Chapter 13 Rosalie
ROSALIE
An hour later, after I’ve spoken to my son, I follow Jackson upstairs. He pauses outside the spare room and I shoot him a questioning look. He grins before pushing the door open. The room is mostly empty, and again, I wonder what he’s got up his sleeve.
He reaches a hand up to the ceiling, the hem of his shirt rising along with his movement and blessing me with a view of his abs. But it’s gone an instant later as he pulls down a set of retractable stairs. He steadies them and holds them in place before turning to meet my stare.
“You first.”
“What is this place?” I ask as I climb. My eyes adjust to the dimness of the room.
The light from the bedroom downstairs illuminates the small space.
I crawl from the opening and push to my feet.
From this corner, I have to duck my head so it won’t hit the beams overhead. Jackson appears through the opening.
“Rosalie, have you never seen an attic?”
I roll my eyes at his teasing chuckle. The space is surprisingly clean. No cobwebs or layers of dust, just a room filled with furniture and boxes.
He sets the bag containing our desserts on the floor before pulling himself the rest of the way inside the room. When he stands, he crowds me and my body tenses as he moves a little too close.
What is he—?
His arm reaches behind me and with the flip of a light switch, the entire attic is bathed in warm lighting.
Oh, he’s only reaching for the light.
He moves away and retrieves our desserts, setting the bag on a nearby table.
I walk the perimeter of the small space and take everything in.
This attic space isn’t furnished or decorated like the rest of the house.
These things remind me of how his place was last year—an eclectic mix of outdated furniture that doesn’t quite go together.
Maybe it’s the warm fairy lights and lack of natural light, but this space feels like a secret hideaway—a time machine to the past. Especially with that mustard fabric couch in the corner below the only window.
On one wall there’s a console filled with stacks of CDs and a boom box. “Are these yours?” Delight rushes through my body as I pick up a few and sift through the artists.
“They sure are.”
“CDs? Really?” My lips twist as I shoot him a grin.
“Let me guess, these weren’t even invented when you were a teenager.”
“Jesus, how old do you think I am?” I glare as he laughs. “Don’t answer that.”
“Hey, I’m no spring chicken. This CD collection is practically vintage.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “Complain to me when you’re thirty.”
“I’ll be thirty next month, thank you very much.”
“My point exactly.” My gaze slides over to his boom box. “Does it even work?”
“Oh, it works.” He steps next to me and presses a button to open the player. “You get first pick.”
There’s quite the selection of music, and I can’t help but tease him as I come across one in particular. “NSYNC?” I lift my brows and hold back a smile. “Really, Jackson?”
“It was a phase.” He grins.
“And Taylor Swift?” I show him the album cover. “Jackson Wilder, are you a Swiftie?”
“What can I say? I appreciate good music.” He takes the plastic case from me. “Riley got me this one for Christmas one year.” There’s a tenderness to his expression, almost as if he’s being transported back to the moment.
I wonder what that’s like, to have memories filled with family. I admire the relationship he has with all of his nieces and nephews, but it warms my heart to think of his now college-age niece buying him this as a gift.
“She made me play “Welcome to New York” over and over and over.” Jackson meets my gaze. “Now it’s my go-to for karaoke.”
“I’d like to see that.” I can’t hold back my smile.
“I could be persuaded.” He hands back the case. “Is this your official pick?”
“Maybe.” I draw out the word as I continue sorting through his collection. “I haven’t seen all my options yet.”
He chuckles and moves away. “Take your time.”
Something tells me there’s a story for each album in this stack. Music is a key to one’s personal history, and I want to learn his. The more I get to know about Jackson, the more I want to learn.
My hands freeze on a case, the cover art conjuring a memory from my past. I haven’t listened to this in years. I pretty much forgot about this band until this moment. “You like The Refreshments?”
He shrugs. “My brother, Wild, opened for them once. They’re from The Valley. Did you know that?”
“I did.”
“I was too little to go.” He steps closer, leaning over to gaze at the CD cover.
“He’d sneak Ryan and Aiden in to his shows, but I was just a kid.
I always got left behind.” He forces a smile.
“They’d feel bad and bring me something back, a poster or a shirt, and if I was lucky, a CD.
That’s actually how this collection started. ”
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” His gaze is thoughtful. “At the time, it felt like a consolation prize. I looked up to my brothers. I wanted to be around them so badly. Wanted to be included. I threw a fit when they did anything without me. God, I must’ve been so annoying.”
I pop open the plastic case in my hand, and place the circular disc in the player.
“The first time I heard this, I was staying with a foster family. I was only there a few weeks, but their son was a few years older and he introduced me to all kinds of bands. This record was one of his favorites.”
I suddenly feel overly exposed. I don’t talk about my childhood for a reason. I purposefully avoid Jackson’s stare. I don’t want to see his sympathy or pity; I don’t think I can bear it. Instead, I press the skip button until the fifth track is queued. I press play and close my eyes.
The familiar aching melody fills my ears, and my hips sway as I let the music take me back.
God, I love this song. It’s like I’m thirteen all over again.
The lyrics cut straight through my heart, the same way they did then, talking about time and being stuck in the same place.
My desperation for an escape. My heart feels too big for my chest. The urge to cry stings behind my eyelids. I keep them closed.
“Dance with me?” The low timbre of Jackson’s voice brings me back to the present.
I open my eyes to find him standing before me. There’s an openness to his expression. No judgment. No pity for a girl who was never chosen.
“Unless you don’t know how to.” He’s teasing, and it lightens the tightness in my chest.
“I think I can manage a slow dance.” I roll my eyes.
“Good.” His mouth curves with genuine delight as I step into his personal space.
He holds my hand in his as I rest my other on his shoulder. I try not to react as he places his free hand on my waist, but it’s impossible. My pulse quickens at our proximity. As the seconds pass, my body aches for him to pull me closer as we sway in a slow circle.
Can he hear my heartbeat pounding in my chest? Does he feel the zing of energy when we’re this close? Does it scare him the way it does me?
As the song ends, I step back, my gaze averted as heat creeps up my cheeks. The track changes to the next song, this one upbeat and fun.
“How old were you when you got this CD?” I question.
“Ten or eleven.”
“Wow.” My eyes bug as the singer belts out lyrics about a toxic co-dependent relationship. A bit mature for a child.
Jackson chuckles. “If Pops had caught me listening, that entire collection would’ve ended up in the trash.”
His observation about his dad lines up with all the comments and stories I’ve heard over the years about the older Wilder.
“He had a temper?”
“He didn’t tolerate anything he didn’t understand.” Jackson shrugs. “He was old-fashioned.”
“But you and your siblings aren’t like that.”
“I think as we grow up, we get to decide to be better than our parents, or continue old patterns. They did the best they could with what they had. But as an adult it’s clear to see my parents were only human, with complicated pasts and faults of their own.
It’s my responsibility to heal the hurts they caused so I won’t do the same to the people I love. ”
I’m too stunned to speak. I feel the same. Yet, it’s rare to meet a man who’s so in touch with his feelings, or has done the work to deconstruct the pain of his childhood.
“How’s he doing?” Maeve doesn’t talk about her dad much, but that doesn’t mean his condition doesn’t weigh heavily on the family.
“Good, I guess? What is good when a person has dementia so severely, they don’t even recognize their own son?”
“Oh, Jackson.” My heart aches on his behalf.
“Maybe it’s better? He doesn’t realize he’s been taken from his home. He can’t understand his own suffering. I guess there’s some peace there. But when I think of him living out the rest of his days without us . . . he doesn’t know we abandoned him, but I have to live with that guilt.”
“You didn’t abandon him.” I shake my head and reach out to rest my hand on his forearm. “Jackson, he requires twenty-four-seven care none of you are able to provide. And you all made sure he got into one of the best memory facilities that money can provide.”
“Is that true? Really? Should he be there when he could be in the only place he ever lived? I get why everyone else couldn’t put their lives on hold—they have families, and Wild his career.
But when things got bad with Pops, I could’ve quit the ranch to stay with him.
I could’ve, but I never offered because I was too selfish.
The idea of giving up my life . . . I couldn’t make that sacrifice, and now I live every day wondering if I made the worst choice. ”
“I’d bet he wouldn’t want that for you.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes are glassy as they meet mine.
“I didn’t know him well, but of everything I’ve heard, your dad wouldn’t want you to give up your life for him. He would be pissed if you did.”
“Yeah.” He presses his lips together before exhaling in a rush. “You’re probably right. Do you think I’m a bad person?”