Page 157 of And Now, Back to You

JACKSON CLARK: But—

DELILAH STEWART: I heard his voice on the radio.

DELILAH STEWART: Before I knew you were the guy leaving me Post-it notes on my window, I heard your voice.

JACKSON CLARK: Really?

DELILAH STEWART: Yup. You were talking about atmospheric instability.

DELILAH STEWART: I thought you had a nice voice.

DELILAH STEWART: Do you remember when you saw me? For the first time?

JACKSON CLARK: Yeah, uh—

DELILAH STEWART: You can say it.

JACKSON CLARK: You were dressed like a chicken in the parking lot.

DELILAH STEWART: [laughs] Of course I was.

JACKSON CLARK: And you were laughing at something someone said.

JACKSON CLARK: I thought you were cute.

DELILAH STEWART: Even as a chicken?

JACKSON CLARK: Yeah. Even as a chicken.

EPILOGUE

DELILAH

“It’s a little muggy out here today as the humidity settles in, which means storms might be on the horizon.” I glance down at the notepad in my hands—a new addition, courtesy of Jackson. The sparkly stickers decorating the front of it were my idea, of course, and the glitter pen shoved through the spiral is part of a set from the girls.

But the Post-it note smooshed in between the cover and my notes is all Jackson, and I smile as I read it quickly. Then I remember I’m live on television and I have a broadcast to finish. “Storm chances are hovering around forty-five percent, but I expect that to increase as the afternoon wears on. Stay cool out there, Baltimore.” I snap the notebook shut. “And now, back to you.”

The little red light on Mark’s camera goes out and he straightens, giving me a thumbs-up. To the left, Jackson continues eating his ice-cream cone, his long legs stretched out in front of him on the park bench. The girls are practicing their cartwheels on the grass behind him and something warm and fuzzy settles in my chest.

This is how our Sundays go.

Sheets that smell like Jackson’s shampoo, and a coffee on the nightstand, kept warm by one of those fancy electric coasters. Voices and laughter drifting up through the floorboards. Pancakes on the counter. A kiss brushed against my temple and more, later. Indecent ones stolen up against his closed bedroom door when I go upstairs to change. Weather broadcasts live from the park, Jackson waiting—always waiting—to the left of the camera.

Post-it notes stuck in notepads.

While Mark packs up the equipment, I wander over to Jackson, his blue eyes shining at me from behind his glasses. I settle myself on the bench next to him, leaning against his shoulder heavily until he relents with a sigh, holding the ice-cream cone in front of my face.

Plain vanilla custard. Nothing extravagant for Jackson. The occasional swirl of chocolate, if he’s feeling daring. “One of these days,” I tell him, around a mouthful of stolen ice cream, “you’re going to get me in trouble with your little notes.”

Jackson smiles at me, pleased. “I told you. I like your sort of trouble.”

My heart does a happy little flip-flop in my chest.

I was so worried that I’d be a phase for Jackson. A test to himself to prove that he could deal with my chaos on a daily basis. That he could be fun. But he’s shown me—with every cup of coffee, with every pack of candy hidden in my jacket pocket, with every note taped to the window of my car—he’s shown me that I’m not a novelty.

I glance at the note in my hand. A simple I love you written in his neat, slanting handwriting. A frankly disturbing-looking smiley face right underneath.

I like these notes so much more than the ones he used to leave me.