Chapter Fifteen
Millie
I have my hands wringing together in my lap, an uncomfortable fluttering in my belly. I'm trying to focus on the world outside the car window, but we're sitting in traffic, unmoving. Silence has fallen between us and Jackson is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Something tells me it might be something close to nervousness, though I can't think why. I know I'm not the only girl Jackson has driven home on a Sunday morning. I'm certainly not the first he's made breakfast for.
“Do all girls get a lift home, or is the gold star treatment just for me?” Something flickers in his eyes, and I instantly regret my words. I sound like I'm judging, but I'm not. I just don't know how to be around him. This is new for me, whilst people like Jackson and Chloe have been in the world, making connections and memories with lovers. I've been in stuffy hospital rooms and watching daytime TV. I don't regret the time I had with Mum, not for a second, but I can't help but feel self-conscious about all the things I don't know, of which there are many. I turn to look at him, trying to keep my thoughts quiet, but I know it's written all over my face.
I like him.
I like how dark his hair is, so black it almost seems to absorb rather than reflect light, his pale, creamy skin with a faint sheen of gold running through like marble, the silvery glimmer of his eyes, but more than that, I like how I feel around him. The noise that's been pounding in my head since Mum died is a little quieter. He's not like anyone else I've ever met, and despite the shiny veneer he hides behind, I can feel the man underneath. The thoughtful, smart and kind man buried under the gloss.
He looks at me, his lips curling into a smile, those bright eyes taking me in. For a moment, I could swear he feels the same. There’s that softness again, like he’s looking at something new and precious, even though it’s only me he’s looking at. But then the charm-personified expression returns and I wonder if I'd just imagined it.
“Couldn't let you walk home in that now, could I?” He grins mischievously. His eyes linger on the black of my bra strap where his T-shirt has slipped down my shoulder. I smile, glad he’s looking at me the way I was looking at him.
The traffic moves and the car speeds off toward Roisin's house. Jackson only needed the basic directions to know where he was going. He knows these streets like any taxi driver.
“Thanks again for last night. And I'm sorry I almost took you out with a lamp.”
“No problem. And thank you for allowing me to keep my skull intact.”
I snort, and we both laugh.
“Trust me, it was pretty close there for a second, but … I think I've grown quite fond of your skull.”
He smiles at me again, and I know it's a smile he shoots at all women. I know the moments that are just for me and the ones he puts on when he's trying to pretend. The car pulls up sleekly outside Roisin's house. I notice curtain-twitching but nothing more. He turns to me, grinning brightly.
“Here you go. I liked making breakfast for you, Millie.”
My heart's pounding. He's sitting there, and I know he won't say more. It's up to me. He's holding back, but I don't know why. Chloe or Marnie would know what to say. What are the right words to say? That I want to see him again. That I don't want this to be the last time I see Jackson Mort.
“Well, you could always make breakfast for me again sometime?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I hear the double meaning in my words. For a moment, I'm embarrassed, but then I sit up. Whichever way he wants to take my words, I mean them.
“I'd like to see you again, Jackson.”
I meet his eyes, and something like disappointment runs through them. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark locks off his forehead. It's a practised move, and I sense what's coming before his lips part.
“I really enjoyed meeting you, Millie, but my work … well, it's a little crazy and …”
Humiliation makes my insides churn. He's lying, but I won't beg. And I won't sit here and swallow any more untruths.
“It's OK, you don't need to do that. It was good to meet you too, Jackson.” I smile at him, hoping the disappointment isn't too visible in my eyes. I open the car door and slip out as quickly as possible.
“Millie … I …”
“Bye, Jackson!” I turn and shoot him a copy of one of his fake grins. But his expression surprises me. The mask is gone, and what I see now is regret lining his features. He's biting his lip, and it's there again—that flash of something, something that makes me know I'm not alone in feeling sorry to walk away.
I've barely taken a step inside the door when Roisin barrages me and envelopes me in a fierce hug.
“Oh my god, oh my god, I was so worried last night, I couldn't sleep … I know you're a grownup, Millie. But you could have called, could have told me where you were …”
“Sorry, Roisin, my phone died, and I was …”
Roisin pulls back and looks at me, the anger gone, replaced with only worry and concern. She puts her hands on my shoulders.
“I'm sorry,” I repeat.
She shakes her head. “I'm not mad. I was just thinking what your mum would do to me if anything happened to you on my watch … she would make a truly terrifying poltergeist.”
I chuckle, and then slowly, Roisin joins me, and we laugh together.
“Tell me what happened.” She stands back and looks at me. Her face is still soft, but I can see something harder in the lines between her brows. But not at me. I'm mortified to think she's guessed what happened.
“I drank too much. And then I crashed at Chloe's and …”
Roisin arches her eyebrow.
“I called Rachel a couple of hours ago. Chloe said you left the club without them. Is that what happened?”
My throat feels dry. The hangover I lost in my embarrassment at being rejected by Jackson has returned with force. I feel so tired that standing up suddenly seems very hard.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
“Coffee.” I groan. I walk over to the kitchen bar and sink onto a stool, putting my head on the cool surface. “I'm going to need a really enormous coffee for this.”
“Those little bitches!” Roisin is pacing the kitchen, her coffee sloshing down the sides of her mug as she moves. “I'm calling Rachel back. How dare Chloe just leave you in that place? Girls don't do that to each other. Me and your mum …”
“I wasn't one of the girls, though, was I? I'm not sure what I was; just a pity invite, I guess.”
“This is my fault,” Roisin mutters more to her coffee than to me. “I pushed you to reconnect with Chloe. I didn't realise she'd grown into such a little bi …”
“It's mine.” Between gulps of the bitter liquid, I interrupt. “I shouldn't have gone. They weren't my friends, and I should have waited until I was ready. I drank too much because I wasn't.”
“Everybody drinks too much once in a while. Chloe should have taken care of you.”
I look down into my steaming mug.
“She's not my friend, hasn't been in a long while. It was stupid of me to think differently.”
Roisin turns with a sigh and looks at me.
“So this boy? The one that took you home? Are you sure he wasn't up to no good?”
I shrug and glance away.
“He was just being a good guy. He saw I was drunk and let me stay for the night.” I try to say all this casually, though it feels anything but.
“Well, that's good then.”
I open my mouth, debating whether to tell her, but nothing but silence leaves my lips. People get rejected all the time, right? Nothing to be embarrassed about.
“What?” She's looking at me strangely, knowing I'm withholding something.
I take a sip of tea, inwardly cringing.
“I asked to see him again, like for coffee or something. He said no. I liked him, Roisin, he seemed … I don't know … different.”
Roisin eyes me with sympathy, which just makes me feel even more embarrassed. Humiliation is an uncomfortable itch across my skin.
“It happens, you know, liking someone, them not liking you back. Unfortunately, it happens that way more often than the other way.”
She moves to the breakfast bar and sinks onto the stool opposite me.
“I know, I just felt like maybe he did, you know, like me. Just something was holding him back. I know I sound ridiculous.”
“You don't, but normally, when someone says no, it's because they mean no, even though it might be hard to hear.”
I smile at her, seeing the gentle disbelief in her eyes. She's looking at me like I'm young, na?ve, and she's right, but I also know she's also wrong. I know he liked me. I know it.
“He has a busy job. I told you he works for some massive funeral chain. And he runs a nightclub. Maybe he was just being honest.”
“All that at twenty-one?”
Chuckling, I nod my head.
“He's rich, obviously, but no, he wasn't lying about his work. I saw how they treated him at the club. He was in charge, for sure. And he was my age, trust me.”
She nods unconvincingly like she thinks I'm so gone, so infatuated I can't tell what's real. And everything tells me she should be right, except I know she's wrong. I hate this feeling. I'm usually so sure, my mind so certain. What was it about Jackson that made me second-guess myself? And why did that draw me to him more instead of pushing me away?
“OK, well then, maybe he is busy. Too busy for a relationship. For them to work, you have to be committed, and maybe he doesn't have space for anyone right now.” She shrugs and takes a sip of tea.
“I'm gonna go back. I have his clothes. I should return them.” I try to say this casually and not like my insides feel hot at just the thought of seeing him again. Tugging on his T-shirt, I feel the expensive fabric, so soft under my fingers. I could imagine him wearing this, the cotton clinging to that hard torso of his. I swallow; going back risked more humiliation. But walking away left me feeling cold and almost afraid. Like I was turning my back on something important. I won't beg. I won't plead, but I will dig deeper until I reach the real Jackson Mort.
“Millie, I know you like this boy, but …”
“I know he'll probably say the same thing, but … there was something there, Roisin, and I'm not ready to give up just yet.”
She laughs, a full-bodied, heart-deep sound and throws back her head. It's infectious, and I join in, too.
“What's so funny?”
“You sound so much like Eva. She never gave up on things, never liked admitting defeat. If this means that much to you, then you should go for it. This Jackson? He won't know what's hit him.”
She grins at me, her eyes watery, and I can't tell if it's from laughter or sadness. I grin back because I know she's right. I know if Mum were here, she would tell me that if I've found something I want, I should fight for it. And I know what I want. I want him.