I put my fingers over one of my eyes as I shut them, internally shaking my head at myself. Why was I doing this to myself? “Who Knew” by P!nk began to play, and I almost groaned at how ironic it was.
Jackson went to open another drawer, but I stopped him. “I’m serious, you’re done,” I said from my spot on the bed.
He grinned at me before turning back around and grabbing my yearbook off the dresser, showing it to me before he leaned back. He flipped through the pages until he found my senior photo. “Honestly Addie, you look exactly the same.”
I grabbed the book from him, flipping it around so I could see my photo. I hadn’t even smiled with teeth for it. I remembered waiting in line to get my photo taken; Sophie and Jackson were behind me, and I’d watched her kiss him on the mouth before I sat for the picture. I couldn’t even make myself smile—I’d just raised my lips at each corner, even though the photographer told me to smile wider.
“You think I still look eighteen? That’s disturbing,” I said deadpan.
“No, I meant you’re still beautiful," he replied without missing a beat.
I couldn’t meet his eyes, and I ignored the compliment, eventhough my stomach couldn’t. It flipped about one hundred times.
I looked three rows down and found Jackson’s name. I burst out laughing. “You donotlook the same. You were deep in your emo phase.” His dark hair was in a heap of waves over his forehead, his stone-cold stare into the camera making him look pissed off. I looked up at him now. “You know, I never knew what your forehead looked like until now.”
Jackson chuckled. “Nowthatyou should burn.” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I was such a little asshole back then.”
I swallowed deeply without meeting his eyes. For every time Jackson did something to hurt me, there was always something selfless he’d do to redeem himself.
“You had your good moments too,” I whispered.
I heard him exhale, but he didn’t say anything as I continued to flip through the pages. I read through the signatures left from friends, until I realized that I had never read what Jackson had written. The night we wrote in each other’s yearbooks we were distracted, and I’d forgotten about it.
My eyes searched the page until I found Jackson’s handwriting, block letters in all caps in the bottom left-hand corner. “You’re my best friend, period. And I love you, period. -Jackson Delvecchio.”
I dragged my thumb over the words. It was real, everything that happened between us. All of it was real. And now it was gone, with no hope of getting it back.
“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked.
I don’t know why, but I shoved the yearbook into his hands. I leaned back against my wall, staring out the window. I wanted him to realize how much it hurt me that he’d never found me—that he never even tried. I was gone for ten years, and he had been completely fine with it.
I could tell when he found his handwriting, because he turned off the music and the room filled with silence. I couldn’t face him. I didn’t want to see his reaction to the words he wrote so long ago.
“Addie, can you look at me?” His voice was strained, like he was actually hurt, too.
I bit my lip hard to distract myself from the pain in my chest. I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I couldn’t.
“Hmm,” I said, continuing to look out the window.
“Addison . . .” That use of my full name pressed more salt into the wound.
I cut him off. “I’d prefer to finish my room by myself. Can you just go?”
“Are you upset? I meant what I wrote,” Jackson started to say, like he needed me to believe it. But why? It didn’t matter now. “I remember what you wrote in mine, too, Addie.” Nowthatwas what almost broke me.
“I don’t care; it doesn’t matter. It’s history, all in the past. Now please, leave. Please, Jackson,” I begged. I was so close to crying.
His footsteps sounded down the hallway, and I got off the bed to follow him to the door so I could lock it behind him.
“Can I just . . . ask you one thing?” Jackson said from the doorway. I didn’t want to look at him, but he wouldn’t talk until I did.
I finally looked up at him, my throat aching from holding back my tears. “What, Jackson?”
His gaze dropped to his feet before he met my eyes again. “Did you at least miss me when you left?”
How could he ask me that? Wasn’t it obvious? He looked like a little kid standing there, waiting for a yes or no answer. No matter what I responded with, the answer would destroy us both.
I rubbed my finger under my nose, staring at him with glossy eyes. I wanted to be sassy and say, “What do you think?” But I didn’t have the energy to play this game.
