Page 148 of And Now, Back to You

I blink. “No?”

“Yeah, no.” He drops his hand and fishes around for something in his back pocket. “I never agreed to while we were in the mountains. That was your idea, and it was a stupid one.”

“Excuse me?”

He pulls out his wallet and tosses it on the cushion between us, flipping it open and pulling a folded piece of paper from the back.

“You said friends, and I said okay, because I’m going to take you however I can get you. If you wanted to call it casual, I’d take that too. Because I’d still get a corner of you to call mine. But I won’t have you call it nothing. I won’t have you taking time and space away from me. Not when I know how good it is.”

He unfolds the paper he pulled from his wallet, running his thumb along the heavy crease in the middle. It’s stained with coffee and has clearly been folded and refolded a thousand times. Jackson extends it to me. “We have a signed agreement, Delilah Stewart.”

I stare at our contract Post-it note from that day in the café.

“This agreement was for the duration of the trip.”

He extends his arm over the back of the couch, his fingers tangling in the ends of my hair. “Was it?”

I grab the coffee-stained note with shaking hands, bringing it closer to my face. He’s struck through one very important sentence.

I, Jackson Clark, promise to be on my best behavior for the duration of this trip.* No picking fights, no making fun, and no sad-face notes left on car windows.

*and will allow for mishaps and mistakes, without complaint

“How did you get this?”

“I found it in your coat pocket.”

I trace the crooked line through the note. “When did you change it?”

“After that first radio broadcast. Before we left for our trip.”

I sniff. “Why?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t be done with you by the end of it.” He swallows, knuckles nudging his glasses up his nose. “Our contract says we will allow for mishaps and mistakes, without complaint. Why can you help me with my problems, but I can’t help you with yours? What happened to us taking care of each other?” He moves closer. “What about . . . getting to be loved by the people who choose us?”

I grip his wrist. “Jackson.”

“I’m not done with you,” he whispers. “Please don’t be done with me.”

I press my lips in a firm line so they don’t tremble. “I’m a mess,” I whisper.

“Then be a mess with me.”

“I’m too much.”

He laughs. “Yeah, baby. You’re too much. You and your hot pink snow pants. Your doughnut snow sled. Your sunshine smile and your ridiculous puns. You laugh too loud at jokes and you talk to every stranger you meet. I don’t think we were on time for a single thing in the mountains, because you were busy learning someone’s life story. You think candy is a food group and you smile even when you don’t mean it and—Jesus, Delilah. You drive me insane. You might be too much, baby, but maybe sometimes I’m not enough. Maybe when we’re together, we fill each other up the way we—the way we need.” His voice cracks and he lifts his hand to my face, the pads of his fingers brushing gently over my cheekbone. “Be too much with me,” he whispers.

I want it so badly, but I’m afraid to believe in something else that could be taken away from me. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.” He ducks his face down and brushes a kiss against my mouth. I sway into him.

“I don’t want to mess it up.”

He smiles against my mouth. “You hit me with your car once. I don’t think you can mess it up.”

I rear back and stare at him. “Did I?”

He nods, his smile growing wider. “You nudged me in the parking lot.” He pecks a kiss on the bridge of my nose. “It’s only up from here.”