26. Pippi
The worst part of an oncoming storm was the inevitability. Knowing that what was about to hit would be catastrophic but not being able to do a gosh darn thing to stop it.
There’d been a tension storm grouching over me and Jackson for days. Weeks. Years, maybe. That storm was making landfall, whether I was ready or not.
But, as with most hurricanes, it started with stillness. The peaceful calm before, when the sun still shone and you hoped the winds would move the storm in the other direction.
I spent most of the wagon ride back to our cottage curled against Jackson, my head resting on his shoulder, my knees tucked up. Holding on, as I listened to him talk without really absorbing anything.
Around us were a half dozen or so other tourists. A family of four sat near the front of the wagon. The youngest girl played with her new kelpie stuffie while her older sister whined that she hadn’t been allowed to get anything from the shop.
“You picked the water bottle,” her mom admonished. “And we agreed you would each get only one souvenir.”
“But the stuffies are cuter .”
“Well, hon, next time you’ll consider waiting, instead of buying the first thing you like.”
An older couple sat near them, smiling fondly at the two little girls, even as they were gripped by some fierce nostalgic blues. Reminiscing, maybe, about when their kids had been that young.
Another young couple sat diagonally from us, wrapped around each other, the way I was coiled around Jackson.
But they couldn’t have been more different from us.
Because I felt the adoration pouring off them.
The contentment. And joy. They were young, and on the vacation of a lifetime, and so in love, they were nearly delirious with it.
And then there was me and Jackson; with him distracted, talking about Kian and Magix, and me holding so tightly to him—clinging on to what we had, as hollow as it was, and wondering if I was strong enough to hold on. To hold us together.
“I was surprised at you, though,” Jackson said to me at one point, giving my back a light, reprimanding tap. “You barely said a word to him. Normally I can’t get you to stop talking to people. I get he’s not your usual charity case type.”
“Charity case type?”
“But I figured you’d like him.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”
Truthfully, all I remembered of Kian Reed was his dimpled smile and high-energy personality. Whatever we’d talked about, whatever I’d said or didn’t say, was all mashed up in my head.
“You sure didn’t seem like you did like him.” Jackson expelled exasperation in big, radioactive waves.
Exasperation at me.
Because I hadn’t behaved the way he’d expected me to in front of his new friend.
I bristled, but tried—really, really tried—to keep the hurt out of my voice when I said, “Even if I didn’t like him, at least I was polite, and went over with you to say hello. Which is more than I can say for you.”
Jackson stiffened. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The fact you call the people I want to talk to “charity cases.” And treat them like they’re lesser riffraff. I gnawed at my lip, keeping the words contained. Those kinds of words would start a fight.
And I wasn’t sure I had the strength for a fight.
“Nothing,” I said instead. “I just wish I’d had time to introduce you to Melany and Sarah. They would’ve loved you.” And I pressed my face into the side of his neck, seeking solace, comfort, hoping he would let it go .
But he was tense and turbulent, and the longer I stayed silent, the rumblier his emotions got.
So I turned away from him, staring at the landscape—what little I could see of it through the fog. I was fed up with this stupid fog. It was oppressive—a dark curtain of depression, snuffing the light out of me.
I wanted to see the sun. The stars. The sky.
I wanted to be away from this island.
I wanted to be home. Safe from this storm teeing up to destroy me.
“Anyway”—Jackson poked my knee, drawing my attention back to him—“I was thinking…you have that black dress with you, right?”
I frowned. “I have a black one with white polka dots.”
“Damn, that’s the only one you brought? I was hoping you had the nicer one with you. The one you wore to the New Year’s party.”
I tried to swallow the irritation clawing up my throat. Tried. “The cocktail dress?”
“Yeah. You look hot in that one.”
“That’s more of a black-tie dress.”
“So?”
“Did you bring a tux with you?”
“No.”
“So why would I have brought a cocktail dress?”
Jackson sniffed. “I thought you’d want to dress up for dinner.”
“I do like dressing up for dinner. That’s why I brought a whole stack of outfits,” I said. “They’re just not black-tie, dry-clean only dresses.”
Jackson gusted heavily.
As the wagon slowed, the family at the front, maybe catching some fizzling shocks from our brewing storm, preemptively moved to offload before we’d fully stopped. The mom flashed Jackson and me a strange look as she herded her daughters past.
I dropped my voice to a whisper when the family disembarked and the wagon lurched forward. “Are the clothes I brought that dreadful?”
“You know it’s not that,” Jackson huffed. “I like showing you off. And that black dress… Mmm …all the men would’ve been jealous. That I get to have you, when they don’t.”
I like showing you off.
Like I was one of the beasts on the island, all diapered up for an audience to ooh and ahh over.
I wondered if the creatures of Niverwick felt this kind of lousy every time they were paraded in front of spectators.
And if they did…which, if I was being honest, I was certain they did…
How horrific did that make us? Me. Jackson. Everyone on this island. People who looked at living, breathing creatures like they were inanimate displays. Art pieces slapped onto a wall to give us a few seconds of entertainment.
In his defense, this was nothing new for Jackson. Scheduling a dinner. Asking me to wear a certain outfit. Strolling to the event with me on his arm and proudly declaring to everyone that I was his. He’d done it all before back home.
It used to fill me with pride. I’d clutch his arm and smile until my cheeks hurt.
It’d gotten old though. Most things did.
The staleness turned to indifference.
And now the indifference was souring into resentment.
“Could we have dinner with Melany and Sarah tomorrow?” I asked him.
Jackson rolled his shoulder in a half shrug. But didn’t answer.
I scoffed. The wagon grinding to a stop by our cottage covered the noise, but Jackson must have seen the irritation on my face, because his puckered into a scowl.
I stood before he could say anything, suddenly very mindful of everyone around us, watching warily, not wanting to be caught in the whirlwind.
It was amazing, the way we all had an innate sense when something bad was about to go down.
“Babe!” Jackson’s voice was a husky growl.
I stepped off the wagon and walked around to the two alicorns—Eos and Valeria, they’d said during their introductions. “Thank you,” I whispered to them.
Eos, the taller and more finely built of the two, turned her head toward me, billowing worriedly. “Are you alright, miss?”
“Fine. I’m…” I touched a hand to Eos’ shoulder in what was meant to be a thank you pat, but the despair that flooded my heart at the contact had me ripping my hand away with a grunt.
“You don’t look well.” Valeria swished her tail and turned her nose to me. “We can take you to the health clinic if?—”
“She’s fine.” Jackson’s hand clenched my shoulder—hard—before he smiled at Eos and Valeria. “I’ll take care of her from here. Thank you, ladies.” He stepped to my side so he could give the alicorns a bow.
They whuffled, charmed, as most were, by Jackson’s smile.
“Just remember, we’re a call away,” Valeria added. “If you need us.”
“Thank you.” I nodded at them.
“Okay, Pippi, what on earth is going on with you?’ Jackson asked after the wagon rolled away.
I walked to our cottage, wrapping my arms around my midsection to hold my slithering stomach in place. “Nothing. I just find it interesting that we always go to dinner or events with the people you want to go with. But when I want to have dinner with someone, you just…brush it off . ”
This time, it was Jackson’s turn to scoff. And the wagon was gone, so he didn’t have any creaking wheels to hide the sound.
I inserted the key, stepped inside the cottage and turned, biting on my lower lip to keep it still, so the stare I fixed him with was more stern than sobby.
“Babe.” Jackson shut the door behind him. “ What is the big deal? You’ve known those two ladies for what, a day?”
“About as long as you’ve known Kian,” I said.
“Yeah, but he’s…well…”
“He’s what? Male? Old? Richer? A Sorcerer? What makes him better than Melany or Sarah?”
“He’s…Well, he’s opportunity.”
“So people are only worth your time if you can climb up on their shoulders and better your lot in life? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. What the fuck, Pippi? Is that really what you think of me? That I’m a leech looking for someone to bleed dry?”
No.
Say no.
I’m sorry.
This is stupid.
I’m being stupid.
Say no, Pippi.
But my mouth betrayed me. “I don’t know.”
Jackson’s eyes blew wide.
Anger exploded in my chest— his anger. A white-hot rage that escalated so quickly it left me disoriented. I stumbled back, leaning against the wall for support.
“Well,” he said, his voice low. Dangerously low. “Thanks. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That was so very mean.”
“No shit.” He bent, ripped his shoes off, chucked the left one at the wall, and propped his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. “Seriously, Pippi, what the fuck? Are you this mad because I wouldn’t talk to those two stupid chicks?”
“Don’t call them stupid.”
“I’m sorry. Would you prefer if I called them eccentric old bats?”
An icy thorn twined around my stomach, making my gut ache.
For a heartbeat, two, three, I stared at him.
This beautiful, god-like man, with his handsome, masculine squared jaw.
Sometimes I’d lay awake at night, caressing that jaw while he slept.
Marveling, usually, that such an ethereal creature would deign to share a bed with a mere mortal like me.
His big cyan eyes—how many times had I gotten lost in those blue depths?
The lush, bowed curve of his lips. How many times had I suckled on them, dragging their velvety softness between my teeth? How many times had I lavished their petal-soft caresses on my skin?
I’d loved this man. Loved him with everything I had. My heart, my soul, my mind, everything . I had been so full of Jackson, I’d almost forgotten Pippi existed.
But now, as I stared at him in the small, cozy foyer of our vacation cottage, I didn’t know if I truly loved him anymore.
I didn’t know if I was so desperate to hold on to what we had because I still cared, or if I’d simply spent so many years building a life around this man that I didn’t know who I was without him.
When those realizations hit, they hurt. A deep, gnawing sort of ache that drilled into every bone in my body, and left me shaking, bleeding, broken.
The tears snuck up on me, oozing out before I could stop them.
“You’re crying? Unbelievable.” Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. “You started this, Pippi!”
“I know, I?—”
“You’re the one who threw the fucking insults at me .”
“I know , Jackson. I’m?—”
“You know what, no. We’re not doing this now.” He bulldozed past me, shoving his shoulder into mine. Hard. Almost enough to hurt.
“Jackson—” I reached for him.
He shrugged me away.
“Jackson, please. Let’s take a second here. To cool off. A-and”—a hiccup rattled my chest—“I think we should talk.”
“Why?” he snarled at me. “So you can tell me what a big, stupid leech I am?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Jackson, please—” I bit off, flinching, when he stormed back toward me.
And in that half a second, as he crossed the room, his face contorted into an ugly snarl, and his rage struck my heart in big, sizzling zaps of lightning, I almost wondered if he’d hit me.
He didn’t.
But he put his face right into mine, letting me see what my words had done to him, as he hissed, “We’re not doing this. Not here. Not now. If you don’t want to go to dinner, fine . Whatever. I’ll tell them you’re sick or tired or too embarrassed to be seen with your leech of a boyfriend.”
“I’ll go to dinner, Jackson, I never said I wouldn’t.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t. Because if you go, you’ll complain about something and make me feel like the bad guy. So I’ll go. Alone. You can get room service. Or hook up with the two kooky dingbats you love so much. I don’t fucking care.” With a disgruntled sigh, he stomped into the bedroom.
The bathroom door slammed. Hard. With a resounding SMACK that shuddered every wall in the cottage.
I flinched, wrapped my arms more securely around myself, and waited until I heard the trickle of the shower running before I sank to the floor.