Page 99 of And Now, Back to You

Jackson lightly touches my elbow. I turn to look at him, his phone pressed to his chest and brand-new strain lines at the corners of his eyes. “Adeline needs me. I’m gonna head down to the lobby and talk to her for a bit.”

“You don’t have to leave.” I gesture toward the armchair in front of the fire. “You can take your call here.”

“That’s all right.” He hesitates, eyes searching my face, before he forces a smile that doesn’t quite land. “I won’t be long.”

I nod. “All right, if you’re sure. I’ll be here.”

I wish I knew how to make it easier for him, the way he makes it easier for me. But I’m flying blind, and my usual tendency to rely on sunny optimism and a can-do attitude has gotten me exactly nowhere. I’m bruised and beaten up, and so, so tired.

Still, the idea that he’d rather take his phone call in the lobby is a paper cut that stings. It’s a silent confirmation of my worst fears. That he’ll turn to me for things that are fun and easy and bright, but keep everything else tucked away. I’ll get the version of him he can be here, but not anything else.

Just like the storm, I’m worried we’re going to lose momentum by the time we head back home.

I turn back to the table, picking up notepads and shuffling them into neat piles. Rearranging the Post-its I stole from his jacket pocket.

I listen to his boots against the carpet, the whisper of his jacket as he shoulders it back on, and the heavy pause as he hesitates in front of the door. My heart lodges in my throat as I wait, hoping he’ll change his mind. Hoping he’ll give me something heavy to hold for him. But then the door opens and snicks quietly shut. His voice murmurs on the other side of the heavy wood, and he’s gone.

I stay standing at the table for a long time before I finally crawl into bed, thoroughly and entirely exhausted.

I close my eyes and try not to think about anything at all.

AIDEN VALENTINE: I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this before. What’s your favorite thing about the weather, Jackson?

JACKSON CLARK: The predictability.

CHAPTER 24

JACKSON

I stare up at the ceiling of the hotel room, tracing the wood grain on one of the exposed beams that runs the length of the room. I sat with Lottie down in reception after I finished up with Adeline, listening to her talk about the history of the lodge while she folded spare linens.

She inherited it from her mother, who inherited it from her mother before her. Over and over, handed down through generations, always to the eldest daughter. Us oldest daughters, Lottie had laughed, we carry enough trauma to be excellent micromanagers, it turns out. Fate has a funny way of shaking out, don’t you think?

Fate. The slip of the word was enough to make me pause, hands frozen over a well-loved cherry red table napkin, mid-fold. But then Lottie had chirped happily on about the recent renovations and the refurbishments that took into consideration the existing structure, and the thought slipped away. I was eager to lose myself in a conversation instead of sitting firmly planted in my own head, and Lottie seemed to know it.

The lodge maintained most of its original pieces. Like the exposed wood beams and the fireplaces in every room. What she could salvage, she meticulously maintained for longevity. That has been important to her. To keep what she could.

“I figured if it’s got good bones, why not.” Her hands worked easily over the worn red napkins. Folding once and then again. Muscle memory. “It’s nice to hold on to some things, hmm?”

I stare at the beam now and imagine what it must feel like. Holding something up for over a century.

“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, dragging a hand over my face. These are the asinine thoughts that usually haunt me anywhere between one and four in the morning, twisting with the sharper ones until it’s a never-ending stream of chatter in my head.

I roll to my side and grab my phone from beneath the spare pillow with a sigh, careful to keep it tucked under the blanket so the light from the screen doesn’t wake Delilah. I didn’t come back to the room until I knew she’d be asleep. I don’t know why. I think I was afraid to face her. Or maybe I was afraid of what she’d see when she looked at me.

Luckily she was curled into a ball at the very edge of the mattress when I slipped through the door, a wall of pillows between her space and mine.

That damn pillow wall is another thing that’s twisting at me. Last night we didn’t bother, but tonight Delilah thought she needed it.

I swipe open my phone and scroll to my messages. The latest is from Camille—unanswered, of course.

I know you don’t trust me, it says. And for good reason. But I’d like another chance.

Another, right after it. Lighten up, Jackson. If I mess up, you can tell me I told you so.

Like that’s what I’m worried about. Being right. I want to be wrong about her more than anything else, but it’s hard to forget the little boy with a hungry stomach, waiting in the kitchen for someone who never showed up.

Adeline had called tonight near tears, wandering around the issue until she finally confessed that all the girls in her friend group were having their mothers attend the midsemester leadership brunch. It’s a wound I’ve never been able to fully patch for them, and my usual assurances felt like dust on my tongue.