Page 100 of And Now, Back to You

I darken the phone, but the words stay illuminated above me. They blink slowly, like a buzzing neon sign on its last breath, flickering brighter and brighter.

Lighten up, Jackson.

Lighten up, Jackson.

Lighten up, Jackson.

I dig the palms of my hands against my eyes until I see spots, trying to push it away. I hate when my brain sticks on a thought, its rusty claws digging in until I hurt.

Camille says she wants to be involved in the girls’ lives. Adeline and Penelope are old enough to make their own decisions, but I’m having a hard time putting them in a position where they could get hurt.

Like I was. Over and over and over again.

Lighten up, Jackson.

“Jackson?” Delilah’s sleepy voice drifts through the dark. The violent swirl of cyclical thoughts eases. Sheets rustle, a pillow shifts, and one brown eye peers at me from her side of the bed. “Are you back?”

After I sat with Lottie, I wandered to the couches at the back windows in front of the fireplaces. I did some random administrative work on my phone. Doomscrolled a bit. I didn’t realize how late it was until the sky was inky black on the other side of the wall of windows.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’m here.”

She makes a soft sleepy sound. All I can see of her is a lump beneath the blankets. I know she sleeps with her hands tucked under her cheek, curled on her side. She stole the extra quilt from my side of the bed, but I don’t mind. I want her to be warm.

She yawns. “Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I rasp.

“Okay,” she whispers.

She grows silent and I feel myself holding my breath, waiting for her to say something else. Disappointment curls in my gut when her breathing evens out again, her socked feet shifting beneath her stolen blankets. It’s nothing but the hiss and pop of the logs burning low in the hearth and the dwindling gusts of wind whistling through the trees outside. The worst of the storm has passed now, over twenty-eight inches of fresh snow in twelve hours.

Everything is still and quiet. Hushed, in the way only snow can do. Sometimes the middle of the night feels like the loneliest time of all, the minutes stretching into hours and the dark pressing in from every side.

Delilah grunts and then shifts, sitting up on her side of the bed. She reaches for the small lamp on the table and slaps at it until the room fills with its soft glow. She squints at me, messy hair and pink cheeks. A yawn cracks her jaw open wide and she digs a fist against her left eye.

It’s cute as fuck.

She settles, blinking slow and long, still caught in the webs of sleep.

“Come over here,” she says.

“What?”

“Grab my computer from the desk”—she points toward the table stacked with various notepads, candy wrappers, and empty coffee mugs—“and come over here.”

I swallow, the sound of it loud in my ears. “Come over . . . where, Delilah?”

She pats at the space next to her.

“I don’t know if—”

“Jackson,” she sighs, impatient and grumpy and sleepy and soft and so damned beautiful my heart climbs up to my throat. “If you don’t come over here, I’m going to come over there. And when I do, I’ll take up all your space and steal your blankets.” She arches an impertinent eyebrow. Fuck. “Make your choice.”

“You already steal my blankets.”

A smile teases at her mouth. “Yes, well. I’ll take all of them. And you’ll be clinging to the edge of the mattress shivering.”

Knowing I’m putting myself in a ridiculously tempting position, but thoroughly unable to resist, I dutifully throw back my blankets and shuffle over to the desk. I grab her laptop, then watch as she tosses the top quilt back and pats at the flannel sheet beneath. The pillow wall goes next and then it’s just Delilah in the middle of a cozy-looking king-sized bed, her shirt slipping off one shoulder.