Chapter Eighteen
Millie
T here's a comforting weight to my camera, the way it fills my hands and allows me to view the world safely behind glass. I pivot on my feet, letting the lens glide across the crowded market, skimming rustic wooden huts, handmade trinkets and Christmas lights hanging from fake snow-covered roofs. On laughing and miserable-looking shoppers, screaming toddlers wobbling along in snow jackets, making them as round as footballs. I land on a group of four girls sitting on a picnic table next to the hot chocolate hut. They blow on hot drinks held between gloved hands. They laugh together, and two of the girls are so comfortable that their heads touch as they giggle.
I lower the camera without taking a single shot, my chest tight and the icy wind slapping the skin on my face, now unprotected by my camera. They look happy and easy together. They make friendship look simple and beautiful, like something from a clothing advert. I can't remember the last time I had that with a group of people. I can't remember ever looking that light and carefree.
“Apparently, if you stick it in a Christmas-themed paper cup, you should be willing to wait twenty minutes for it.”
Jackson holds out the hot chocolate in front of me. Despite his dry words, he's grinning. The frigid air is turning his cheeks a festive red, and just the sight of him makes me smile. The weight that was like a vice on my heart lessens. I take the hot chocolate, my camera now hanging securely from my neck.
“Thank you. I'm sure it'll be absolutely delicious and worth every second you've queued for it,” I say drily.
He grunts, looking unconvinced.
Sipping deeply as Jackson watches me, I feel the sweet liquid slipping down my throat. The unexpected burn shocks me, and I cough and splutter until I'm almost hunched over. My eyes water until they sting. I can feel eyes on me from across the market and Jackson chuckling away in front of me. Before I can get mad, he reaches out and his hand rubs soothing circles on the small of my back.
“What the hell …?” I'm coughing too much to finish the sentence.
“I think you might have mine. I added a little something for flavour.”
Standing fully up, I see Jackson grinning hard. I can't help but laugh, though I give him a look of faux annoyance. He takes his chocolate from my hand and hands me mine.
“And what flavour is that? Lava.” I cough between chuckles.
“Whiskey. We've definitely established you're not a drinker.”
“Yeah, I think we can safely say that drinking is not for me.”
He smiles, gently nudging me, and we walk away from the hut. I notice the girls are now looking at me. They're whispering to each other and looking at Jackson and me like I'm the one who has something they want.
We make our way slowly through the Christmas market. Green and red lights twinkling above us, the smells of frying meat and sweet mulled wine rising to meet my nostrils. Not that I'm paying much attention. Jackson's hand is still on my back, and even through my thick coat and jumper, I can feel the heat of his skin.
Friends. That's what we are, that's what he wants, but I know there's more here. Like grass growing slowly through cracks in the pavement. Weeks had passed, and through all the time we'd spent together, nothing substantial had changed. The development was subtler and gentler. A ripple rather than a wave. Like his touch, which was frequent. Jackson always found a reason to touch me, and I revelled in the feeling of his skin on mine. Those sparks of electricity made it impossible to think of him as just a friend. They made me think of things that were far from … friendly.
“Any good shots?”
Jackson nods to my camera, disrupting my thoughts. Dropping my now empty paper cup into the nearest bin, I flick through the photos on the little screen, Jackson peering down from over my shoulder.
“They're amazing, Millie. You have a brilliant eye.”
I frown and shrug. The photos are fine, perfectly OK shots capturing strangers enjoying a generic Christmas tradition on a cold winter evening.
“But you're not happy?” Jackson frowns at me. I can tell he's quietly trying to work me out from behind his eyes.
“I'm supposed to be capturing my world. That's the assignment.” I step away from the crowd to lean against one of the thick pillars holding up the tent covering the wooden seating area in the centre of the market. Jackson watches me thoughtfully and follows me over.
“And this isn't it, is it?” His hand is once again on my back. I move closer to his touch, into his heat. If I'm crossing a line, it's not showing on his face.
“A huge piece of my world is missing. And all I see in every photo is what I’ve lost.”
“She was everything to you.”
His voice is soft, a caress against my skin. I don't mean to lean against his shoulder, but it's the most natural thing in the world, and he doesn't pull away. He plays with a strand of my hair, twisting it through his fingers, and I swear I've stopped breathing.
“She was. And now she's gone. I'm trying to work out what my world looks like now.” I flick through more photos. Another group of teenagers nearly my age. They have that group mentality, with hairstyles and clothing that are different versions of the same thing. All with genuine smiles, easy mannerisms, and unhaunted eyes.
“This is their world, not mine.”
His hands go to my hips, pulling me closer, so much that he has to lean down, his lips close to my ears.
“Then we'll figure it out. We'll find your world, Millie.”
There are tears in my eyes, but I don't want to cry. I don't feel sad exactly, not right now. I'm standing with him, and there's nothing sad about the way he makes me feel. The way I feel about Jackson terrifies but also excites me. I may have been on a one-way road to heartbreak, but I don’t care. What was between us feels fragile but also sturdy in a way that nothing else in my life does right now.
I lift my camera.
“Woah, what are you doing?” He's laughing, but his cheeks are turning pink.
I shrug and smile, placing myself behind the lens, trying to find Jackson, my Jackson, the man I don't need to look through a lens to see.
He shakes his head but playfully, turning his head away and sipping his whiskey-laden hot chocolate. Letting me take the photo, letting me capture him. I take a few, finding the bright lights hanging behind him shining in the corner of the shot. The angle captures his pale, velvety skin, the metallic glint in his eye, the thousand looks that seem to pass through his eyes as I take the shots. As always, Jackson is a mystery to me.
“Are you done?” he asks drily. He's pretending not to care, but I can see the flush in his face, the tension in his jaw.
“Yes.” I lower my camera and flick through the photos, but he puts a hand down, blocking my view.
“Look at them later. That's not something I need to see.”
“Didn't take you for bashful type?” I smile. His photos, like him, are gorgeous.
“No one's ever accused me of being shy before.” He laughs. If there had been a crack in his armour a second ago, it's healed now. The grin is back, and he moves away from me, taking his body heat with him. “Come on, you told me there was food at this thing.”
I giggle, shaking my head, as he leads the way to a German food stand a few stalls away. When I'm not walking fast enough, he turns and grabs my hand, dragging me forward. I'm laughing, properly laughing, from the deepest pit of my stomach.
“Come on!”
“I've never met anyone so obsessed with food as you!”
“I'm only obsessed when I'm hungry.”
“You're always hungry, Jackson!”
Jackson orders the food, speaking to the rosy-cheeked man behind the counter in German. He smiles warmly and prepares the hotdogs.
“You speak German as well as French?” I peer up at him, incredulous.
“Well, technically, I speak German as well as English. French was my first language.”
I chuckle and meet the sparkle in his eyes. The man returns with three hotdogs, handing them over as Jackson thanks him. Or I assume that's what he's doing. I'm not sure I know more than one or two words in German.
“Where did you learn German?” We walk away, and I wait for Jackson to respond, but he's already taken a mouthful of food.
I slip onto one of the few free benches, and Jackson follows, sinking next to me. I watch the busy scene ahead, of other friends and families eating and drinking, all wrapped up from the cold.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” he says huffily.
“Where did you learn to speak German like that?”
His face is still fixed with a soft smile, but the light has left his eyes. I feel the darkness Jackson doesn't talk about, the one he carries with him and keeps locked away.
“I picked up a few things when I was still in France.” He doesn't elaborate, and silence falls between us.
“You can tell me, you know.”
He peers down at me, his eyes narrowing darkly.
“Tell you what?” He says the words sharply, his tone blunt.
“Whatever it is you think you can't tell me.”
He stares ahead, his eyes a void. He's far away from me right now. To the place he drifts off to when his mask slips and his smile fades. Maybe it's a place I can't follow, but I want him to know he doesn't need to go there alone.
We eat in silence for a moment. Jackson devours his two hotdogs while somewhere, I can hear a group of children singing carols. If it weren't for a total British refusal to do more than snow only a few snowflakes, everything around would look like something from a Christmas movie.
“What are you doing on Saturday?”
I blink in his direction, awoken from my daydream of happy families in the snow. In the time it's taken me to eat half a hot dog, he's devoured two. He's looking at me seriously, and I try to keep the look on my face neutral.
“You keeping me in suspense here or what? You free?”
Because I have such a busy social schedule.
“Yes, I'm free. What are you suggesting?”
He grins at me, leaning back on the bench, all loose-limbed confidence and charm. He's delicious, and he knows it.
“I'm suggesting you come with me to Worship. Have another go at a first night out? Maybe with fewer shots and more actual fun?”
The thought of going back to Worship makes my stomach churn, but he's looking at me like it's the best idea ever. I'm not so sure.
“Jackson, I …”
“I hate it. Knowing you blame yourself, thinking that's what a night out is.”
I turn away, looking back at the crowd. Part of me is excited by the idea of a night out with Jackson. My memories of Worship, of that night, are faint, but the bits I remember and am glad I remember all involve Jackson, his mercury eyes reflecting the light, his onyx hair grazing his forehead. That smile of his that I felt all the way down to my toes. On the other hand, the night ended with me passed out drunk outside and Jackson lugging me like a bag of potatoes up to his flat.
“Just think about it, OK? You'll have a good time. I'll make sure of it.”
“OK.”
“OK, you'll come or OK, you'll think about it?”
I mirror his grin and shake my head at his teasing.
“I'll come, but there better be some dancing, or I will be very disappointed in you.”
He chuckles, screwing up the hotdog wrappers and throwing them into the bin next to the bench.
“I think I can handle that. Here's the big question …”
I raise my eyebrow curiously, and he laughs softly at me, his eyes lingering again in a way that makes me feel warm even in the frosty weather.
“Are you going to finish that hotdog?”
My jaw drops, and I look down at the half-eaten dog. Shaking my head, I hand it to him.
“You are literally a human dustbin. Here you go.”
“Faaannnkkkshhh,” he says between a mouthful of bun. He nudges me playfully with his elbow and quickly rises to his feet. In a swift move, his arm is around my waist, and he's leading me through the crowd. I'm pretty sure towards more food.