Page 137 of And Now, Back to You

I grin at my phone. “Ruthlessly organized with a secret passion for Michael Bay action films?”

Jackson’s laugh is tired. “Chronically doubtful,” he corrects. “Voted least fun meteorologist three years in a row by Baltimore magazine.”

“Is that a real recognition?”

“If it were, I’d win it. Every year.”

I can hear the sadness that lingers. I hate that the reappearance of his mother has twisted him up and left him doubting his every move.

“Those girls are lucky to have you, Jackson. No matter what happens with your mom, you’ve validated their feelings and given them the space to try for themselves. The fact that you’re worrying so much about it is proof of how much you care. And boo on Baltimore magazine.” I pluck a green candy from my mug. “I always have fun when we’re together.”

“It’s different with you.”

“Is it?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, and the sound of it vibrates over my bones. Rattles somewhere beneath my rib cage. “You make it easier.”

“What?”

“Everything,” he whispers.

I have nothing to say that’s not either horribly premature or terrifically embarrassing, so I settle for the comfortable silence instead, letting it stretch and grow between us. I hear him shift on the other end of the phone and my eyes get heavy, even as my heart grows light.

“Jackson?” I whisper.

When he answers, his voice is drawn out and low. Half-asleep. “Yeah, baby?”

I could do it. I could tell him how I feel. Wrapped in sheets that still smell like him with the marks he worked against my throat a tender ache. His easy breathing in my ear.

But there’s the unmistakable sound of a door slamming open on the other side of the phone, footsteps against a hardwood floor.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s late. You guys okay?”

A whispered conversation and then a heavy sigh.

“I’m not letting that cat into the house.”

I press my face into my pillow to muffle my laughter.

“Addie, what—” There is an increase in the fervor of the other voices in Jackson’s bedroom. “Hold on—I said hold on a second. Christ. Delilah, I paused the movie. I need a minute to deal with something.”

I glance at the clock hanging above the television in my room. “It’s late. I can just let you go.”

“Don’t do that,” he says. “I’m going to give this stupid cat some warm milk and then we’re going to finish this movie. Just wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“All right,” I laugh.

I pause the movie and sit up in my bed, stretching my arms above my head. I pilfered another one of Jackson’s sweaters, though I’m starting to believe he wore the extra-soft forest green one over here on purpose.

Static bursts on the other side of the phone and I stare down at it, dropping my arms with a soft thump.

“Delilah?” a voice whispers from the speaker. “Delilah Stewart?”

I blink. “Yes?”

There’s a thud, a whispered Ouch, you barbarian, and then a tussle for the phone.

“Hey, Delilah,” another voice whispers. “Thanks for taking our call.”