2. Jackson
Jackson
M orning light filters through half-unpacked boxes in my Chicago apartment, casting geometric shadows across the hardwood floors.
I run my fingers along the spine of my law school diploma, still nestled in its protective cardboard.
The sensation triggers a cascade of memories—the acrid scent of sawdust mingling with my father's Old Spice aftershave in the cramped construction office where I spent two years that should have been spent at college.
Two years that changed everything.
I place the diploma on my new bookshelf, my hand lingering on the frame.
I'd arrived home from freshman year full of modern business theories and ambitious plans, eager to revolutionize my father's struggling company.
I can still hear the echo of our arguments bouncing off the thin paneled walls after hours, his stubborn pride colliding with my youthful certainty.
The way those arguments and frustration turned into bitterness… that I took out on Tarryn.
“You’re pushing me away again,” she pleads through broken sobs on the other end of the phone. “Please, Jack.”
“I’m not, Tar!” I snap. My body still flinches at the memory of my harsh tone. “I can’t do this right now, I’m too—I’m too…”
“Too what, Jackson?” Her voice sounds hollow, like she already knows what’s coming despite all the times I told her it wouldn’t.
“Too tired to deal with this. Too frustrated. Too—done, Tarryn. I just need space.”
Then came the heart attack—a thunderclap moment that redefined my world in the space of a single phone call.
My fingers absently trace the edge of my desk as I remember the sterile hospital corridor, the metronomic beeping of machines matching my racing pulse.
I remember the desperate calls to Tarryn that went straight to voicemail, the text messages that delivered but never received responses.
She had every right to put those boundaries in place.
Every right to never speak to me again after I destroyed her world…
but it didn’t make it any easier. The memory constricts my chest even now, making it difficult to breathe in my expansive new office despite the years that have passed.
I shake off the heaviness of recollection and check my watch. Time to embrace this new chapter—junior counsel at Blake Financial. A fresh start in a new city where the ghosts of Maple Ridge can't follow me.
Or so I thought.
The car glides through Chicago's morning traffic, and I rehearse what I know about Blake Financial's key players.
Taylor and Austin Blake, of course, a powerhouse couple that took the Chicago financial world by storm several years ago.
Miguel Ramirez, managing partner, Yale Law, known for his aggressive expansion of the firm's corporate client base.
Christine Blackwell, senior counsel, Harvard Law, specializes in corporate restructuring with a reputation for ruthless efficiency.
A handful of junior attorneys with impressive credentials but not enough experience to pose any real competition for the junior counsel position Miguel dangled during our last meeting.
"We're looking for someone who can bring fresh perspective to our negotiation strategy," he said. "Someone who isn't afraid to take calculated risks."
The building is an architectural maze of gleaming glass and sharp angles, exactly what you'd expect from one of Chicago's top financial firms. The security guard checks my ID, hands me a temporary badge, and directs me to the elevators with practiced efficiency.
Miguel is waiting in the lobby when I arrive, his handshake firm, his smile conveying he’s genuinely pleased to see me.
"Jackson! Right on time. Let's get you settled." He claps me on the shoulder, guiding me toward the elevator. "We've got you set up in a corner office on the twenty-third floor. North view. You can see the lake on clear days."
"I appreciate that," I say, following him into the elevator. "I'm looking forward to diving in."
"Eager. I like that." Miguel presses the button for the twenty-third floor. "We'll do a quick tour, introduce you around, then I've scheduled a meeting to discuss your integration into the Westfield contract team."
The doors close with a soft ping, and Miguel launches into an overview of the firm's structure. I nod at appropriate intervals, but my attention catches on something else—a laugh floating down the hallway as we step off the elevator. A laugh I would recognize anywhere, even after eight years.
It can't be.
But my body knows before my mind fully processes it, a visceral reaction that sends electricity crackling across my skin. I've heard that laugh in my dreams for years—bright, slightly husky around the edges, with a musical quality that used to make me do ridiculous things just to hear it again.
"The junior counsel position we discussed will be opening up officially next quarter," Miguel is saying as we walk, oblivious to my sudden distraction. "Though, I should mention there's another promising attorney who'll be in consideration. Healthy competition, you understand."
I force myself to focus. "Of course. I welcome the challenge."
We turn a corner, and Miguel gestures to various offices, introducing me to an increasingly forgettable parade of associates and paralegals. I shake hands, make small talk, and try to ignore the way my pulse has picked up speed, the way my ears strain for that laugh again.
As we pass an open office door, I notice a woman hurriedly ducking inside, as if avoiding someone in the hallway.
The glimpse is fleeting—just chestnut hair and a familiar profile that makes my heart stop.
I catch just enough to recognize the elegant curve of her neck, the way she moves with that distinctive grace I'd know blindfolded.
Tarryn. Here. Impossible.
I convince myself I'm imagining things—Chicago is a big city, and the odds of Tarryn being at this specific firm are pretty much impossible. Still, the possibility leaves me distracted throughout the remainder of the tour, my responses to Miguel becoming increasingly mechanical as my mind races.
"And this will be your office," Miguel says, showing me into a spacious corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows. "Take a moment to get settled. I'll have my assistant bring you the Westfield materials to review before our meeting."
"Thank you. I appreciate the warm welcome."
"Blake Financial values talent," he says simply. "We're expecting great things from you, Jackson."
As soon as Miguel leaves, I drop into the leather chair behind my new desk and pull out my phone, fingers shaking slightly as I type a name into the search bar: Tarryn Wells.
Nothing comes up in the firm directory. Of course not. I'm being ridiculous. Chicago is a city of nearly three million people. The odds that she's here, at this specific firm…
But then why did I hear her laugh? Why did that fleeting glimpse of a woman ducking into an office send my heart into overdrive?
I lean back in my chair, memories flooding in despite my best efforts to dam them.
Tarryn in the daisy field, her hair catching the summer light. Tarryn on the phone our first month of college, her voice growing more distant with each call. Tarryn's email after our last argument, clinical and final.
I think we should embrace this new chapter in our lives fully. This long-distance relationship is holding us both back.
Six months. That's all we lasted after high school. Six increasingly strained months of missed calls and postponed visits, of growing silences and diminishing connection. By Christmas of freshman year, we were effectively strangers who shared a history neither of us knew how to honor or release.
A knock at my door pulls me from the memory. A young woman with a tablet stands in the doorway.
"Mr. Hayes? I'm Denise from HR. I have some paperwork for you to fill out, and then Mr. Ramirez asked me to escort you to the conference room for your team meeting."
I follow her through a maze of hallways, signing forms on the tablet as we walk. The conference room is at the end of a long corridor, its glass walls revealing several people already seated inside. Miguel stands at the head of the table, gesturing animatedly about something.
"Here we are," Denise says cheerfully. "Good luck on your first day!"
I thank her and push open the glass door, my heart rate accelerating with each step. Miguel smiles, gesturing me over where I take a seat and we begin our meeting. Once we get through the basics, he stands, buttoning his suit coat.
"There's one more person you need to meet—one of our most promising attorneys. She's been with us for two years and has an impressive track record with client contracts. She’s just down the hall.”
Miguel knocks on the doorframe of a corner office. "Tarryn, do you have a moment?"
My breath catches as she turns from her computer, and the world stops spinning.
Her eyes widen in shock as they lock with mine, recognition hitting her like a physical blow.
For a split second, I'm transported back to that final phone call—her voice increasingly distant as she explained why long distance wasn't working, how our paths were diverging, how she no longer wanted to feel like a burden.
The email that followed a week later, clinical and final, severing the last threads between us.
Tarryn Wells. Eight years older but unmistakable.
Her hair is shorter now, falling in sleek waves just past her shoulders instead of the long curls I used to wrap around my fingers.
She's dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit that accentuates the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her waist. But it's her eyes that hit me hardest—those same deep brown eyes that used to look at me like I was everything.
Now they're wide with shock, fixed on me with an expression that cycles rapidly from disbelief to recognition to something close to panic.
"Tarryn, this is Jackson Hayes, our newest addition to the legal team," Miguel says, completely oblivious to the electric current of recognition passing between us. "Jackson, meet Tarryn Wells, who's been leading our contract work."
I swallow hard, forcing myself to act normal, to pretend I'm meeting her for the first time. Because clearly that's what she wants—her eyes are practically begging me to play along, to not reveal our shared history in front of her colleagues.
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wells," I say, extending my hand. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, somehow maintaining a professional tone despite the earthquake happening inside me. "I've heard impressive things."
Her palm meets mine, and electricity jolts through me with such force I almost gasp. Eight years, and my body still remembers her touch like it was yesterday.
"Likewise, Mr. Hayes," she manages to say, her voice surprisingly steady despite the storm I can see brewing behind her eyes. "Welcome to Blake Financial."
Our hands remain connected a moment too long.
A knowing gleam appears in her eyes, so familiar it hurts.
Though Miguel doesn't explicitly mention competition, I connect the dots about the junior counsel position we're both clearly being considered for, creating immediate professional tension layered over our personal history.
Miguel takes us to the conference room, where more introductions follow.
I contribute when appropriate, ask intelligent questions, make all the right impressions.
But my awareness never strays far from her—the precise way she takes notes, the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates, the nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear that she hasn't outgrown.
And there, just visible beneath the collar of her blouse, a delicate gold chain that disappears beneath her silk shell. I know what hangs on that chain—a small daisy pendant I gave her for our one-year anniversary. The fact that she still wears it knocks the air from my lungs.
The meeting ends, and people filter out of the conference room. I deliberately take my time gathering my materials, hoping for a moment alone with her. But she's efficient, slipping out with a colleague before I can manufacture a reason to speak to her.
I follow her down the hallway, catching up as she's about to enter her office. "Tarryn," I say quietly, making sure no one is within earshot.
"Not now, Jackson." Her voice is low, urgent. "Not here."
"We need to talk about this."
"No, we don't." She glances nervously over my shoulder. "There's nothing to talk about. We're colleagues now. That's it."
"Eight years without a word, and that's all you have to say to me?"
Something flickers across her face—regret? Anger? But before she can respond, a voice calls from down the hallway.
"Tarryn! Miguel needs the Westfield briefs right away."
She steps back immediately, professional mask sliding seamlessly into place. "I'll have them on his desk in five minutes," she calls back, then fixes me with a look that is equal parts warning and plea. "Welcome to Blake Financial, Mr. Hayes."
She walks away, her heels echoing against the marble floor, leaving me standing alone in a hallway that suddenly feels too bright, too cold, too real.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief as I watch her disappear.
Back in my apartment that evening, I finally locate the box I've been looking for—not labeled, just marked with a simple X in black Sharpie. Inside, beneath law school textbooks and old case briefs, is a battered journal. I haven't opened it in years, but I know exactly what's inside.
There, pressed between pages filled with the angry scrawl of my nineteen-year-old self, is a single dried daisy. The petals have long since turned brown, fragile as tissue paper, but intact. A tangible reminder of promises made by children who had no idea how complicated life would become.
Beside the journal is an envelope, yellowed with age, addressed to Tarryn Wells in my careful handwriting.
Returned unopened, the red stamp RETURN TO SENDER faded but still legible.
My first attempt to reach out after our breakup, when my father had his heart attack during my sophomore year and I needed someone—needed her—to help me make sense of a world that was falling apart.
I trace my finger over her name on the envelope, remembering how it felt to write it, to hope she might read the words inside. Words about forgiveness and second chances and the possibility that maybe we weren't finished after all.
Words she never saw.
Now, eight years later, she's back in my life through some cosmic joke or curse or blessing—I'm not sure which. All I know is that tomorrow I'll walk into that gleaming office building and she'll be there, pretending we're strangers when the truth is we know each other in ways that go bone deep.
The question is, what am I going to do about it?