Chapter 20 Jackson
Jackson
Jackson switches off the Weed eater and thuds it to the ground. Sweat streams from his head, dousing his bare neck and shoulders.
He’s shirtless, wanting the sun to scorch his skin, turn it from pasty to the golden-chestnut color of Ethan’s. He’s been out here for two hours, head full of that man, edging the grass and pruning his muscadine vines. Working his biceps and triceps, which are not as sculpted as they once were.
When he lived in Dallas, Jackson hit the gym nearly every day, but here, well, he doesn’t want to work out with the upper elite. So he hits his home gym in his garage, pumping iron once a week—though, if he’s being honest, it’s dwindled to once a month.
He hasn’t been motivated. But now all he can think about is Ethan. His husky voice, his chiseled forearms, those butterscotch eyes.
I bet we have a lot more in common than you think.
Though it’s blazing out, the memory of those words sends a shiver over Jackson.
Ethan hasn’t called him yet. And he hasn’t dared to call Ethan. But he is dying to. Is one day too soon to follow up?
A feverish chorus of cicadas swells all around him, a million violins being played tremolo, a term he remembers from high school orchestra, which describes fast bowing. Their vibration is so thick, it almost feels like he’s being ensnared by it, a physical membrane encasing him.
His backyard is paradise. Just half an acre, but he’s trained every square inch into something verdant: the organic garden in the southeast corner dappled with enough sun to grow pudgy tomatoes, pumpkin-colored habanero peppers, and leafy cilantro, which Jackson blends into jars of fresh salsa.
A gang of spindly pines rims the edge of his property just beyond his fence line, casting pools of shade over his lawn. The Saint Augustine grass that carpets this section is so lush—out of the sun’s reach—it almost looks like a green lagoon.
In a slash of direct sunlight, his wild muscadine orchard flourishes, the tendrils of the vines gripping the metal chain-link fence, its vines pregnant with green orbs of grapes that will bloat and turn a fleshy pink in late summer, when they’re ready to be harvested.
Jackson’s never made wine with them before; last summer was the first time the grapes were mature enough to be pressed for that purpose. Instead, he froze them in Ziplocs, made jam over the holidays.
He staggers inside through the back door, pries open the fridge, and pours himself a tall glass of cold iced tea. After gulping it down, he notices his answering machine blinking at him. Five new voicemails.
His heart raps against his rib cage.
Let it be Ethan.
With shaky hands, he presses the Play button.
Charleigh’s voice thunders through the kitchen. “Hey! Just me! Call me when you get a sec.”
He sighs, hits Delete.
“Heeey! So, I need to talk, call me. ’K, bye!”
His shoulders sag; he groans. Charleigh again. Delete.
“Where are you? I thought you were going to be home today?”
Delete.
“I know it’s only been ten minutes, but I really need to talk!”
Delete.
“Jackson Lee Ford! Call your best friend! She’s going out of her skull!” Her voice is almost a screech at this point. “Seriously! Call a bitch back, or I’m comin’ over to make sure you’re not dead or something!”
Ugh. This woman. Damn!