Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
JACKSON
When I was younger, I disliked coffee and never understood the hype about it—caffeine always made me tired and lethargic. I went through the whole of high school without it, but something changed after I started college, and I finally caved in.
Now, I can’t function properly without having at least one cup of coffee every day.
Today, however, as I step inside The Daily Brew, I’m not here for the coffee.
I’m here to see someone.
My grip on the envelope I’m holding tightens as I join the line of customers. I’ve held off giving Anna’s card to Isabelle to avoid seeing her again so soon, but it’s time to get it over and done with.
I wait for my turn before facing the barista behind the counter. “Good morning. Is Isabella—I mean, Isabelle here?”
The barista, whose name badge reads Cherie, shakes her head. “Isabelle doesn’t work here on Saturdays.”
I scratch my head. Of course. Isabelle must be at the market today.
“Can I pass on a message?” she asks.
Just ask her to give the envelope to Isabelle.
I clear my throat. “It’s all good, thank you.”
She nods, and I turn around, heading for the exit.
Coward. So much for just asking her to pass on the card.
“Jackson?” a high-pitched female voice calls out.
Turning back around, I come face-to-face with a blonde woman, wearing a lime-green athleisure set. She lifts her Prada sunglasses so that they’re sitting on top of her head and flashes a bright smile. “It is you!”
“Hi, Hilary,” I say.
Hilary goes to my gym, and we’ve run into each other several times. The first time, she asked me how to use a piece of gym equipment even though she looked like she already knew how to use it.
She giggles. “Aw, you remember my name.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, I just realized, we both go to the gym and drink coffee. It’s, like, we have so much in common, right?”
I give her a polite smile. “I have to head off, but nice to see you.”
“Wait.” Hilary tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw your company’s been nominated for the Wonderland Marketing Awards. Congrats!”
The Wonderland Marketing Awards is a gala and business awards night, held annually, to celebrate and recognize success in the marketing industry.
This year, Carter Marketing Solutions has been nominated for the Excellence in Marketing Award.
The event’s taking place in Chicago, and I’ll be attending on behalf of the company.
“Thank you,” I respond.
Hilary blushes. “My uncle’s business is also a nominee, and I asked for an invite to the event, too. I was thinking maybe we could go together.”
A lie slips out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m going with someone else already.”
Hilary’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Out of curiosity, is this someone you’re seeing?” Then she blurts out, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Uh … yeah.” It’s probably easiest to let her think I’m already taken.
Hilary blinks, glancing up at the ceiling before facing me again. “I understand.” Her face brightens. “Well, if things don’t work out with her, we should grab dinner together. I know a cool Italian place in Tribeca that opened recently.”
I sigh, not wanting to lead her on because I’m not interested in her romantically. “I can’t make that promise, Hilary. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip. “Well, if you ever change your mind, even if that’s, like, a five percent chance, will you let me know?”
“I will,” I concede.
She beams. “Yay! Amazing!”
A barista calls out Hilary’s name.
“Oh, that’s me!” Hilary giggles again and pastes on another smile. “See you at the gym, Jacky!”
I grimace at the nickname. “See you.”
I head for the exit, adding find a date for the Wonderland Marketing Awards to my to-do list.
Tourists, locals, and families stroll through one of the city’s most popular markets, and the smoky and savory aroma of hot dogs wafts through the warm July air. The scent tugs at childhood memories of my parents taking me and Lucy to the market.
Shaking off the memories, I walk ahead.
The plan is simple: give Isabelle Anna’s card and leave straightaway.
I spot Isabelle at her booth from afar, smiling and chatting away with a customer. Today, she’s wearing a yellow floral dress, and her long hair’s pulled into a high, messy bun with two strands of hair out at the front.
She loved floral-print clothing back in high school. Though I bet, one day, she’s going to get sick of wearing floral, and she’ll have nothing to wear from her wardrobe.
I hear bits and pieces of Isabelle’s conversation with her customer—something about how she’s hosting her first-ever fashion show.
She shakes her head at something the customer said, her gold hoop earrings dangling with the movement.
The customer lets out a hearty laugh and says something else, which causes Isabelle to smile.
I’ll admit, there’s always something attractive about someone when they’re talking about a topic they’re passionate about and the sparkle you can see in their eyes. Unfortunately, Isabelle’s no exception to that.
When the customer heads off, Isabelle wanders to a clothes rack, fully in her element. She checks each item of clothing before making her way to the mannequin next to the clothes rack, the early afternoon rays of sunlight gently caressing her skin and illuminating her dark hair.
Strangely, she looks almost angelic.
Fuck.
Stop staring, Jackson.
Dodging a few tourists, I walk to Isabelle’s booth. There’s a stack of pamphlets on the table, titled Designed by Isabelle Fashion Show.
Isabelle doesn’t notice when I’m standing behind her. She’s sprayed on perfume, too—something fruity and floral, like a mix of oranges and jasmine. It complements the dress she’s wearing and reminds me of spring.
“Come on, Daisy,” Isabelle says to the mannequin while trying to steady it. “Stay still.”
I raise a brow. Is she seriously talking to a mannequin right now? “Are you—”
Isabelle lets out a startled yelp and nearly stumbles backward.
“Goddamn, Isabella,” I mutter, my hands resting on her shoulders to steady her from falling.
She spins around, giving me a scowl. She needs to stop scowling like that every time she sees me, or a permanent glower will form on her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry to interrupt your little chat,” I say. “I’m curious, though, do you always go around naming and talking to inanimate objects?”
She purses her lips. “Yes, and stop judging.”
I lift a hand in defeat. “I wasn’t.”
It’s not a lie. It’s somewhat cute, the way she was talking to Dais—I mean, the mannequin.
Isabelle rubs her temples and sighs. “What are you doing here?”
“Patience,” I drawl. “I was just getting there.” I take out the envelope from inside my pocket. “This is for you.”
She stares at the envelope. “What’s this? A love letter?”
I snicker. Me writing Isabelle a love letter? Yeah, right. There’s a greater chance I’ll end up on Mars tomorrow.
“Nice to know that’s where you mind went to, but no. Take a look inside.”
Isabelle hesitates before opening the envelope and peering cautiously inside, like she’s scared cockroaches might suddenly jump out.
The apprehension on her face fades and is replaced by a flicker of warmth as she opens Anna’s card.
“Anna made a card for me?”
“Yeah,” I say, touching my neck. “Anna’s wanted to be a fashion designer since she was five, and she thinks you’re an inspiration. She wanted me to give this to you since we’re … you know … apparently friends.”
I don’t know why I’m suddenly getting all flustered. That’s never happened before when I’m around her or anyone else, for that matter. Thankfully, Isabelle doesn’t comment on it.
“She’s so sweet,” she says. “Tell Anna I said thanks.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “No problem.”
Silence follows, and this might be the longest we’ve ever gone without poking at each other. With words, I mean.
Isabelle clears her throat. “Well, I guess—”
“Fuck,” I suddenly curse, my gaze drifting to the sight behind her.
The mannequin, Daisy, looks unsteady and about to topple over at any moment now. I can’t believe I’m also referring to it as Daisy—I refuse to join Isabelle in naming inanimate objects—but that’s beside the point.
Isabelle’s eyes narrow. “What?”
“Watch out!” I say as Daisy starts plummeting toward the ground and is very close to hitting Isabelle.
My reflexes taking over, I grab Isabelle’s arm to pull her away and use my other hand to push Daisy. Daisy crashes sideways onto the adjacent clothes rack, causing a loud thud and sending a domino of clothes falling to the ground.
Isabelle loses her balance, gasping as she crashes into my arms. My senses heightening, I note the way her breath hitches, and as she collides against me, heat simmers in my body, like there’s some kind of dangerous wildfire burning in my veins.
She glances up at me, her brown eyes widening.
I wonder if she felt that, too.
Strangely, I find myself glancing down at her lips. My throat bobs, and I force myself to divert my gaze away. The warmth radiating off Isabelle’s body dissipates as she lets go. Instead, a sudden coldness creeps up my body, like a warm blanket being taken away from you on a cold evening.
This is even worse than that time our hands brushed at the last market.
“Thanks,” Isabelle mutters.
“You’re welcome.”
She walks over to Daisy and props her back up before picking up the dropped clothes and hanging them back on their hangers. She looks calm and completely unaffected by whatever just happened between us, which only makes me feel pathetic.
My jaw tightens. I should leave. I passed on Anna’s card, and whatever Isabelle’s doing now isn’t any of my concern.
I glance at the blue garment she’s picking up, a mesh design with long sleeves and flower embellishments.
For some reason, it looks familiar.
I was scouting for an empty seat in the library at Summerhurst High when I spotted Isabelle sitting alone, her head down and her coloring pencils out.
I walked over to where she was seated and peered over her shoulder.
Isabelle was so focused that she didn’t even notice me arriving. She was sketching a design—a pastel blue dress with long sleeves and flower embellishments.
As much as I hated to admit it, she was talented at drawing.
“That looks good,” I said.
Isabelle froze before she snapped her sketchbook shut and turned to me. “Do you have to make fun of everything I do?”
My lips pursed. “I meant that as a compliment.”
“A compliment from you?” She snorted. “Sure.”
God, she was the most obstinate and infuriating person I’d ever met. If she insisted on being like this, fine.
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for Friday’s debate?”
She stood up and grabbed her backpack, sketchbook, and coloring pencils. “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure to beat you.”
The sounds of laughter in the distance snap me out of my thoughts.
I don’t know why I still remember that memory so vividly when it was eight years ago. And I don’t know why seeing the determination on Isabelle’s face and that same design she once sketched, now transformed into a real dress, tugs at something within me I can’t describe.
Dammit.
Before I can change my mind, I join her in picking up the fallen clothes.
Isabelle whips her head around and stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “What are you doing?”
“Building a snowman,” I sarcastically say. “No, seriously, I’m just trying to help.”
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her face unreadable.
We work in silence for the next few minutes, setting up the clothes rack and brushing any dust away from the dropped clothes.
“You know, I feel like this is a new side of you I’m seeing today,” Isabelle suddenly says.
I place a white blouse back on its hanger. “There are many sides of me you haven’t yet seen.”
Isabelle rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to see the whole package—” She stops talking and grunts, “Forget it.”
A smug smile tugs at my lips, and I’m clinging on to what she just said like a gold mine. “You think I’m a whole package?”
“That’s definitely not what I meant,” she says, her hand movements faster and more aggressive as she lines up a few dresses on the clothes rack.
“Don’t take out all your frustration on those poor clothes.”
“Should I take out my frustration on you then?” Her voice is honey sweet as she tilts her head to glare at me.
I don’t break eye contact. “Sure. Go ahead and release all that frustration in your body.”
Isabelle scoffs. “On second thought, I’m good.”
“Come on,” I say. “Don’t back down now. Let’s see if it’s more effective than hitting a punching bag with a picture of my face on it.”
Isabelle’s face reddens, and she tosses a shirt at my face. I catch it in time and let out a laugh, eliciting another grunt from her.
Maybe I’ve always secretly enjoyed messing with her more than I think. Maybe I’ve always liked seeing her flushed expression or the way she scowls each time I get a rise out of her. Maybe I’ve always enjoyed the back-and-forth with her.
We’re adults now, yet it feels like only yesterday when we were passing each other in the hallways back in high school, shooting taunting glares and firing insults at one another. Competing against each other and keeping a tally of the other person’s wins and losses.
Somehow, it doesn’t feel like eight years have passed at all.
High school. Speaking of which, there’s something I’ve been curious about.
“So, are you going to the Summerhurst High reunion?” I ask.
Isabelle studies me carefully. “Are you?”
“I asked you first.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Maybe we can have another impromptu debate at the reunion,” I say. “Maybe you can tell me why you think I’m a jackass and we can debate that out.”
Isabelle smooths a yellow dress. “A three-hour reunion isn’t enough time for that.”
“Well, I have plenty of time for a round two.”
Isabelle opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, a dusty pink paints her cheeks.
I place the last piece of clothing back on its hanger before staring her right in the eyes. “See you at the reunion. Or maybe earlier. Who knows?”
Not giving her the chance to respond, I head off.
As I walk away, realization sweeps through me that what was supposed to be a simple one-minute conversation somehow turned into a fifteen-minute encounter.
And maybe, I didn’t mind that much either.