Chapter 18 Jackson
Jackson
He was on his back when he woke. The vise of pain around his head had dialed back to a tender thump, while his stomach rolled queasily, empty and protesting. Jackson opened his eyes tentatively but the flashing lights from the peak of his migraine were gone.
Leah hadn’t left; he could smell her even before he saw her. Fruit and flowers, sharp and sweet, but so subtle it didn’t overwhelm his jangling senses. Her presence was pure comfort, which was both confusing and disturbing.
She was reading, her delicate face bathed in the low light of a Kindle screen. Legs curled to one side, her body angled toward him, drowning as usual beneath the soft folds of an old sweatshirt. Leah twisted a midnight curl around her fingers and Jackson was instantly, achingly jealous.
His throat prickled and tightened. “What are you reading?” The question sounded rough from his dry lips.
Leah immediately lowered her Kindle to her lap. “It’s a fantasy romance. Love with swords and wings—that kind of thing.”
Jackson watched her mouth form the words. “Swords and wings,” he repeated.
“Uh-huh. Love should always come with swords and wings.” Leah’s smile grew.
“I feel as though that’s more meaningful than I can get my head around right now,” he admitted.
Even the dark was no match for the sparkle in her eyes. “I’m not sure it means anything at all, but it would look good on a t-shirt.”
“That’s you sorted for Christmas, then.”
There was a sour taste in his mouth, a layer of stale sweat clung to his skin, and he would bet good money he stank.
Moving was a hideous prospect and a shower was out of the question, but a trip to the bathroom was non-negotiable.
He pushed himself up on shaky arms and grimaced as his stomach clenched.
“Hold on—” Leah knelt on the bed. “Can I help?”
“I think I’ve got it,” Jackson muttered through gritted teeth. “I need the bathroom.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood, weaving slightly, eyes closed momentarily as the pain pulsed in his head again. When it dulled a little, he opened them and headed slowly for the door.
The bathroom, thank God, was close by. Jackson took a piss and then leaned on the front edge of the sink, eyeing the wreck of himself in the mirror.
Coming off the back of a migraine was not the time for an ego boost. He looked like hell and felt worse.
With no strength for a major overhaul, he washed his face, attempted to smooth down his hair, and scowled at his reflection.
He took a tiny swig of mouthwash, which made him heave and admit defeat.
In the bedroom, he found the bed empty and no Leah.
“Hardly fucking surprising.” He cursed, low and bitter, unsure if he was angry at her, himself, or the fact that he wished she was still on his bed. He pulled yet another fresh tee from the dresser and stripped off the one he wore.
“What is?” Leah answered, curiosity in her voice as she stepped back into the room.
Jackson felt her eyes on his bare chest like tiny defibrillator paddles pressed against his skin.
It gave him a whole-body shock; all his nerve endings leaped in response.
They both froze in a tableau of coupledom interrupted, false though it was, as Leah’s face showed a thousand different expressions in the space of a few seconds.
“Nothing. Ignore me.” He dragged the new t-shirt over his head, breaking their eye contact, self-conscious and utterly unsettled.
What the fuck must she think? And why do I care?
Jackson crawled back into bed, desperate to be horizontal again. He sighed as his head touched the pillow and the tight band around his temples eased a little.
“Do you think you could eat anything?” Leah asked. She perched carefully by his side, holding up a box of Ritz crackers. “I googled the best snack after a migraine and it suggested these. Among other things.” She screwed up her nose.
“What other things?” He marveled at her thoughtfulness.
“One site said mackerel.” She made a barfing face, which almost forced a laugh out of him. “And there was a lot of talk of legumes.”
“I’ve always been hazy on legumes,” he admitted.
“I know, right. Is it a pea? Is it a bean? Do we care? I took a guess you might opt for the crackers.” She waggled the box enticingly.
“I’ll try one,” he said, mostly because he wanted to please her. What the hell was that about? Leah looked delighted and satisfied in equal measure, so he pulled himself into a half-seated position and dipped his hand inside the box. “You can sit down,” he said gruffly.
Don’t leave. Please stay. The words echoed in his head and Jackson blinked heavily. Who was this version of himself?
He nibbled on the Ritz cracker, relieved when his tender stomach downplayed its objections.
Leah climbed back on top of the quilt, taking a small handful of crackers for herself, and settled cross-legged on the bed.
The landing light was on and the door was ajar, casting soft shadows on the floor.
It felt intimate, yet relaxing. Like a moment stolen from time. Jackson’s mind wandered.
“You said you were scared to leave your ex-boyfriend once. What did you mean?”
Leah startled, her eyebrows dancing. “Wow. That came out of left field.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” He stretched out his little finger to brush against her jeans.
She watched the small movement, head bent.
And he couldn’t take his eyes off the curve of her neck.
He had a sudden urge to know everything about her.
All of her secrets. All of her pieces. “But, if you did want to talk—one friend to another—where better than the Bed of Truth.”
Her frown slid away and Leah laughed. She popped another cracker into her mouth. “Using that against me, huh? Well played.”
Jackson’s skin heated with the pleasure of her teasing.
Hollowed out and drained, he was fixated on Leah’s touch, her voice, her features.
The migraine must’ve come in and washed away every ounce of sense he had on its storm waves of pain, but he couldn’t stop.
He drank in her animated face, the deep pink of her lips, the pale tips of her ears under her dark curls.
“I was scared because I’d spent a lot of time trying to avoid being homeless and I had nowhere to go if I left Matt.”
That was not what he’d expected. “Homeless?”
“Yep.” Leah passed him another cracker, her dark eyes unguarded and open.
“Why were you homeless? Where was your family?” The synapses in Jackson’s brain fired with the efficacy of sparks on soggy papier-maché.
“My mom died in a traffic accident when I was three and my dad passed away when I was eight. He had a heart attack at work and never came home.”
Maybe it was a cracker lodged in his chest and maybe it wasn’t, but Jackson found himself short of breath. “No relatives?”
“None in the US. Possibly some distant ones somewhere, but no one my parents had stayed in touch with. I went into foster care. It was fine. Most of the families were nice.” Bland sentences, simple words. So much unsaid.
“And after foster care?” Jackson’s voice was rough.
“It was tricky for a while, but then I got a housing placement at a young adult center in Kalamazoo. That’s where I met Matthew.
We pooled our resources when we moved on and rented a place together.
It made financial sense but we weren’t a good match long-term.
I’d felt stuck for a while before I met Esther.
” Leah wiggled her finger into the loop of a loose thread at the ankle of her jeans.
“Your grandmother was amazing. I was working the front desk in a tattoo studio at the time, earning next to nothing, but Esther and I got talking about books and writing and then she offered me a job. And somewhere to live.”
The side-eye she gave him was tentative. They both recognized the unstable ground she’d stepped onto—the “Danger: Keep Out” sign flashing above the bed. This house. Amity Court. It was here she’d found a home. And Jackson had resented her presence ever since he’d arrived.
“There are movie stars who slept in vans or bus terminals before getting their big break, so I’m in good company.” Leah shifted on the bed, twisting to drop the box of crackers onto the floor.
“Did you ever sleep rough?”
“Not for long.” So that’s a yes, then. “Mainly on other people’s couches,” she continued quickly, a shoulder shrug passing it off as unimportant. “And a shed. But that was just a couple of weeks.”
“Did you ever find a long-term foster placement?”
“A couple were semi-long-term. A year here and there. I think I was unlucky. And, well, you know more than most, I can be pretty annoying to have around. People who foster are amazing. It must be such a difficult thing to do. The housing staff were fantastic, too. I learned so much from them.”
“You’re not annoying.” Jackson couldn’t let that go unchallenged. He was beginning to realize how resilient Leah was, rolling with every punch that came her way and taking it on the chin. He rubbed at the ache in his chest. “You don’t deserve what happened to you.”
Leah blinked through her bangs. He was close enough to see the almond-colored freckle below her right eye and a tiny chickenpox scar in her hairline. “Nor do you,” she said solemnly.
Jackson flinched. “Yeah, I’ve really suffered. Poor little rich boy.”
He turned away from her and wiped his hands over his face.
How was it fair that he had multiple homes—his condo, his parents’ house, their beach house on the lakeshore, and Amity Court—and Leah had none.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
He’d no option other than to sell the roof over her head as soon as possible and then she’d be homeless again.
Because of him.