hours slipped away, our words decreased.
Then Jackson would pull me close, and we would rest. When morning came, it found us still tangled together.
We didn’t have sex. What was building between us was much deeper than that.
Jackson never pressured me for more; his patience was as deep as the ocean.
We never placed a label on what we were doing, never tried to define it.
I think that was what made it so magical.
That it just happened. We just were, and it felt as natural as anything in the world.
We existed in a bubble of our own making, where the only rules were those we chose to follow.
And this intimacy, the comfort of being in each other’s presence, became just as thrilling as the act of making love.
What I know now that I didn’t know then was that Jackson’s love language was physical touch, and when our conversations had dwindled, his hands became the language he used to continue our dialogue.
We lay together, face to face, his touch slow and deliberate, a careful exploration of every inch of my skin.
His fingers traced the contours of my face and slid across my lips.
He didn’t just hold me, he folded me into him with his entire body, his arms and legs around me, his face nestled into the curve of my neck, and he would breathe deeply.
My body melted against his, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Even in our more intimate moments, when we spooned or our bodies intertwined, his hands would rove gently, moving across with a tenderness that contradicted the hardened exterior he presented to the world.
And yet, in the midst of our connection, I was aware of the danger of being with him, of giving myself to him.
Every glance, every touch felt like a thread pulling me deeper into something I knew might unravel me.
I softened under his touch because he made me feel safe, not because he would push the shadows away but because he taught me how to do it myself.
It wasn’t just an attraction but the igniting of a spark first lit at the farmers market.
I liked him. And when our fingers brushed, I saw in the way he held my gaze a little longer than necessary that he, in turn, felt the same.
It was as simple and complex as that.
The night of the next Bonfire marked a turning point for us.
I stood at the edge, the fire warming my face, watching.
Tibb’s laughter rang out while Luke’s voice and the strum of his guitar drifted through the air.
Then through the crowd, I saw him. For a moment, he stood apart from everyone else, his gaze tracing the flames.
My heart raced, a flicker of heat spreading through my chest that seemed to reach places within me untouched.
Nothing compared to the fire building inside me, a flame hotter than the one crackling in front of us.
Jackson moved through the crowd, exchanging words with others before he spotted me.
And when his eyes met mine, there was a newness, and the smile he offered arrived slow, knowing, like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as I had.
He made his way over, excusing himself from those he passed with a few quick words.
When he reached me, without a word, he extended his hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I placed my hand in his.
“Dance with me.”
“Jackson…”
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, “I think you can stop calling me Jackson. We’re past that now.”
I nodded and smiled. He was right. It was a small but a significant step, a breaking of a barrier between us. Calling him Jack was like stepping into the deeper connection we now shared.
And we both knew it.
“Just say it,” he said. “Say my name.”
“Jack,” I whispered, releasing the word as easy as a breath.
Jackson grinned wide, one that covered his entire face. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” His voice dropped an octave. “Now, dance with me.”
I glanced around. “Nobody really dances. People will stare.”
“So what?” he said, pulling me close. “Just look at me.”
In answer, the music swelled. Luke began strumming the opening chords of “Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones, his own version, slower and stripped.
But as Luke played, I stopped hearing most of it, the sound fading into the background, and my attention turned to Jackson—his scent, the pressure of his hand on the small of my back, the way his body filled the space between us.
We moved as one, not just to the rhythm of the song but to the beat of our own hearts.
Impossibly, Jackson pulled me closer, the space between us vanishing, and guided my hand to rest gently against his chest. His lips brushed my ear, his voice a soft echo to Luke’s singing.
Something frayed inside me. It all made sense now, why people threw themselves into the arms of lovers, how so many things could fall away in the embrace of someone you loved. In the warmth of Jackson’s touch and the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm, everything fell into place.
Then it hit me, like a rush of cold air, sharp and sudden. I was no longer just a passive observer of love. I was trapped in it. And in that moment, I understood the truth that had been unfolding within me all along.
I was in love with Jackson.
And then, the moment between us cracked, splintering like glass. A wave of doubt and fear crashed over me. I can’t do this, I thought. I shouldn’t. The voices buried deep inside me for so long returned.
I stepped back, shaking my head. “I can’t,” I whispered, the words shaking as they left my lips. “I’m sorry. I just…can’t.”
Jackson closed the distance between us, his hand reaching out, but I backed away again.
“I just need a minute, okay?” I said, my voice tight as I turned and walked away.