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“Oh?”
“Yes. I think I need a break. I didn’t drink today. Or yesterday, I guess.”
“It’s always a good idea to take a break. Do Dry January.”
“Dry January?” He pulls me closer, and I resist my thoughts going anywhere but finding warmth.
“People take January off from drinking as a new year reset.”
“That’s my New Year’s resolution, then. Don’t drink in January,” he says. “What’s yours? Do you have a New Year’s resolution?”
“No.”Fall out of love with you. Stop dreaming about you. Stop thinking about you every second of every day.
We sit for a few more minutes, the temperature plummeting. Jackson no longer keeps my shivers at bay; I’m vibrating in his arms, the only sound we hear is teeth chattering.
“I think it’s time to go home,” he says. “Do you want to come back to my place?”
I freeze under his arm. I know he doesn’t mean anything sinister, and I ache to go. It’s not a good idea, even if it’s to hang out. He has limited places to sit, and sitting on his bed would break me.
“It’s probably best I go home,” I say, standing as he stands as well. He wraps his arms around me in a hug, his chin resting on my head.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. His lips brush against my temple, and a fresh shiver goes through my body. “Text me when you make it home safely.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “I’ll text you. Call me later if you’re having a hard time today, okay?”
“I will.” He walks me to my car, and before I can get in, he takes me in for another hug. This one lingers, and I could melt, even though it’s thirty degrees out.
When I drive away, I start sobbing, my vision so blurry, I consider pulling over, but I want to get home. Tears drip from my chin as I pull into my grandfather’s apartment complex. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and cry.
I cry for Amy. I cry for Jackson. Although it would mean Jackson and I wouldn’t be close like we were, I wish she were alive to ring in the New Year with him.
In honor of her, I will try my best to fall out of love with her husband. That’s my New Year’s Resolution.
25
Jackson
Ifucked up.
First, I said out loud that I want to take a break from drinking, and now I haven’t had a drink in five days. It’s torture. I almost accidentally drank twice, bottle of Scotch in hand before I remembered my promise to Shiloh. Telling her of all people I don’t want to drink was an even worse mistake because I can’t backpedal. I will not be drinking until February first, and it sucks.
The embarrassment of New Year’s plays in my head constantly, because I can’t numb it with alcohol.
That’s not the worst of my mistakes from New Year’s.
The biggest one: I cried in front of Shiloh. I unloaded everything about Amy to a woman I have non-platonic feelings for and then asked her to come back to my place. As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I didn’t expect sex or any physical intimacy, but I hoped she would say yes. I’m not sure how she took it, if she saw it as completely friendly or saw the unintentional sexual overtone.
I’ve tried to run into her at work, but it hasn’t worked. I’ve texted her a couple times, receiving short responses. Since I’m not drinking, my mind ping-pongs from one speculation to another.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts at our Wednesday meeting that Reid slams my favorite beer, the Prospector IPA, in front of me, before I can decline. Our investor, Dan Price, is back from his vacation, and he likes to drink, no matter what time it is, so we usually partake as well. We used to do coffee and pastries, but Dan just drank beer and was happy with crackers so we don’t swing by Gold Roast anymore.
The man has millions of dollars, but throw together a small charcuterie and serve him beer at nine o’clock in the morning, and he’s completely satisfied.
“How was your vacation?” I ask Dan, touching the beer but not drinking it.
“Beautiful. Enthralling. Rejuvenating. Highly recommend.”
“Did Makenna have a good time as well?” Emily asks.
