Chapter Sixteen
Millie
T he slap, slap of my flats echoes across the marble floor in the atrium of Jackson's building. Above me, there's a large sweeping ceiling with elaborate but contemporary chandeliers and even more marble. The art déco touches across the room are self-consciously balanced with the modern fixtures. It reminds me of Jackson himself. Tonnes of charm but knowingly and consciously so.
The desk is right at the back, forcing me to cross the room, walking past plush settees and rich mahogany coffee tables. A smartly dressed security guard sits behind the desk, watching me with an amused expression. His eyes seem to chuckle.
I approach cautiously, feeling out of place in the high-sheen gloss of this world, but he says nothing; just continues to watch me. Annoyance sparks in me. I can already feel the condescension, and he hasn't even uttered a word. When I reach the grand desk, it looks even bigger than from a distance. It's supposed to intimidate those prone to be intimidated by wealth, but that's not me. I slap my hands down on the counter. The cold marble feels icy under my warm fingers.
“Hello.”
“Hello, dear. Back again?” His salt-and-pepper moustache twitches, and I know he's holding back a smirk.
This catches me off guard. My memories of getting to Jackson's are hazy, but I faintly remember this room, the faux grandeur in a cavernous space. His expression is professional, but there's enough amusement there for me to know that he remembers the drunk girl slung over Jackson's shoulder.
“Looks that way. Umm … can you call Jackson, please? And let him know I'm here? It's Millie. I have some things of his.” I keep my words firm. I'm nervous, but not because of an old man with a superiority complex. It's seeing Jackson again that's tripping my nerves. The certainty I'd been feeling all week has melted away as the reality of how badly this could go hits me.
He smiles again but makes no effort to move and make the call; just keeps watching me. I move my weight from one foot to the other, my fingers clenching tightly on the bag. I tighten my lips and resist the urge to speak my mind. He tilts his head and finally speaks.
“He's a creature of habit, is our Jackson, Sunday morning run. Like clockwork. He won't be back for a while yet.”
My body slumps, and I can tell he sees my disappointment.
“Oh. How long is he usually? I can wait.”
“A while.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he adds nothing.
“Right.”
“You can leave his things with me if you'd like? As I said, he'll be …”
“A while. Got it.”
I hesitate, looking down at the bag containing Jackson's things. My excuse to come here. He smirks at me, and I know he's enjoying this. I wonder if I'm just one of many girls who come here, finding a reason to see Jackson. It wouldn't surprise me, but the thought still stings. Sighing, I put the bag on the desk and push it across to him.
“Can you tell him it's from Millie?” I eye him carefully.
“If they're his things, won't he know they're from you?” He takes the bag and places it under the desk. I'm annoyed now. He might have a point, but he's mocking me, and we both know it.
“Thank you for all your help.” I lace my words with as much sarcasm as I can, glaring at him hard enough to set that mocking moustache on fire.
“You're welcome, dear.”
Turning sharply, I stomp away until I'm standing in front of the large glass doors. I turn back and look at the security guard. He waves, curling his chubby fingers as he grins at me. I fight every instinct in my body to respond with my middle finger. Smiling tightly, I roll my eyes and walk back out into the autumn air.
I'd spent all week thinking about seeing Jackson again, planning it, turning it over in my mind, searching for holes and problems. I'd obviously considered the possibility that Jackson wouldn't be home but had hoped that a Sunday morning would be a safe enough bet.
The rest of my day was empty, and it had taken me an hour to walk across town to Jackson's building. As I stand outside, people passing me by on the busy street, I debate what to do now. Castle Park would already be busy. The air was chilly, but the sun was bright, and the day was growing warmer.
St Nick's Market was in the other direction. It would be equally busy, but I was hungry and hadn't walked through its tangle of food and bric-à-brac stalls in a long time. Mum always liked it there. She liked the odd arrangement of market stalls and the sheer abundance of food places. We'd sit on a stool, eating something hot and spicy as she'd make up stories about the people walking by, of the curious and quirky lives they could secretly be leading. The cardigan-wearing grandma who was a covert government spy, the man in the tweed suit who was hiding a spandex superhero costume and cape beneath.
Smiling at the memories and ignoring the pinch of sadness in my belly, I walk in its direction. As expected, the market is busy, and I make my way around the indoor labyrinth of narrow turnings and tightly packed stalls slowly, not fighting the crowd as I take in the sights of shiny trinkets and fierce smells of spices from all over the world. When I reach the end, I stand outside. The crisp air filled my nostrils after the heavy aroma from inside. I glance around at the stalls spilling out from the indoor market and lining Corn Street, searching for one that might satisfy my hunger.
I spot Jackson instead.
He's standing in front of a small coffee stall, talking cheerfully to the round, older woman behind it. She smiles at him affectionately and makes him a coffee. I hear the hiss of steam as she heats and froths the milk. Having thought I'd missed my chance, I suddenly feel timid, my insides twisting painfully.
Approaching quickly, I ignore how fast my heart is beating. I'm not sure if it's in excitement or fear. I think it might be both. I'm standing by his side a second later, abruptly enough that the woman behind the stall looks at me strangely. Jackson is holding out his hand to pay for the coffee. I put my hand on the warm skin of his wrist and he turns to look my way. His curious glance changes sharply to a bright smile, and I melt in the glow of it.
“Millie.”
“I'll get this. I owe you a drink, don't I?” I say the words too quickly, between hurried breaths.
“You don't have to do that…” I shake my head and pull out my phone, ready to pay.
“Ummm, whatever he's ordered and a cappuccino for me … please?”
He beams down at me and puts his money back in his pocket.
She's still looking at me oddly but nods. I pay, and she goes back to the elaborate, steampunk-esque coffee machine.
“So … what are you doing on this side of town?”
He's looking at me warmly, and through the glare of the midday sun, I peer up at him. His running gear consists of black joggers and a basic white T-shirt, one tight enough to show the curve of his biceps and the faint outline of a hard stomach where the damp fabric clings. I try and fail not to stare.
“Well, I … I came to return the clothes you leant me. I dropped them off with that charming security guard,” I add sarcastically, and he smirks.
“He's OK, really. He just treats everyone like they're in his own personal reality show. Thanks, though, you didn't need to do that.”
I shrug and smile at him, the rays of the sun framing the dark sweep of his hair. The barista puts down the coffee on the wooden counter with a thud. I take them, thanking her with a smile warm enough that I hope to thaw her frosty expression.
“Merci Adela, bonne jour née.” He beams at her, and she smiles back before giving me a look that tells me I'm not worthy of him. I raise an eyebrow at her and turn away.
“Toi aussi, Jackson.”
We walk slowly away from the stall, heading up Corn Street toward his building. I fill the brief silence with a gulp of my scolding coffee.
“You heading home now?”
“Well, I'll probably take the long way through the park first. Fancy a walk?” He's looking down at me, that charming grin on full display, and I have to laugh.
“OK,” I say, hoping the little dance I'm doing on the inside isn't showing. “I think you have a fan there.” I turn back to look at the barista, who glares at me until a couple appears in front of her stall, distracting her.
“Adela?” He follows my gaze and then chuckles. “I've been buying coffee from her pretty much every day for a year. Maybe she thinks you have bad intentions for me.”
“Maybe I do.” I raise an eyebrow, and it's his turn to look away, smiling. Somewhere, I know Mum, the queen of flirting, is cheering proudly.
“I'm sorry for how we left things after I dropped you home.” The smile has left his face, and he's looking at me seriously as I follow him toward the park.
“I was … I was a little confused. I suppose I thought we'd connected … maybe.” My throat is suddenly dust-dry. “Did I read things wrong?”
He's silent for a long time.
“No. You didn't read things wrong, but … my life's a little … complicated.”
I stop and twist, ready to halt him and any excuses, but I can see the conflict on his face.
“Let's just, uh … forget about it. So you like to run, huh?” I look steadfastly ahead. I'm not particularly interested in the answer—I just need to change the conversation. Having crossed the street, we follow the path next to the river, the green banks of the park on the other side of us. He doesn't respond straight away but eventually sighs and offers me a soft smile.
“Yeah, a few times a week, at least. It clears my head. Work can be … well, it's not always easy to switch off, I guess.”
“Maybe I should take up running. I could do with that.”
The park is busy; families sit on the side of the path, filling the benches, and children play near their feet. The scent of spices has followed us from the market as people line the park to lunch on Thai and Mexican food in cardboard boxes. We walk quietly, the silence between us feeling uncomfortable for the first time. I can't help thinking it's my fault. He'd been trying to be a friend to me, and I wanted to make it more. And maybe I'd lost my chance for both things now. Maybe Roisin was right; perhaps I was convincing myself of something when Jackson had already told me the answer.
“How much trouble were you in?”
“Trouble?”
“With your godmother?”
“Oh.” I laugh, some of the tension relaxing from my shoulders. “Well, I wasn't her favourite person for a few days, but I think she was more annoyed at Chloe and her friends for leaving me.”
“Yeah, I'm not sure I blame her. I hope you gave them hell.”
“I haven't spoken to them since. I don't think I really care enough to be mad at them. We weren't really friends. Chloe and I were close when we were younger, but after Mum got sick, we had nothing in common anymore. I thought maybe … but we're too different now. They didn't really want me there.” I feel my cheeks heat as I mutter the words, wishing I'd held them back.
He looks at me kindly, but there's anger in his eyes. “That's not how you treat people. Whether you were friends, whatever you had in common, they could have made sure you were OK.”
I smile, his fiery words making me feel better. “In a weird way, it worked out. The best time I'd had that night was with you.”
He stares down at me, his expression unreadable. I've been too honest again. I should be coy, pretend not to feel what I feel. It's just that I don't know how to do that.
“I had a good time with you, too, Millie.” His face is serious, and the words seem dragged out of him as if he doesn't really want to say them. I can see that glint of surprise in his eyes like he's not completely in control. That polished charm is slipping.
“Then would it be so terrible if we saw each other again?”
“Millie, I …” His eyes have narrowed, and he exhales with frustration.
“I mean, as friends. I know you're busy, and maybe you don't have room in your life for anything … else, but I know, if I learned anything from my night at Worship, other than that shots are pure evil in a glass, is that I could do with some real friends.”
He says nothing for a moment, just keeps walking, looking down hard at his coffee lid, thinking intently. Ahead of us, a group of black ravens peck aggressively at some deserted food cartons. As we pass, they look up. Their beady eyes seem pinned to us. It's weird. Almost as weird as how much Jackson tenses at the sight of them. He walks quicker, and I struggle to keep up with him.
“Ornithophobia?”
“What?” He's still distant, far away in his thoughts. The word comes out harshly.
“A phobia of birds. You couldn't get past them quick enough. They seemed to like you, though.” I'm teasing, trying to lighten the heavy moment, but his face drains of colour.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, sure. I hate birds …” He runs his hands through his hair. He looks down at me, his lips parting like he wants to say more, but then he turns away.
We walk in silence once more.
I can see we're coming close to the end of the path and the exit of the park. We're now across the street from Jackson's building. The towering structure of glass reflects the soft white clouds and the pure blue of this lovely day.
There's an awkward moment as we stand by the road, neither of us saying goodbye but not suggesting that we keep walking, either. Frustration builds within me. I'm angry at him for not being brave enough to accept or even reject me. From the torn look on his face, I think a part of him is angry with me for bringing it up again. Maybe I pushed too hard, but I couldn't let it go. We'd connected that night and more so that morning. I'd felt it and knew he had to. I lost Mum only months ago. Rejection from a boy—even one I know I like more than I should, more than is reasonable for how little time we've spent together—won't break me. Not when I've barely even started putting myself back together from the last breaking of my heart. Deciding I wasn't going to win this battle today, I sigh and look in the direction of the road.
“I guess you're home. I better make my way back, too. It was good seeing you again, Jackson.” I smile at him, trying to soften the hard look on his face. I down the rest of the coffee, though it scolds my throat, but I need to focus on something other than the torment in his eyes. I don't wait for a response. I'm too angry to be civil, so I just walk to the edge of the pavement, checking that the busy street is safe to cross.
“Millie?”
I turn to face him but say nothing.
“I could do with more real friends, too.”
I break into a small smile, and slowly, almost reluctantly, so does he. I can see it, though, this strange look of fear on his face buried under that winning smile, like he's just done something terrible, like he's afraid. Above our heads, the ravens take flight, shrieking loudly as they soar into the clouds.