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“Not on call, but I’ll take a water,” he replied, and looked at Jackson. He crouched and held out his hand. “You must be Jackson. I’m Gabriel St. Clair, but you can call me Saint like everyone else.”
Jackson stared at the offered hand and then looked at me before his eyes shifted to Vic.
My chest filled with air and froze. Jackson was looking to Vic to see if Saint could be trusted?
Vic peered at Jackson. “He’s like Iron Man, kid.”
Jackson’s spine straightened and his eyes widened, his head snapping back to Saint. My chest exploded. Literally exploded with an orchestra of fireworks. He knew what Jackson needed to hear in order to trust Saint. He knew, and he gave it to him.
“Good to meet you, Jackson,” Saint said, shaking his hand. “You like Iron Man?”
Jackson nodded. “But Aquaman is stronger because he doesn’t have to wear a machine to make him strong.”
Saint laughed and Jaeg chuckled.
But it wasn’t either of them who had my attention. It was Vic who did because the corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second a flash of amusement smothered the darkness in his eyes. It was beautiful.
Jaeg barbequed while Saint and Vic stood and chatted with him. Occasionally, I’d see Vic’s gaze skim the backyard and stop when they landed on Jackson, who was picking the bad apples off the ground and throwing them. It was as if he was checking on him.
I, of course, barely paid attention to Addie or Hettie as we finished making the rest of the meal in the kitchen because I was constantly looking out the window at Vic. I did see Hettie and Addie exchange glances as if they knew I was drooling over him. What I didn’t know was what it meant. Did they feel sorry for me because they knew he’d leave?
Heidi had texted Addie and cancelled, saying her car wouldn’t start. Addie had then punched her brother and accused him of doing something to the car.
Just after six, we all sat at the picnic table with the red-and-white plaid tablecloth, a heat lamp and a fire pit burning. Hettie sat on my left, and to my horror, Vic sat on my right.
When I told him Jackson needed help with his ribs so I needed him beside me, Vic said he’d deal with it. Which meant that for the next hour, Vic’s thigh brushed against mine.
He piled Jackson’s plate high with ribs and mac ’n’ cheese, but when he went to scoop the quinoa cranberry salad onto his plate, Jackson shook his head. That was until he saw that Vic had an entire tower of the stuff on his plate and then asked for some. I’d noticed Vic didn’t eat the ribs or the mac ’n’ cheese, only the salad with a baked potato.
A vibration against my leg nearly sent me flying into the bowl of mac ’n’ cheese. Vic glanced at me, eyes sparking with amusement. He reached into his side pocket and took out his cell, glancing at the screen.
“No phones at the table,” Hettie scolded.
He nodded respectfully and got up from the table. He slid his finger across the screen and placed it to his ear as he walked away.
His body tensed as he listened to whoever was on the other end. His other hand closed into a fist and he said something, but he was over by the fence, so I couldn’t hear what it was.
But I knew something was wrong. Really wrong.
He lowered his phone and shoved it into his pocket. He turned, and our eyes crashed and locked. I expected to see anger swirling in the dark gray depths. But this was wreckage. Confusion. Maybe sorrow. I wanted so badly to go over to him. And what? What would you do, Macayla?
“Saint,” Vic said, approaching the table. “Can you take them home later?”
Saint didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, of course.”
Vic gave him a clipped nod. “Hettie, thanks for dinner.” His gaze slid to Jackson and paused before shifting to me. My throat was tight, and I tried to swallow but couldn’t.
Was that his team on the phone? Did they call him back in? Was he going to leave and never come back?
“’Night,” he said, and everyone said it back. He walked away, his back stiff and his hands uncurling and curling.
I bit the insides of my cheeks and grabbed the edge of the picnic table to keep from running after him and asking where he was going. And yeah, if he’d come back.
Hettie waved her hands over the table. “Eat. Eat. I don’t want to be eating leftovers all week.” There was a clinking sound as Jaeg picked up the mac ’n’ cheese to refill his plate, and Saint stood, leaning over the table to top off Jackson’s glass of pink lemonade.
I jumped when I felt a hand gently pat my thigh. Hettie. “He can look after himself. Always has.”
God, was it that obvious that I was worried about him? I half smiled at Hettie who went back to telling the story about Mr. Mendelson throwing dog poo over his fence onto Mrs. Jefferson’s yappy little white poodle.
