Page 43 of And Now, Back to You

The realization is a slow-moving thing, slowly bouncing from synapse to synapse until the connection is a tenuous thread.

“Jackson,” I gasp. “Were you attracted to the turtle suit?”

He shifts, uncomfortable. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Was it the shell?” I ask with a wobbling voice. There’s a laugh caught in the middle of my chest that I’m frankly afraid to let out. “Or was it the finned hands that did it for you?”

“I think it was your enthusiasm, actually, and your ability to make everything look easy,” he answers lightly, smacking the turn signal off. That shuts me up. My laughter sputters and dies, that tight feeling spreading from behind my eyes to the bridge of my nose.

“Oh,” I say. “I see.”

Jackson grunts in vague agreement, then merges over again. I glance out the window at the trees speeding past, my eyes tracking the billboards. One in particular catches my attention, and I make a split-second decision.

“Take the next exit,” I tell Jackson.

“What? Why?”

“Because I want to see something.”

He takes the ramp without further explanation. The news van slows considerably as we rumble around a sharp turn.

“Delilah?” he asks.

I need to get out of this van. I can’t be this close to him—wrapped in a jacket that smells like his coffee and cologne—when he’s being sincere.

Plus, my stomach has been grumbling for the past hour, and the peach rings aren’t doing it for me anymore.

“Time for a little spontaneity,” I say. Up the road there’s a large rotating sign creaking above a parking lot proudly boasting BREAKFAST ALL DAY. Except ALL DAY is spelled with two upside-down sevens, and the A is another color entirely. Below the sign, handwritten in spray paint, is:

ASK US ABOUT OUR FAMOUS HOT TURKEY SANDWICHES

“Oh no,” Jackson says. “I have no desire for food poisoning, thanks.”

“You said you wanted to try different things, right? Disrupt your routine?” I gesture out the window with wide eyes.

“I didn’t say I wanted to die in Appalachia from salmonella.”

“Hot turkey sandwiches,” I emphasize. “Presumably, it’s cooked through. You’ll be fine.” I wiggle happily in my seat. I hope they have French fries. And milkshakes. “It’s a sign.”

Jackson ducks his head and peers out the windshield. “I’m pretty sure that’s a piece of plywood, Delilah.”

The van slows to a creep as Jackson reluctantly enters the parking lot. He picks a spot near the back, though there’s not exactly a shortage of choice. There are only two other cars in the lot. He cuts the ignition, but otherwise remains motionless in the front seat.

“Great, let’s go.” I unclick my seat belt, then reach over and do the same to his. I push my arms through the sleeves of his jacket and wedge open the passenger door. I hop out without waiting for him. “Turkey sandwiches await!”

For a second, I don’t think he’ll follow. Then I hear a car door slam and boots against the pavement.

Somewhere behind me, Jackson sighs, weary. “This wasn’t in the timetable.”

I smile into the collar of my stolen coat.

COMMENT FROM MORETHANRATSHERE:

Excuse me, but is that what Jackson Clark LOOKS LIKE?

COMMENT FROM ORIOLESMAGIC28:

It’s what his head looks like, at least.