Page 58 of And Now, Back to You

I could have had a friend.

“I think you hide all of your best parts in tiny, little pouches, Jackson Clark.”

And then I finally slip into unconsciousness.

SIMONE LEEDS: And tomorrow, we’ll have an update from Delilah Stewart on the winter storm heading our way.

DAVID GARCIA: I’m looking forward to that. It’s nice to see Delilah reporting on the weather.

SIMONE LEEDS: It is, isn’t it?

DAVID GARCIA: She should do it more often.

SIMONE LEEDS: She certainly should.

CHAPTER 14

JACKSON

Delilah looks like a fuzzy little bear coming out of hibernation when she first wakes up. Heavy eyes. Wild hair. A bewildered, soft expression. They’re details I’m not quite sure what to do with, so I file them away with her preferred brand of road trip snacks and her hate of medieval medicine.

She sits in the middle of the bed in a flannel shirt that’s two sizes too big, one fist digging into her eye, a yawn so wide it cracks her jaw.

I’m drinking my second cup of coffee, trying not to stare.

“You’re already dressed,” she says around a yawn, lifting her arms above her head, giving in to an ambling, stretching groan. I put my cup back in the saucer noisily, the ceramic clinking together. She drops her hands. “How long have you been awake?”

“About an hour or two.”

More like I woke up around two in the morning curled on my side with Delilah’s fingers twisted through mine, our hands buried beneath the pillow wall she made. I liked it so much I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I lay there with my thumb tracing the dips and valleys of her knuckles, my breathing slow and even, while my brain spun like a top. The cyclone of thoughts is always the worst at night, and I did my best to categorize everything into a list:

This assignment and what it means for the station. How I need to do a good job, so everyone else can keep theirs.

The girls and their self-proclaimed “best time ever, ever, ever” with Aiden, Lucie, and Maya. Their wild laughter and how it felt like they couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. How it felt good to know they’re happy, but bad too. Like pressing at the tender edge of a bruise. That damned insistent voice in the back of my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother, whispering that maybe they need someone who can be more fun without making a damned list.

The text message I received late last night from Camille that said, thinking about hopping on a flight to surprise the girls!!! and my immediate response of, please don’t do that.

And, finally, the biggest distraction of them all:

Delilah, curled on her side beneath the blankets on the other side of a shoddily constructed pillow wall, a soft little snore on every third exhale that I accidentally set my breathing to.

That’s when I finally let go of her hand, sliding quietly out of the bed to stumble into the bathroom. I took a shower to clear my mind, but just stared at the tiny hot pink loofah hanging from the neck of the showerhead instead. I’ve been sitting at the table by the fireplace ever since, distracting myself with projections.

“Your hair is wet,” Delilah says groggily from the bed. She’s heavy-eyed and sleep-rumpled in an old set of threadbare pajamas and the combination is more devastating than if she were naked beneath those sheets.

I drag my hand over my face. Somehow manage not to scream into my palm. “Took a shower,” I grunt.

“Oh.” She flips back the comforter and shuffles her way to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over the side. “Did I sleep too late?”

“No.” I just feel like I’m standing at the very edge of a slippery slope. It’s been one night and I have no idea how I’m going to survive seven more. I’m supposed to be annoyed by you, not whatever this is. I blow out a breath. “Just wanted to shower.”

Delilah’s eyes narrow. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” I search for an explanation. “I’m not a morning person.”

She hums. “Is that why you’re showered, dressed, drinking coffee, and pulling together the weather report before”—she glances at the heavy old-fashioned clock sitting in the middle of the mantel—“eight in the morning? Because you’re not a morning person?”

I don’t answer. I am trying very hard not to look at the place where she missed the top button of her shirt. Frankly, I feel like I deserve a medal.