17. Jackson
Jackson
I re-read the line from Splash’s letter: “I hope that’s not a husband or boyfriend who calls you Daddy, because if so, I’ll stick to just writing about cookies.
” A slow, wicked grin stretched across my face.
Did Splash just call me Daddy? The thought hit me with the force of a hockey puck to the chest, sending a jolt of pure, electrifying realization through me. He was absolutely into me, wasn’t he?
I try to snap a picture of my abs, adjusting the framing to make sure there’s plenty of arm porn in there, too. I work hard for these muscles, damn it. I set the phone timer and prop it up on my window. I’ve just finished a brutal workout, I’m sweaty as fuck, and it’s the absolute perfect lighting.
Just as I position myself, my front door flies open, and Logan walks right in.
“Fuck! What the hell have I walked into?!” Logan yells, instantly slamming his hands over his eyes.
“Fuck off and help me!” I laugh, grabbing my phone and shoving it into his hands. “Look, I need to get a good shot without my head in it.”
Logan lowers his hands, a massive smirk spreading across his face. “Which head are we talking about leaving out?”
I lunge to snatch my phone back, but Logan suddenly steps into serious mode. “Ok, ok, stand here. The lighting is better from this angle, plus you get the beach as a background. Fucking perfect.” He snaps a few shots, then asks casually, “So, who are we sending these to?”
“We are not sending them to anyone!” I clarify. “I am sending one to my soldier. I’m going to finally figure out if he’s into me.”
Logan gives me a completely blank expression. “You could, you know, just ask him?”
Hmm. He has a point, but absolutely not. What if Splash explicitly says he’s not interested, he’s just having some fun flirting? What if he sees this picture and stops replying altogether? Panic flares up big time. “What if he’s not, though? Our letters are flirty as fuck, but…”
I dropped my head into my hands, the cool glass of the phone screen pressing against my forehead.
For years, I’d played the role of the shallow, happy-go-lucky athlete because it was safe.
If people only saw the surface, they couldn’t reject the depths.
But with Splash, I’d let the mask slip. I’d told him I was lonely, told him I was gay, and for the first time, I felt like someone was actually interested in me, for the real Jackson Hayes.
It was terrifying because it was the only thing I had that wasn’t for sale or for show.
If I reached out and he pulled away, I wouldn’t just lose a pen pal, I’d lose the only mirror that showed me a version of myself I actually liked.
I looked at Logan, my voice cracking. “He’s in a war zone, Logan. He deals with life and death every day. My biggest problem is a bad power play. Why would he want to deal with me too?”
Recognizing my genuine anxiety, Logan steps forward and claps my shoulder.
“Hayes, you’re a great guy. Give yourself a little credit and send the damn picture.
Unless… you think he wants to see me, too?
” Logan jokes, trying to lift the mood, dramatically lifting his shirt to flash his own six-pack at the empty room.
Grabbing me in a headlock, “Come on, let’s take one together! ”