Page 147 of And Now, Back to You

Her gaze lifts, over my shoulder. Jackson moves closer, his hand brushing down my arm.

“Yeah,” she rasps. “That’s enough for me too.”

I’m still shivering by the time we make it back to Jackson’s house, my arms clinging to my elbows in the small hallway outside of his kitchen. He’s upstairs with the girls while I study the tile work that loops in a pattern down the length of the wall. I wonder if he did it himself, or if the girls helped. If they pressed laughter and clay-stained fingertips into the wall together, Jackson working with the same meticulous attention to detail he uses with everything else.

I trace the edge of a tile and wonder why he’s never asked me to come here. If maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d knew I’d fuck it all up.

He finds me like that, staring at the tile on his wall, trying hard not to cry. I don’t have any more distractions, and the day is slowly catching up to me.

“They’re watching a movie,” he says, weary, scrubbing his hand roughly against the back of his head. “Fuck,” he breathes. “What a shit show of a day.”

“Yeah.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow and sad. “I can relate.”

I’m jittery and uncomfortable, standing in this narrow hallway with Jackson perfectly apart from me. My toes are being pinched by my shoes, my eyes feel gritty and dry from all my almost-crying, and my heart—

My heart squeezes when Jackson slips both of his arms around my waist and curls his body over mine, gathering me close, burying his face in my neck with a bone-deep sigh.

“Thank you,” he breathes. He squeezes me so tight my lungs pinch, his arms wrapped over each other across my back, his big palms spanning my rib cage. I am completely enveloped by him, and my composure fractures a little bit more. “Thank you for today. For what you said to the girls. For helping me. I can’t—” He swallows, his voice thick. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

The tears are sudden and ferocious. The dam I’ve been struggling to hold all day breaks, ugly sobs pouring out of me. Jackson scoops me closer, walking me across the small kitchen and into the living room. He tries to deposit me gently on the couch, but I won’t let him go, clinging tightly with my arms around his neck.

“Delilah,” he whispers. He sits with me draped over his lap, his hands pushing my hair away from my face. I keep my nose against his neck, refusing to look at him. “What’s going on? What happened today?”

“Keith wanted to move me to features,” I mumble against his skin.

His hands keep moving over my hair. Down my shoulders. Across my back. “He tried to take you off weather?”

I nod.

“So you quit?”

I nod again.

Jackson’s sigh makes his chest rise and fall. “I hate that he did that to you. I hate that you felt like you only had one choice.”

More tears burn behind my eyes and I’m—I’m so tired of being like this. “It was my fault,” I manage. “I messed up.”

Jackson urges me backward on his lap. He has dark circles under his eyes. Weariness etched in the set of his shoulders. He drags his hand over his face and guilt hangs like a noose around my neck. He’s so tired and I’m making it worse. He has enough to deal with without this layered on. He’s always taking care of me when he already has so much on his plate.

“How did you mess up?” he asks.

I run a shaky hand under my nose. “In the mountains. I thought I could be different. More professional, maybe. I wanted to show everyone that I can be taken seriously. But I fumbled it, just like I do everything else.”

Jackson shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” I slide off his lap and curl into the space next to him, tucking my legs beneath me. “I’ve always been like this. Maybe I should take some time, you know? Some space to figure things out.”

Jackson goes still. “Space from what?”

I lift my hands and drop them. “I don’t know. Everything. Is it possible to have a quarter-life crisis?”

He ignores the question. “Am I included in everything, Delilah?” He swallows, the line of his throat working. “Will you be taking time and space from me?”

I shake my head, then nod, then shake my head again. God. I’m a mess. I keep my gaze on his hand flat against the couch cushion. His rolled sleeves and the glint of his watch. “We said this thing between us would only last for our time in the mountains. We’re not in the mountains anymore.”

Jackson’s knuckles find my chin. He forces the eye contact, because he knows I’m too afraid to do it myself.

“No,” he says.