Chapter 2 - June #2
"No. I can't." He runs a hand through his damp hair, frustrated.
"But I can promise I'm not taking stupid risks.
I'm not being reckless. I've got too much…
" He stops, seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say.
"I've got people depending on me. The club, customers, your dad's porch railing. I'm not checking out anytime soon."
It's meant to be reassuring, maybe even funny. But all I hear is *people depending on me*. Like he's a resource to be used. A tool in someone else's hand.
"What about what you want?" I ask.
Jackson looks at me like I've asked him to explain quantum physics. "What?"
"What do you want, Jackson? Not what the club needs, not what your customers need, not what I need or my father needs. What do you want?"
I can see him wrestling with how to answer. Can see a dozen different responses cross his face before he settles on the safest one.
"I want the Vipers gone. I want my brothers safe. I want this town to go back to normal." He pauses. "And I want you to stop worrying yourself sick over things you can't control."
It's a deflection and we both know it. But I don't push. I've already pushed too hard tonight, said too much, let too many feelings slip through the cracks I usually keep sealed tight.
I move away from the motorcycle, continuing my circuit of the garage. There's a calendar on the wall, still turned to last month. A row of coffee cans full of nuts and bolts sorted by size. A framed photo of Walt standing in front of the garage on opening day, younger than I ever knew him, proud.
"Your dad would be proud of you," I say. "You know that, right?"
"I don't know about that."
"I do." I move closer to the photo, study Walt's face.
He was a good man. Quiet, steady, the kind of father who showed love through actions rather than words.
Jackson is exactly like him in that way.
"He'd be proud of how you've kept this place running.
How you've taken care of people. How you—" I stop, swallow hard.
"How you took care of me when Tommy died. "
"June…"
"I never thanked you properly for that," I continue, still looking at the photo because it's easier than looking at Jackson. "For everything you did. The funeral arrangements, the paperwork, just... being there. I couldn't have gotten through it without you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Yes, I do." I finally turn to face him. "You put your own grief aside to help me with mine. That's not nothing, Jackson."
"We both lost him. Just made sense to lean on each other."
But we didn't lean on each other. Not really. Jackson held me up while his own foundation crumbled, and I was too lost in my own grief to notice.
The rain suddenly intensifies, slamming the roof so hard it sounds like the building might collapse. I glance toward the windows and can barely see my car through the deluge.
"That's getting worse," I say.
Jackson moves to the window, peers out. "Yeah. Flash flood warning went out minutes ago. Roads are probably already starting to flood."
"I need to get home."
"Not in this." He's already shaking his head. "Water's coming down too hard. Even if the roads aren't flooded yet, visibility's near zero. You'd be driving blind."
"I can't just stay here."
"Why not?" He turns to face me. "I've got an extra bed upstairs. It's not fancy, but it's dry and safe. You can wait out the worst of it."
The offer is practical, sensible. But the thought of staying here, in Jackson's space, with all this tension crackling between us, feels dangerous.
"I don't want to impose,"
"You're not imposing. You're being smart." He's using his reasonable voice, the one that doesn't allow for argument. "June, you can barely see the parking lot from here. What happens if you hydroplane? Or drive into standing water you can't see?"
He's right. I know he's right. But that doesn't make this feel any less complicated.
"Okay," I finally say. "But just until the rain lets up."
"Deal." Jackson moves toward the door leading to the stairs. "Come on. I'll make coffee."
I follow him through the narrow hallway and up the stairs to his apartment.
I've never been up here before, never had a reason to be.
The space is small but tidy: a living area with a worn couch and coffee table, a kitchen barely bigger than a closet, three doors that probably lead to the main bedroom, a guest room, and a bathroom.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll get that coffee started."
I perch on the edge of the couch, still damp from the rain, and watch him move around the tiny kitchen. He fills the coffee maker, measures grounds, sets it to brew. All with the same precision he brings to everything.
"Do you have guests often?" I ask, just to fill the silence.
"Not really." He leans against the counter, waiting for the coffee. "The brothers come by sometimes if they need something fixed after hours. But mostly it's just me."
Jackson's always been solitary, even as a kid. But there's a difference between choosing solitude and having it forced on you by circumstance and grief.
"That must get lonely," I say before I can stop myself.
Jackson shrugs. "I'm used to it."
"That's not the same as it being okay."
"No. I guess it's not."
The coffee maker beeps. Jackson pours two cups, adds sugar to mine without asking because he remembers how I take it. He hands me the mug and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining some distance.
We sit in silence, listening to the rain hammer the building. It shows no signs of letting up.