Page 25 of And Now, Back to You

Another loud laugh tumbles out of Patty. She pats the top of his head gently. “Sure you are, honey.” The bell rings at the register and Patty glances over her shoulder. “The people beckon. Give me a holler if you two need anything.”

Patty leaves and a heavy silence descends. Jackson stares thoughtfully down at his coffee while I stir mine. For all our awkward encounters over the years, I don’t think we’ve ever spent more than a handful of minutes in each other’s company. Despite our proximity, we don’t know each other at all.

“So,” I start. My brain wants to fill in the empty space. Learn as much as possible, as quickly as I can. “What do you think—”

“Why did you stop reporting the weather?” he interrupts.

My mouth snaps shut. “What do you mean?”

He curls one big hand around his mug and gives me a Don’t be stupid look. I’m used to seeing that look from across a parking lot. Up close, it’s a lot more impactful.

“Why are you reporting on Mr. Trash Wheel,” he asks, “instead of the five-day forecast?”

“Mr. Trash Wheel is a very important part of the Baltimore community,” I defend.

“I’m aware,” Jackson says lightly. “I have the limited-edition sticker to prove it.”

I perk up on my stool. “Did you see they started making shirts too? They’ve got his little cartoon body printed all over it.”

“Don’t change the subject, Delilah.” He brings his mug to his mouth, staring at me over the rim. “Why aren’t you reporting on the weather anymore?”

I shrug and decide to play dumb. It’s easier than explaining. The truth just makes me feel like an idiot. Or a pushover. Or an idiot who also happens to be a pushover. I keep my mouth lifted in an easy smile. “Keith wanted me on different projects.”

Jackson’s eyes are hidden behind the glare of his glasses. “Keith doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he says.

“Well, don’t beat around the bush about it,” I laugh. Embarrassment pricks at the back of my neck, but I push through it, busying myself with a sugar packet. It’s one thing for me to notice, but Jackson? The guy who thought I couldn’t interpret a weather model? I blow out a gusting breath. “Maybe the two of you can form a club. Get a new commemorative sticker for your water bottle that says ‘I Hate Delilah Stewart.’”

“Delilah.” Jackson’s voice sharpens around the consonants of my name, his teeth biting down with a clench of his jaw. “I don’t hate you.”

“You once left a note that was just a frowning face.”

He drags his hand over his mouth, trying to hide a . . . smile?

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “I’m just . . . confused by you.”

A laugh sputters out of me. “Oh, that’s much better.”

“It is,” he insists, blue eyes earnest.

I roll mine. “Sure.”

“I’m serious. You don’t—you don’t even realize, do you?”

“What?”

He studies me, choosing his words carefully. My heart picks up the pace under his attention, my throat suddenly dry.

“You are utterly unpredictable,” he finally says. Beneath the counter, his knee bumps into mine. “Most of the time, I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“And correct my parking,” I try to joke.

The barest hint of a smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Also that.”

My eyes search his, looking for the hidden insult. But all I see is an honest sort of apprehension, a deep groove between his brows. “Okay,” I say slowly. “I believe you.”

His mouth lifts. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”