6. Jackson #2
"My father collapsed in his office," I begin, the memory still sharp enough to make my chest tighten.
"One minute we were arguing about inventory systems, the next he was on the floor, clutching his chest. Everything happened so fast after that—the ambulance, the hospital, the doctors talking about blockages and procedures. "
Tarryn's expression softens, her guard lowering incrementally as I continue.
"I tried to call you," I admit, the confession burning my throat. "Multiple times. Every call went straight to voicemail. I even emailed, but… nothing."
"I blocked your number," she says quietly, regret coloring her voice. "After our last fight, I just… I couldn't keep doing it. The distance, the anger. It was destroying me."
The revelation lands like a physical blow, though it confirms what I've long suspected. "I know I behaved horribly," I tell her, forcing myself to maintain eye contact, to own my part in our dissolution. "I was frustrated and scared, and taking it out on you wasn't fair."
She swallows, a small, vulnerable gesture that makes my heart ache. "We were both young. Both trying to navigate impossible situations."
“I left you alone with so many questions," I acknowledge. "I shut down when you needed me to open up. And by the time I was ready to fight for us, you'd already moved on."
The words hang between us, heavy with years of regret and what-ifs. Tarryn looks down at her plate, pushing her salad around with her fork without purpose.
"Did you?" she asks suddenly, her eyes meeting mine with surprising directness. "Move on?"
The question catches me off guard, strips away my prepared script. "I tried," I admit, the truth raw and unfiltered. "God knows I tried. But…"
Her phone buzzes against the table, the screen lighting up with a text from Mark. I catch a fragment of the message—something about dinner plans—before she quickly flips it over, color rising in her cheeks.
The moment shatters, reality intruding with jarring efficiency. She clears her throat, shifting the conversation back to safer territory. "The Westfield presentation is coming together nicely. Miguel seemed impressed with our combined approach."
I allow the deflection, recognizing when a door is closing. We finish our lunch in strained politeness, split the check with careful precision, and head back toward the office in silence that feels heavier than before.
The spring air carries a hint of impending rain, dark clouds gathering in the distance. As we cross an intersection, Tarryn's heel catches on an uneven segment of sidewalk. She pitches forward, her arms darting out to catch herself.
“Oof!”
I reach for her instinctively, arms encircling her waist to steady her. For one suspended moment, we're pressed together, her body against mine, her breath warm against my neck. Time seems to slow, stretch, condense to this single point of contact.
"Jackson," she whispers my name.
I can't help myself—I raise my hand to cup her cheek, thumb brushing along her jawline, making her eyes flutter closed. We stand frozen in this moment, her lips just inches from mine.
Then she steps back, breaking the connection with visible effort. "We can't do this," she says, voice strained. "We work together. I've moved on. We both have."
The last part sounds like she's trying to convince herself more than me, but I don't call her on it. Instead, I watch as she straightens her jacket, rebuilding her professional armor piece by piece.
"I should get back," she says, not meeting my eyes. "I have that client call to prepare for."
She walks away, her heels clicking a precise rhythm against the pavement, leaving me standing alone with the ghost of her touch still burning against my skin. After a moment, I follow, maintaining a careful distance that feels both necessary and excruciating.
My apartment feels emptier than usual tonight, the silence pressing in from all sides as I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and sink onto the couch. The amber liquid catches the light, throwing golden reflections against the wall as I twist the glass, watching the slow dance of shadows.
I set the whiskey aside, reaching instead for the shoebox I keep in my closet. Inside, beneath old concert tickets and faded photographs, lies a letter—edges worn from handling, the envelope bearing a red RETURN TO SENDER stamp that has faded with time.
I trace my finger over her name in my scrawled handwriting: Tarryn Wells, written with a hope that aches even now, years later.
I'd written it during those dark days in the hospital, pouring out everything I couldn't say over the phone—my fear of losing my father, my regret over our arguments, my desperate need to have her by my side through the worst moments of my life.
She never read it. Never knew.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I debate texting her. What would I even say?
I still think about you.
I never stopped.
Today in the break room, on the sidewalk, every moment in between—I've been fighting the urge to pull you close, to finish what we started eight years ago.
No. Too much, too soon. Maybe ever.
Instead, I carefully refold the letter but instead of hiding it away back in the shoebox, I place it on my nightstand. Tomorrow, I'll leave it on her desk when she's in a meeting. No pressure, no expectations—just the truth I tried to share years ago, finally reaching its intended recipient.
Whether she chooses to read it, to respond, to acknowledge what still smolders between us—that will be entirely her choice. I've spent eight years wondering what might have been. I can wait a little longer to find out what might still be.
I take a sip of whiskey, the burn matching the ache in my chest. Tomorrow, I'll give her the truth.
Tonight, I'll allow myself to remember the way she felt in my arms today, solid and warm and so achingly familiar—like something precious I'd forgotten I'd lost until it was briefly, tantalizing, within reach once more.