11. Blakely
ELEVEN
Blakely
Jackson stays through everything. He walks behind me as I rush up the winding staircase to my room and grab a Xanax from my cabinet, swallowing it dry and counting down the minutes until it starts to take effect and he’s still here, staring at photos of my mother, when I come out in my sports bra and shorts.
He’s here while I head straight to our basement gym, making himself comfortable at a small round table in the corner while I spin my ass off for who knows how long. And when I’m finally feeling semi-normal—once the control has started to settle back in, clicking into place one calorie at a time—he’s still here.
I look at my Apple watch. One thousand and seventy-four calories.
Once I hit two thousand, I’ll stop.
The knot of anxiety in my chest loosens as I slow down to a normal speed on my bike, and for the first time since the pizza hit my taste buds, I can breathe. My muscles are past the point of burning, the lactic acid having morphed into a dull throb that sends satisfaction racing through my veins. I can feel the grease as it drips from my pores, and if I close my eyes, I can actually visualize all of the impurities purging from my system. A renewal of health through my hard work and dedication, despite my moment of weakness.
Finally, I ease to a cooldown and grab my water bottle.
“Feel better?” Jackson asks.
My stomach jumps at his voice and I look over to where he’s sitting leaned back in his chair, watching me.
Why did he stay?It’s been hours that I’ve been down here.
“Yes,” I respond slowly before taking a sip of my water.
He nods, his hand coming up to rub the scruff on his chin. “Good.”
Slowing to a stop, I take him in, shame working its way through my system and blooming under my skin when I reflect on the day. On how absolutely pathetic I must have looked. “You didn’t have to stay, you know.”
His hand rubs at his chest, a tinkling of metal jostling underneath his white tee. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone.”
My heart stutters when he says it, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what his angle is here. Why he’s acting like he wasn’t witness to something that most people would kill to know—to hold against me.
Why is he acting like I’m not broken?
“Why did you?” I ask.
“Why did I what?”
“Stay.”
“I just told you. I wasn’t going to leave you.”
I huff. “Yeah but… why ?”
He shrugs, his eyes darkening as they stare into mine, but he’s silent for long enough that I think he won’t answer. That I’ve hit a nerve without meaning to, and he’s about to close back up—become the Jackson he’s always been around me. The one who creates distance and won’t ever let me in.
Sighing, he runs a hand over his head, rustling a few strands of wavy hair from his bun. “Sometimes…you just need to know you aren’t alone.”
It’s immediate—the way my chest rips open from the strength of his words—but besides the sharp, sudden inhale of breath, I do my best to mask the feeling.
I’m not sure anyone has ever said that to me before, and even if they have, I’m sure they’ve never meant it.
My eyes trail up his form, from his black boots to his dark jeans, over that plain white tee he wears so well, all the way to that chiseled jaw and ethereal gaze. He’s so effortless. So calm. And in my most vulnerable of moments, the ones I’m desperate to hide from the world, he’s the strongest, surest thing I’ve ever seen.
It makes me feel off-kilter. I’ve never experienced that type of security before.
He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Does what happen a lot?” I know what he’s asking; I’m not an idiot. I’m just hoping if I pretend, then maybe he will too. Just like everyone else.
Jumping off my bike to grab a towel, I stop for a moment, closing my eyes and basking in the post-workout high. Lightheaded and almost dizzy, a warm buzzing fills my body. I let the feeling of accomplishment cling to my skin like a second sheen of sweat, the satisfaction a warmth that swims through every cell.
“Come on, Blake, you know what.”
The fuzzy feeling disappears and my teeth grind, irritation slicing through my contentment. Why can’t he just let this go?
“Why do you call me that?” I snap, spinning around.
His brow rises. “Call you what?”
“ Blake . No one calls me that. It’s not my name.”
He lifts a shoulder, a smirk pulling at one side of his mouth, hinting at what I know is a perfect smile. “Why do you call me Jackson? Everyone else calls me Jax.”
“I’m not everybody else,” I retort.
“Neither am I.” He pauses. “Besides, I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
My eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you.”
His smirk widens. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Huffing, I cross my arms over my chest, biting my cheek to keep from grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Just trying to stay on your level,” he deadpans.
His eyes drop quickly to my breasts before coming back up to my face. Heat surges from between my legs and pools low in my stomach, causing my heart to ram against my chest.
The feeling is so new, so different from what I’m used to when it comes to men, and it unnerves me. “W-well, don’t call me that,” I stutter. “It makes me…”
He stands up from his chair and stalks toward me. My hands tighten around the terry cloth towel, the fabric rough against my suddenly clammy palms.
Why is he coming so close? I’m disgusting right now.
My icy thoughts freeze the warmth before it can grow into something more. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it until this moment.
I have no makeup on.
He’s going to see the chicken pox scar on my forehead. The one right between my eyes that gets covered with makeup and photoshopped out by my team.
He’s going to see my stomach. The one I stupidly didn’t cover, too lost in my panic of burning off calories to worry about the extra flab that’s been on display. Jiggling with every motion.
Embarrassment slams into me, and I back up a step from the impact. My head shakes back and forth, trying to warn him. To tell him without words that he shouldn’t come closer. I don’t want him close.
But he doesn’t stop, not until he’s right in front of me.
I suck in a breath, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch the realization pass over his eyes when he notices my flaws in the garish gym lights. Nausea churns in my stomach, my lungs squeezing tight, until suddenly…
It stops.
Jackson’s hand is on my neck, his thumb rubbing the underside of my jaw. And his touch, it calms the storm swirling inside. Slowly, I open my eyes, and my heart skips from a different type of nerves.
Because Jackson is looking at me. And he’s not running the other way. Not telling me to change or to make sure I clean up. Not listing off all the ways we’re going to adjust the “unedited” version of me the world gets to see.
Jackson just is.
And I don’t really know what to do with that.
“It makes you what , princess?” he rasps.
My stomach tightens at the rumble in his voice, and I turn my head to the side to break the tension. Chills spread down my neck from the loss of his touch.
“Like we’re friends,” I say, tossing my towel in the bin and putting my hands on my hips. “And you’ve made it perfectly clear that we’re not.”
His jaw tics. “We can’t be friends.”
My forehead scrunches. “How come?”
“You’re nineteen.”
“And?”
“I’m twenty-eight.” He points to himself.
“And?” I repeat, throwing my arms to the sides.
Jackson doesn’t respond and a giggle bursts out of me, my hand smothering my mouth to try and keep it down.
“What?” He grins.
“You’re just…astonishingly good at math.” I pause. “And bad at coming up with excuses.”
He laughs. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
A tingling sensation unfurls inside me, expanding through my chest and trickling into my stomach, spreading through my limbs until I feel lighter than I have in years.
I smile. “Yeah, well…just trying to stay on your level, friend. ”
His head cocks slightly as our banter dies down, and the silence surrounds us, pulling the air until it’s stretched so thin, it steals your breath.
A ringing interrupts the moment, and he’s quick to grab his phone from his pocket. I can’t help but lean over and sneak a peek to see who stole his attention away.
Sweetheart.
The term of endearment splices into my newfound happiness, and even though I have no basis for it, no clue of who “sweetheart” is or what story lies behind the sudden sadness in his eyes, a thick spread of jealousy coats my insides.
I paste on a smile—the kind that hurts my cheeks and fools the world. “Do you need to get that?”
His gaze stays locked on his phone, but he silences the call, shaking his head. After a few seconds, he meets my eyes, but the lightness from earlier is gone, a heavy dose of reality settling in its place.
“Nope. I’m all yours.”