2023
Rose
“How did I know I'd find you out here?”
I smile and turn to find Michael walking toward me across the terrace, looking unfairly handsome in a tuxedo he complained about wearing for the entire drive here.
Tonight is our first time attending the Forever Family Foundation Gala, and all three of us are dressed to the nines.
Michael and Jackson have built Sullivan his hair is disheveled; his bow tie is hanging loose, and his shirt isn't completely tucked in anymore.
Freshly fucked.
The thought is vicious enough that I look away.
“I'm sorry you walked in on that.”
I swipe beneath my eyes before any more tears can ruin my makeup. “It's none of my business.”
“Wait.” His brows pull together as he looks at me properly. “What's happening? Why are you... Rose, why are you crying?”
He moves toward me, concern immediately replacing whatever embarrassment he walked in with, and I step backward so quickly that he stops.
I can’t even let him touch me.
Not right now. Not when I can still see another woman's hands on him and know that somewhere beneath the smell of his cologne she's probably still on his skin. The thought of him putting those hands on me makes jealousy and nausea twist together so violently that I have to swallow.
He's not yours, Rose.
I straighten my dress and force everything back into the place where it belongs. “I'm fine. Please, just go back to your date. You know that aftercare is important.”
His expression changes. “She's gone.”
I look at him despite myself. “Already?”
“It wasn't like that.”
The anger comes so fast I barely recognize it until it's already leaving my mouth.
“So what, you just fuck 'em and leave 'em now? Is that who you are?”
Jackson actually recoils.
Good. He should. Because what the fuck am I saying?
My breathing is getting heavier, heat climbing up my chest and into my face, and I have no idea why I'm angry at him for sleeping with a consenting woman when I have spent years making absolutely certain he understands he owes me nothing.
“No. Yes. I mean...” He drags a hand through his hair, visibly trying to figure out which question he's answering. “She came onto me. We were both into it. It was what it was for tonight. But why the fuck are you this upset?”
“I'm not upset.”
He looks pointedly at my face.
“You're crying.”
“I am not crying.”
“Rose. There are literal goddamn tears on your face.”
I wipe them away angrily. “There. Problem solved.”
“No, it's not.” He takes another step toward me, slower this time. “Talk to me.”
“There is nothing to talk about.”
“Then why did you run away from me?”
“I didn't run away from you.”
“You practically fucking sprinted.”
“Because I walked in on you having sex, Jackson! What was I supposed to do? Pull up a chair?”
“That's not what I'm asking and you know it.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him for knowing me well enough to hear what I'm not saying.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest because I'm vibrating now and I need something to hold me together.
“Why would I be upset? It's your life. You can do whatever you want.”
I'm trying for nonchalant. I sound fucking insane.
Jackson studies me for a long moment, and his expression starts to change. Not understanding exactly, but the beginning of it, enough that my pulse kicks harder.
“Rose, what's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying nothing.”
“Then stop fucking asking me!”
“I'm asking because you're standing here crying over me fucking someone else!”
“Marcus, just fuck off!” I scream with my fists clamped at my sides.
Silence.
Jackson looks like I've slapped him.
His mouth opens slightly, his head tilting as hurt moves across his face while he tries to figure out where the hell that came from.
I know exactly where it came from.
Marcus is distance.
Marcus is the stranger Bennet introduced me to at graduation.
Marcus is twenty years old and completely inappropriate.
Marcus isn't the man who remembers I get cold and brings a hoodie for me.
He isn't the person I look for when I enter a room.
He isn't the one whose hand I want on my face when I'm sick or whose body I've claimed so thoroughly in my own mind that seeing someone else touch it has reduced me to tears in a fucking bathroom.
Jackson is dangerous to my mental health at this moment. So I called him Marcus.
And judging by his face, he knows it.
“I...” My voice is quieter when I try again. “I just need a minute, okay?”
He stares at me for another second, but I can't give him anything else.
I've kept him safely tucked away in the friend zone for years, accepting every bit of his affection while refusing to examine my own too closely, and whatever I'm doing to him right now isn't fair.
He hasn't done anything wrong. If anything, he's finally doing exactly what I've spent years telling myself I wanted him to do.
Live his life.
Find someone else.
Be happy without me.
Turns out I only liked that plan when it was theoretical.
Jackson's jaw flexes. Then he gives one small nod, turns and walks out without another word.
“Fuck!”
His yell comes from somewhere beyond the door before it swings shut behind him.
I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
The tears start again. This time I don't fight them.
Because I finally understand.
I am helplessly, hopelessly in love with Jackson, and it changes absolutely nothing.
He's younger than me. He's my brother's best friend and business partner.
He's spent years respecting a boundary I drew, and I have spent those same years moving it whenever it suited me, letting him hold me, take care of me, spoil me, love me in every way I would allow while refusing to acknowledge what I was giving him in return.
He deserves better than that.
More importantly, he deserves the chance to build a life that isn't dictated by whatever mess I haven't managed to outrun yet.
So, I do what I do with every truth I can't afford.
I bury it. I dig a grave somewhere deep inside myself and put the truth into it while it's still kicking and screaming, then pack the earth down hard enough that maybe I can convince myself it isn't there.
I love Jackson.
Another handful of dirt.
I wanted that to be me.
Deeper.
I love him.
Gone.
By the time I face the mirror properly, my eyes are dry. I repair the damage beneath them, fix my lipstick and smooth my hands over my dress until there isn't a wrinkle left.
Then I straighten my shoulders.
I still owe Michael a dance.