36. Pippi
Alistair stayed near the ship, even after his entertaining duties had ended, and everyone on board turned to the lunch spread that was set out for us. I couldn’t see him—the goggles were collected at the end of his show—but I heard him.
“I wish I could do something.”
“Is there good food?”
“Have some chips. For me.”
“You are alright. Right?”
“I hope you can hear me.”
His voice comforted me. Gave me something good to cling to.
Jackson kept me by his side and spent the duration of the trip chatting with Kian and some of the others. Never with Rune, though, much to his chagrin.
I, however, had watched Rune most of the ride back.
He was suave with the way he avoided conversation with anyone who wasn’t in his “inner circle.” He talked to people, sure.
Had spent 75 percent of the tour providing entertainment, making toasts, and telling stories.
His enigmatic personality was a beacon of energy and light.
Everyone gravitated toward him and listened.
But he never talked with people. If someone tried to rope him into actual conversation, he’d smile and laugh and smoothly, oh-so-smoothly, navigate himself away.
A five-minute conversation with Rune might’ve been the key to changing your life, according to Jackson. But getting that five-minute conversation was as tricky and impossible as finding Willy Wonka’s golden ticket inside a random chocolate bar.
We arrived back at our cottage late afternoon—although all hours of the day looked the same behind the dense wall of fog—and Jackson’s mood had turned vinegary.
Unfortunately for him, my mood had gone more acidic.
Because my jaw ached something fierce—it’d hurt to eat earlier, when every bite drove white-hot needles into the side of my face—and my heart, which had taken so many batterings since arriving on this isle, wouldn’t stop bleeding.
It was drowning me. This sorrow. Guilt. Dread .
My head was barely above it all, and I didn’t have the strength to keep swimming.
If this went on until tomorrow, it would destroy me.
I had to plug the flood of emotions.
And the biggest source of hemorrhaging was the gorgeous, god-like man before me, who was currently kicking off his shoes and stomping into our bedroom.
I rolled my tongue around, trying to wrangle the words, before saying, “Can we talk now, Jackson? Please?”
“About?”
“Us.”
He paused, midway through rooting through our little closet, where he’d hung most of his clothes.
“I don’t want to argue anymore, Jackson,” I said.
“Good.” He pulled a pair of jeans off a hanger. “Neither do I. You should get some more ice for your jaw, babe. It’s all red.” He slapped his jeans against his thigh. “I am sorry.”
“I know. And I’m not mad, Jackson. Honest.”
I’m tired.
And sad.
And scared.
“But we do still need to talk,” I finished.
His irritation clawed at me, but he was outwardly the picture of calm as he closed the closet and draped his clothes over his arm.
“I—we—” The words stuck their thorny edges into my throat. The more I tried to clear them, the more they stabbed their spikes into me.
Jackson raised his brow and wiggled his clothes in a “go on” motion.
“I…Haven’t you been feeling that something’s off ?”
His brow arched higher, almost disappearing into the windblown locks of his hair. “That something’s off with you ?”
“No. With us.”
He scoffed.
“Jackson, please…” I stepped toward him, reaching for his hand.
He grunted and swatted me away.
I shoved the hurt down as I tucked my hands against my sides.
“I love you, Jackson, and I always will. But I don’t think we work anymore.
Maybe we never did, but we cared too much to see it.
I just have this feeling …that we’re too different.
And we want different things out of life.
And the common ground we used to meet on is getting narrower.
” A hot tear scorched my cheek. I swiped it away.
“Maybe we needed this trip. To shake things up and make us realize our common ground has shrunk so much. I don’t know.
But…I think…I think what we have just isn’t working. For either of us.”
Jackson opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. “You’re…Lemme get this straight, babe ,” he hurtled the word at me. “You’re breaking up with me?”
I hated the way that sounded.
Breaking up with me.
Breaking my heart.
Breaking my life.
“Yes.” The word tasted metallic. Like blood.
Jackson’s face reddened. A vein pulsed on his temple. Disgust cascaded off him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Scowled. Ran a hand through his hair. Scowled some more. Twisted his jeans in his fist. Continued scowling.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You better be fucking sorry! This is unbelievable. It’s—” He turned and rammed the heel of his palm into the doorframe. It connected with a painful SMACK , a sound like a pellet ricocheting off a solid rock.
I flinched.
Jackson fumed .
“ Fuck , Pippi!” He winced and shook his hand, growling at me when I tentatively reached for him, to see if he’d hurt himself. “You’ve got some fucking gall to stand here, in the cottage I paid for , on the island I footed the money for you to be at and say you’re breaking up with me.”
“I—”
He moved away, chucking his clothes onto the bed, and fisting both hands in his hair. “This is…For fuck’s sake, Pippi.”
“Jackson—”
“I mean, how ungrateful can you fucking be? I buy you the trip of a lifetime . And this is the shit you pull?”
I buy you.
The island I footed the money for you to be at.
The cottage I paid for.
His words clicked together in my head. And my blood froze. “I thought you said this’d all been paid for? That you just took Zohar’s spot?”
Jackson flashed me an incredulous “are you for real right now? ” look. “Pippi, honestly, sometimes I wonder if you have a brain in that pretty head of yours. People don’t just give shit like this away. Zohar sold me this trip.”
My stomach swilled. With rage. And hurt. “That is not what you told me a few weeks ago.”
“Because I didn’t want you to get uppity about the money.”
“We don’t have this kind of money, Jackson!” I breathed.
“I made it work! Barely , thanks to your visit to the health clinic. But with Magix here, I figured…well, I’ve been working non-stop to recoup some of the financial loss and open some fucking doors for us.
” He sighed and leaned heavily against the bed.
“You see why I’m upset? After all I’ve done. ” He shook his head.
After all I’ve done.
Like lying to me.
I’d severely, woefully , underestimated how much we’d been spending on this trip. He’d taken out a loan. Must have. Because I knew what we had in our bank accounts, and even if we’d pooled every cent together, it wouldn’t have covered the cost of this trip.
I felt sick .
And why? Why? Why go into debt over this stupid island?
For prestige?
To show off? Flaunt that he’d been to an elite vacation spot?
For opportunity?
Had he known Rune was going to be here?
Had he dumped all our money into the one-in-a-million shot that he’d find the golden ticket?
I didn’t know.
And I didn’t ask. Because I’d lied to him too—he still didn’t know about my friendship with Alistair—so I had no moral high ground to stand on.
But it hurt .
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I…I do appreciate you, Jackson. Everything you do, everything you’ve done. And this timing is awful. And I’m sorry , but”—I fought to dredge the words from the pit of my stomach—“this has been coming for a while.”
“The fuck it has.”
“And this trip…we’ve not been happy. It’s frankly been a nightmare. So I figured rather than stewing in this tension, it’s better to pull it off the burner. Let it air out.”
My hand started to jiggle. So I clasped my fingers together, twisting my knuckles until they crunched and popped.
“Oh, sure. Because you haven’t done enough to fuck up this trip, why not add a breakup into the mix?
” Jackson made a huck of disgust, picked up his clothes, and went to the bathroom, where he set about freshening himself up: pulling his deodorant and cologne out of his travel bag, washing the sea salt grit off his face, and tidying his hair.
His blurred figure moved and bounced through my teary eyes.
I’d seen Jackson freshen up dozens of times over the years.
Hundreds. I knew his routine by heart. Had memorized the crisp scent of his deodorant and the clean fragrance of his cologne.
And there was something devastating about watching him now, knowing it might be one of the last times I’d ever see his routine.
My heart rubbed its bloody hide against my insides, begging me to do something to take away the hurt.
But I just watched.
And cried.
I figured I’d spend my life with this man.
I loved him.
And I’d made the decision to leave him.
“Oh good, turn on the fucking waterworks. It’s not gonna work, Pippi.” Jackson’s eyes met mine through the mirror. “ You’re the one who broke up with me . You don’t get to be upset.” He plucked his toothbrush out of his bag and set about cleaning his teeth in short, jerky motions.
His emotions crowded me, bludgeoning my wounded heart. But none of them were sorrow or heartache.
Disbelief.
Denial.
Disgust.
Rage most of all.
People often hid their hurt behind walls of anger—sometimes that was the last shield folks could erect to protect their heart. But there was a difference between a malleable buffer, weakly hoisted by a bruised soul, and the steel-solid door of Jackson’s fury.
Jackson, can’t you see that the affection and adoration most couples have doesn’t exist between us?
Can’t you feel how empty our relationship is?
You probably can’t.
And I get it. Because I didn’t feel it either.
Until I found that connection I’d been missing in someone else.
“I’m going to go to dinner. Alone .” Jackson spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed his mouth. “And I’m going to enjoy whatever part of this vacation I can.”