Page 64 of And Now, Back to You

“You’ve had an interesting way of showing it,” I say, some of my frustration welling up and over. “This sudden concern for my well-being would have been nice during that report on the monkeys at the Baltimore Zoo, or at the Preakness, or the literal hundreds of other times I’ve been forced to look like an idiot.”

Mark stops fussing with his camera. “I thought Keith was just messing around.”

“Yeah, well. I seem to be the only person he bestows that particular honor upon.” I press two fingers between my eyebrows, then drop my hand. I don’t have time for this right now. “Thank you for your concern. But I can manage this broadcast just fine.”

Mark looks conflicted, but he doesn’t say anything else on the subject. He seems to understand that I might try to strangle him with an aux cord if he does.

“Delilah—” he starts.

All right, maybe not. “What?” I snap.

He’s staring at his camera in earnest now, turning the contrast dial up and then down again. “I have another question for you.”

I stare at him. “Which is?”

He clears his throat, then clears it again. “It’s about—it’s about Gianna.”

“Okay?”

He seems to war with himself down there in his hunched position, scratching roughly at the back of his head beneath the fabric of his beanie. Then he stands, plants his hands on his hips, and levels me with a look. “Is she seeing anyone?”

I blink, then blink again. Even if I had a road map for this conversation, I’d be surprised by every turn. “Like . . . romantically?”

Mark’s eyes drag skyward, his mouth moving soundlessly. “Yes,” he agrees reluctantly, clearly hating whatever it was inside of himself that insisted he should ask this question.

My frustration shifts to amusement at the absolute agony carved across his features. “I don’t think she is, but she’s always been a bit of a wild card in that department. Why do you ask?”

“That’s not your business.”

I huff, slingshotting right back to frustrated. “You asked me.”

“No one said you had to answer.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to grab Jackson. We’ll be at our marks in five minutes.”

I slip my battery pack in the front pocket of my jacket and intercept Jackson on his next turn around the deck. I grab him by the wrist and start hauling him over to an alcove tucked around the bend of the porch. It’s a small, private spot—likely used by catering teams in the summers—sheltered by the bare branches of the oak tree.

I push Jackson in first, then quickly follow. It’s a tight fit for the both of us, and I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

His alarmed, frantic eyes, bright and focused on me.

“Uh.” He tries to rearrange himself so he’s not pressing me against the wall, but all he does is nudge his knee between my thighs. He abruptly stops moving, exhaling a harsh breath in an explosion of misty white. He props his hand somewhere above me, his body stretched out in one long line. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah. I got that. When you hauled me bodily across the porch.”

My mouth twitches. It’s not like he put up a fight. “Are you doing okay?”

He nods, then releases a delayed breath. He sounds like a balloon losing air. “I’m fine.”

He is not fine. He looks like he’s being held at knifepoint. This broadcast is going to be a disaster if he goes on like this. He’ll be made into a meme that’s circulated no less than twenty-six thousand times. The thing with the floating head is already making the rounds.

I grab his arms. “Why did you want to work in weather?” I ask. On the other side of the deck, there’s a heavy thud as Mark sets up the tripod for the camera. From this angle, we can just barely make out his legs and the tiny pieces of white tape I put on the deck to note our spots. Jackson turns his head, but I grip his chin, turning his face back to mine. “Jackson,” I say, firm. Direct. “Why did you want to work in weather?”

Some of the fog clears. “I don’t know, I guess I—”

I shake my head. “No. You know. What was it?”