Chapter 22 Jackson
Jackson
She sat back on her heels and he nearly reached out to stop her, had to force himself to keep his hands where they were, fisted in the bedcovers.
Her light and energy drew him with a gravitational force.
Jackson craved more of both all the time and he was unused to craving.
He’d grown so used to wanting less of everyone else.
She’d thrown on a checked shirt over a black tank top today, with a pair of cargo pants in khaki corduroy.
The swell of her breasts distracted him every time her shirt gaped open and he had to fight to keep his eyes off her chest like a horny frat boy but, God, she was so tempting.
Those curves of hers were made for touching.
He’d never been so aware of someone else.
Jackson scrabbled for a distraction but Leah beat him to it.
“Why didn’t you ever visit?” she asked suddenly, her eyebrows drawn together into a rare frown. It looked wrong on her face. “Why didn’t any of you come and see Esther—not even when she was ill?”
Guilt slithered like ground fog in his belly. “She cut herself off from us when I was a kid.”
Leah was shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “That doesn’t make sense. She thought the world of you. I could tell from the way she spoke about you and your brother.”
Jackson floundered. “I— Dad said she didn’t want anything to do with us. They had an argument, and she wouldn’t forgive him.”
Leah took a moment to answer, wiping her hands on a piece of paper towel she’d brought up on the tray. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Jackson had never doubted his parents’ word on the subject.
He’d just accepted that another person he cared for had disappeared from his life.
What if it hadn’t been Esther’s choice at all?
Ever since he’d returned to Amity Court, he’d found memories of his grandmother stealing into his mind.
Her steady, warm presence; the true sense of belonging he’d felt as he tore through these rooms as a child, built forts in the backyard, made whistles from blades of grass.
All those precious moments from years ago that he’d pushed away and buried.
Jackson’s jaw tightened at the suspicion that something had been kept from him. He was sick of being manipulated.
“Wanna watch a movie?”
It took him a moment to catch up with Leah’s question. He’d disappeared so far into his own thoughts he’d forgotten she was there. “Sure.”
She was letting him off the hook. Again. The disappointed resentment that had prompted her question had cleared from her eyes, and instead Jackson saw a soft understanding he wasn’t sure was justified.
“Got anything in mind?” His voice was rough.
“When did you last watch Jurassic Park?”
“I’ve never seen it,” Jackson admitted.
Leah’s jaw dropped. “You . . .” Words obviously failed her. “But it’s disaster-movie genius. And velociraptors are my favorite animal.”
Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Dinosaurs are extinct. You can’t choose them as your favorite animal.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Says who?”
He held up both hands in surrender. The banter felt safer than opening up any more old wounds.
“Right. That’s our afternoon set then!” Leaping from the bed, Leah jogged to the door, pulled it open, and disappeared, only to immediately stick her head back into the room. “Will watching something on a screen make your head hurt again?”
Jackson cleared his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken his welfare so much to heart. “It should be OK. I’m happy to give it a try.”
The movie was fun, Leah’s steady stream of chatter undemanding and easy.
Afterwards, they ate a simple dinner of pesto pasta in bed, and all the while he prayed for time to slow down, for this day to go on and on.
When she offered to read the next chapters of Traces of Chalk, he lay back and closed his eyes without protest.
Jackson eventually fell asleep to the sensory picnic of Leah’s pear-scented perfume in the air, the cool pillowcase beneath his head, and the flutter of turning pages. Her voice rolled over him like gentle waves on wet sand. She was in his dreams from the moment he drifted off.
Dream Leah leaned closer, as if she might have been about to press a kiss to his temple. The soft cotton of her shirt brushed his jaw.
Dream Leah ran gentle fingers through his hair, just how he liked it, and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Jax.”
And then, even as he wanted to beg her not to, Dream Leah left him alone.
Jackson slept deeply again and woke early.
It took him ten full minutes to gather himself, slotting his thoughts in order, one on top of the other.
His head had cleared, his stomach had settled.
Climbing out of bed, he found his balance a little off, his muscles weak, but he felt ten times better than he had the day before.
Needing to rip off the Band-Aid immediately, he pulled on his work clothes and left the house before dawn, without seeing Leah.
He was at his desk in the office by eight a.m., a bit fuzzy but focused.
In the past forty-eight hours, the bare bones of his life had been tossed into the air like lithomancy stones, tumbling down randomly and forming an unfamiliar pattern. It felt momentous. It felt unsettling. It felt inevitable.
Jackson knew it was time to instigate some changes.
Calling his father before he got sucked into anything else, he insisted that they push for a talk with Landon Peake.
The deadline for the loan payment was coming up and Jackson had no intention of letting Landon’s little tea party with Leah at Amity Court pass by without a reaction.
They made plans to approach him at the club later on in the week.
Arranging to meet up with Niamh felt nearly as important, and he arrived early for lunch at La Marina on Thursday.
She didn’t keep him waiting long, attracting the attention of others when she crossed the floor in a pinstriped navy pencil dress.
He studied her objectively as she neared the table and realized with a jolt he didn’t know her favorite animal.
He doubted she knew his favorite food. On paper, Niamh might be the ideal girlfriend, but she’d always remained two-dimensional to him and he suspected he was no more solid to her.
She slid elegantly into her seat. “Hey, Jackson.”
“Niamh.” He flicked her a smile, which she met with a surprised quiver of a sleek eyebrow.
A waitress passed by with a tray holding two bowls of lobster chowder. It smelled delicious; Jackson’s stomach growled.
“You look better than you did on Sunday.” Niamh picked up a menu.
“I’m sure I do.” He grimaced and caught her eye. “Sorry I couldn’t take you home.”
She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “It was no problem.”
The waitress doubled back for their drinks order and Jackson glanced around at the other diners on other tables—all chatting and laughing in a sea of color and movement.
Easy humor, carefree enjoyment, which he’d not taken the time to notice on previous visits.
Today it made him envious. He turned back to Niamh. “Work going well this week?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s been pretty quiet so far.”
“Great.”
The waitress set a raspberry iced tea and Jackson’s sparkling water on the table, then asked if they were ready to order.
“I’ll have the small sushi platter, please.” Niamh handed her menu back to the waitress.
He did the same and found pleasure in deviating from his standard order. “I’ll take the lobster chowder. Thank you.”
Toying with his glass, Jackson asked after Niamh’s mother, her dog, her plans for the evening, and, in desperation, whether or not the elevator had been fixed in her apartment block.
When her phone vibrated in her purse, she answered a very brief work call with an apologetic grimace and he hoped that their food would come soon.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Jackson took a sip of his drink.
“So, are we still on for the theatre tomorrow?” Niamh asked, unfolding her napkin.
He thought about saying yes. After all, the lackluster conversation wasn’t new and neither was their arrangement.
But the last few days were too vivid in his mind; Jackson couldn’t get the word past his lips.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had been missing Leah’s company and her unforced chatter since he’d left Amity Court, and anyone else was a poor substitute.
Now that she’d cracked him open and shown him what true connection could look like, he was all too aware that he’d been using Niamh as a convenient human shield for years.
“Do you mind if we don’t?” That sounded way too blunt. He wished he’d prettied it up somehow—that was the problem with spontaneity—but he attempted to soften his tone before forging on. “I don’t think this social arrangement we have is working for me anymore. Maybe you feel the same?”
“I see.” Niamh avoided his question and reached for her glass.
Jackson studied her face for clues but found none. “‘I see,’ as in yes, you do feel the same? Or ‘I see,’ as in something else?”
With wonderous timing for peak awkwardness, the waitress returned with their food. The paused conversation hung in the air and it was several minutes until they were alone again. Jackson, finding his knee was bouncing beneath the table, made a concentrated effort to sit still.
Niamh turned her plate until the layout of her food was displayed to her satisfaction and used her chopsticks to select a rainbow roll. “It’s OK—you’re right. It’s not enough just to look good together and mix in the same circles. I can find other dates.”
“I’ve always enjoyed spending time with you.” It was such a weak endorsement of their friendship. Jackson gave an internal wince.