Chapter Nineteen
? Holly ?
By Monday afternoon, my brain was fried, fingers ink-smudged from hours of notes, when a familiar shadow cut across the sidewalk. Dalton. Of course.
He matched my pace like he’d been waiting for me, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, grin tilted in that lazy, dangerous way that always made me want to smack him.
“Well, look at that. McCarthy lives. Survived the test without combusting.” He paused for effect.
“Want some good news to go with your brain death?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do I?”
He didn’t wait. “Jackson’s coming home. Mom’s throwing a cookout Friday. Attendance is non-negotiable.”
Heat rose before I could stop it. I forced my voice even. “Fine. I’ll drive.”
Dalton’s brows flicked up, like he’d expected more of a fight. “Huh. That was easy.” Then he peeled off toward his own class, smug as ever.
My phone was already in my hand before I even cleared the steps.
Me: You’re coming home?
The reply was almost instant.
Jackson: Yeah, on leave. It was supposed to be a surprise. Remind me to pummel Dalton. Me: Noted.
A smile tried to break loose. I strangled it.
The week stretched and snapped at the same time. Tuesday tasted like cold coffee and graphite—my notes smudged, my brain a scraped-clean bowl. Jackson’s messages were short, steady shots in the dark.
Jackson: Eat breakfast tomorrow. Non-negotiable.
Jackson: Got to the range today. Hands are wrecked. Worth it.
Jackson: You make it to class?
I started answering without overthinking.
Me: Fine. But only because Pop-Tarts count as breakfast.
Me: Don’t shoot anyone. Or yourself.
Me: Yeah. Barely. But I was there.
Wednesday after lab, Maria kidnapped me under the guise of “errands” and dragged me through Target like we were preparing for an apocalypse, Jewel judging us from the cart seat like a tiny Roman empress.
Maria held two mascaras to the light. “Waterproof or extra black?”
“Waterproof. Always”
She tossed both in the basket. Jewel grabbed one, gnawed on the corner, and declared it superior by drool. We detoured through home goods because my apartment still looked like a rental catalogue threw up. Maria pointed at a plant. “You need something alive.”
“I’m alive,” I said.
“That’s debatable,” she said sweetly, and put the plant in the cart.
Thursday night, Hannah called just to ask what side I wanted to bring, like I wasn’t the least reliable potluck participant on earth. “We’ll take anything,” she said, voice soft around the edges. “And don’t fuss about it. Just come.”
“I’ll—” I stalled. “I’ll bring a salad.” Salads were safe, right? I hoped.
By the time I walked out of the bathroom on Friday evening, Dalton had already sprawled across my couch like he owned the place. Boots on my coffee table. Remote in one hand. My Pop-Tarts in the other.
“Jesus, Holly, what’s taking so long?” he mumbled around a mouthful, crumbs scattering down his shirt.
I yanked the box out of his hands before he could finish the packet. “Stop eating all my food. And get your nasty boots off my table.”
He only grinned wider, eyes flicking to the eyeliner I hadn’t wiped off fast enough. “What’s the holdup, anyway? You’re not meeting the pope.”
I walked over to the kitchen to grab my super boring, super safe Caesar salad and told myself this was normal. A cookout. People I loved. A boy I…refused to name. My phone buzzed.
Jackson: Leaving now. Save me a burger.
Me: Maybe.
I stared at the word for a stupidly long time, feeling twelve and thirty at once. I was so zoned in on my phone, I didn’t hear Dalton walk up behind me, and when he tapped me on the shoulder, I nearly threw the salad at him.
“Whatcha doin’?” he drawled.
Heat crawled up my neck. “Mind your business.”
“Mm-hmm.” He stretched like a cat, perfectly at home. “Ready?”
“I have been ready,” I snapped, grabbing my bag. “Now let’s go before you eat all my food. We’re late.” We made it down to the lot, me storming ahead, Dalton sauntering behind. When I unlocked Sally, he stopped dead.
“You’re kidding.” His voice was flat. “We’re taking this?”
“This,” I said, patting the roof like a beloved pet, “is Sally. You will respect her. Or you can walk.”
Dalton eyed the Mustang like it was a coffin. “Pretty sure I’m too tall to legally ride in that thing.”
“Funny. Maria managed when she was literally giving birth. You’ll survive.”
He groaned but folded himself inside anyway, all six feet of him contorting into the passenger seat. His knees jammed the glovebox. His shoulders barely fit between the door and console.
“Christ,” he muttered, fumbling with the seatbelt. “This is a clown coffin.”
I slid into the driver’s seat, revved the engine just to make him groan. “Quit whining, sardine. We’ve got a cookout to get to.”
The ride was mercifully short, though Dalton filled it with complaints about his circulation and exaggerated groans every time I shifted gears. When we finally pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, the smell of hit me before the car even rolled to a stop.
The clubhouse buzzed with noise and smoke.
Mr. Mills flipped burgers at the grill, the scent of charred meat curling through the air.
Mac was holding court by the cooler, handing out beers like he owned stock in Bud Light, while Hannah shouted instructions from the porch, her wooden spoon tapping against her palm like a gavel.
I wove through the chaos until Maria flagged me down at a picnic table. “Eyeliner, huh?” Jewel was perched on her lap, already smearing applesauce into her curls.
“Hush you.” I accepted the plate Maria handed me, ignoring her smirk.
“Eat,” she ordered.
I was a sucker for a good burger, and my girl had loaded my plate. I’d just taken a bite when the air shifted. The kind of shift you felt in your spine before your brain caught up.
He was dressed casually. Jeans, a faded T-shirt. His old, familiar leather jacket straining to fit his shoulders which had all but doubled in width. What exactly did they feed Marines? Crayons and steroids? He was going to need a bigger size.
I realized I was staring, and everything inside me short-circuited.
My lungs forgot how to work. My burger staged a mutiny, lodging halfway down my throat.
I coughed, choked, saw spots. And because the universe hates me, Dalton had picked that exact moment to saunter over with a drink in hand.
He set it down, clapped me on the back with way too much enthusiasm, and grinned like Christmas had come early.
“Easy there, blondie. Try breathing between bites.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. By the time I finally managed to wheeze in a full breath, my face was scarlet. Hannah, still perched like a queen on the porch, was smirking knowingly. Maria had both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Jackson Morgan had been home all of thirty seconds, and the first thing he saw was me nearly dying on a burger. I chanced a glance at him and found him watching me with a half cocked smile. Lord, take me now.
The cookout slid into that easy rhythm the Mills clan always managed—kids darting between legs, somebody’s speaker crooning classic rock, Maria perched on a bench fixing Jewel’s hair while scolding Diego for sneaking her cookies.
Dalton and Jackson had wrangled up a ramshackle football game, and I sat watching them play.
Hannah eventually joined me, taking a seat at the table next to me.
I caught her glancing from me to the field a few times.
I don’t think I wanted to know what that knowing gleam in her eyes meant.
The food was good, the chatter loud, and it was really just the perfect Friday after a very long week.
God, I was ready for spring break. Every time Jackson tipped his head back to laugh, that low rasp rolling through the air, my chest did this stupid little twist. I found myself cataloguing things I shouldn’t—the scar along his knuckle, the way his T-shirt clung at the shoulders, the new stillness about him.
Like he’d learned to hold himself tighter. Like something in him had shifted.
I hated that I noticed. I hated that it mattered.
By the time the sun slid down and the plates sat empty, I was strung tight. So, when Hannah clapped her hands and announced, “Alright, kitchen duty! Holly, Jackson—you two can handle dishes.”
My fork clattered against my plate.
“Wait,” I spluttered but Jackson had already starting clearing plates and heading inside, leaving me with not much of a choice other than to follow.
Hannah’s eyes caught mine, bright with mischief, daring me to try and wriggle out.
Which was how I ended up in the kitchen with Jackson Morgan at my side and no escape hatch in sight.
The sink steamed, bubbles frothing high, the whole kitchen hazy with grill smoke clinging to our clothes.
I shoved my sleeves up and grabbed a plate like it was a weapon.
He reached automatically for the towel, leaning one hip against the counter like he’d done it a thousand times.
Like we weren’t two people tiptoeing around a fault line.
For a while, it was just the quiet splash of water and the clink of ceramic. Too quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat over it.
Then his voice—low, rougher than I remembered. “You look good, Malibu.”
The plate nearly slipped from my hands. My throat went tight, but this time I didn’t bother with the usual argument. He knew I hated the nickname. He also knew I wasn’t going to stop him.
“Flattery, Marine?” I tried for sharp, but it came out thin, frayed at the edges.
His mouth twitched like he wanted to grin but thought better of it. “Not flattery. Just fact.”
I focused hard on the soap bubbles, scrubbing like the plate had personally offended me. “You’ve been back five minutes and you’re already insufferable.”
That broke him—the grin came, softer than I’d seen in a long time. “Maybe. But it’s good, seeing you. Better than I thought it’d be.”