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“Oh. No. I’m good.”
“Oh. Good.”
We stand awkwardly in limbo for a few seconds before he hoists a thumb over his shoulder.
“I’ll be outside. Tommy is coming over in a few hours, FYI.”
I nod, pressing my lips tightly together before I say something really stupid like “How about a kiss hello?”
Once he’s gone, my stomach lurches in the way I imagine it would if gravity suddenly wasn’t a thing and I’m in a free fall off the planet. Or maybe that would be more of a hover as I’m sucked into space.
Anyway. I’m uncomfortable, that’s what I’m trying to say.
The kiss in the park, the few before that one in my bedroom—I thought that those were adding up to be more. I don’t know what that would look like since we can’t snap back into our roles from before. I mean, how do you go back to dating someone you loved when you were a kid? You kind of can’t. There’s been too much time and distance in between. Plus, the intensity isn’t the same.
It’s there, though. I admit that much to myself as I walk into the kitchen to make myself that cup of coffee I offered Jackson.
The intensity between us may have lessened—having your heart broken will do that—but we still care about each other in a way neither of us can deny. I care about him. I know he cares about me.
He’s been accommodating and attentive. Until this week, when he’s been more aloof and distant. I’m not sure it has anything to do with me at all. Maybe another client refused to pay. But there’s definitely a shift in his mood. And he’s definitely not in a good mood today.
As I watch my coffee sputter into the mug from the single-cup brewer, I think back to the last few days.
I sent him a text and the link to the article on Sunday, but only after deleting it and retyping it nine times. I felt weird sending him video proof of our on-fire chemistry and didn’t know exactly how to say “So here’s us turning each other on for the public!” Instead, I went with a generic, albeit lame, thanks again for your help.
He never responded. I have no idea if he watched it, hated it, or agreed that the kiss was hot on anyone’s HOT-o-meter. I didn’t text him again in case he was avoiding me.
After the hot and heavy kiss on the picnic blanket, he’d dashed off to play Frisbee and left me to eat my gourmet snack alone. When he came strolling back, I offered to go with him to get that “real” food he’d brought up before and—get this—he said no. He told me he needed to head home, since he was behind on his paperwork.
No girl wants to be second to paperwork.
The drive back was as normal as you please. We talked, not about the kiss, but about the weather, and his schedule on the deck construction. When he dropped me off at the driveway, he told me to enjoy the weekend.
Now that I think about it, he wasn’t in a good mood at all after the kiss.
No flirting. No following me inside. He simply reversed down the driveway and motored away.
Did I majorly screw things up by asking him to pretend with me?
I can’t imagine why that would matter. We’ve never had to fake the attraction part. It has to be pheromones. I’ve never been able to control my physical desire for him. Except…my desire for Jax has always been deeper than just the physical.
When we split up after that horrible day in California, it felt like ending something that should’ve lasted forever. I was excited about my newfound career, and he was tired and impatient and reluctant about everything. About my leasing an apartment and my nonstop chatter about the show and the critics’ positive reviews…I was a ball of energy and excitement and he was still Jackson. Steady, focused, laid-back Jackson.
And then we started arguing and then he left. I bled out slowly when it became clear we broke up for good. I didn’t entertain the idea of dating another soul for over a year.
Now that I’m standing here, ten years of retrospection under my belt, I wonder…Was he sad about my excitement? Not jealous. He always wanted more for me—because I wanted it. He’d never deny me what I yearned for deep in my soul. But, now that I look back on it, had he felt left behind? Or worse. Traded in?
Hm. I never thought of it that way before now.
And God. That day I walked through my parents’ front door and saw him standing in the living room, a million things happened at once. I’d spent the morning dodging paparazzi lurking around LAX. Landing at John Glenn airport was a complete and total shift. No one leaped out of a potted plant to ask me about Millie or Xavier or my Oscar-napping incident. I was deliciously under the radar, and not sure if I trusted it.
I made the mistake of taking my phone off airplane mode the moment we landed. Texts and two missed calls from Xavier came through. I tromped through the airport, huge sunglasses on, ball cap pulled low, and dealt with him the only way I knew how.
I called him back.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I want you to go to rehab like we agreed. How can I land you a role on my next film if you refuse to call me back? If you refuse to seek treatment?”
