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Movingalong the aisles,Ihunt for whatI’mlooking for.
“Selena, we can come back here later.Weneed to get going.”
“You’rea big boy,Jackson.You’refree to leave any time,”Itell him, spying exactly whatI’mlooking for.Reachingdown,Igrab a half gallon mason jar.
“Planningon canning something at the hospital today?”
Rollingmy eyes at him,Ihead to the front of the store to get in the checkout line. “It’sfor the flowers,Nugget.”
Onlythere is no checkout line because this isWesternSprings, and apparently no one buys groceries here just before ten o’clock on a weekday morning.Ihonestly can’t remember the last timeIdidn’t have to wait in a line inL.A.Foranything.Atthe grocery store.Ata restaurant.Forthe bathroom.Thereare so many people inL.A. that you’re always waiting in a line for something.
Grinningat the lack of line,Iwalk right up to the till.Thecheckout clerk is a kid who looks like he’s fifteen, but is hopefully at least eighteen because he’s not in school on a weekday morning.Hestares at us, his eyes wide open.Well, he stares atJackson.
“Goodmorning,”Itell him cheerfully asIput all the flowers and the giant mason jar down on the little conveyor belt.
“Morning,Mr.Waters,” the kid says toJacksoneven thoughI’mthe one who wished him a good morning.Jacksonis just standing behind me like a grumpy statue.
Hemoves forward to stand next to me. “Hey, your mom’sLinaTorres, isn’t she?”
Thekid nods, grinning. “LinaTappernow, but yeah.”
“TellherIsaid hi.”
“Willdo,Mr.Waters, sir.”
“Howmuch doIowe you?”Jacksonsays conversationally, apparently happy to not be a grumpy statue when he’s talking to anyone other than me.
“That’llbe thirty-three dollars and fifty-seven cents.”
WhenJacksonreaches into his back pocket for his wallet,Ipress my hand on his arm.
“Oh,Ican pay.”
“You’renotpaying,Selena.”Hisdeep voice is a warning.OneIhappily ignore.
“Iknow…”Smilingat him when he only looks confused,Ilean forward over the counter towards the poor, gawky teenager forced to witnessJacksonand me fighting. “You’repaying,Jackson.”
Slowly,Itrail my fingertips down my neck to the deepV-shaped neckline of my dress, just likeJacksondid when he shoved a credit card into my bra.ThenIslip my fingers between my breasts and slowly, slowly, pull outJackson’scredit card. “Thereit is.”
Thepoor kid’s jaw is hanging open, staring at me.Sorry, kid.You’rejust collateral damage in my attempt to piss off my fake boyfriend.
AftertappingJackson’scard on the sensor to pay,Ifinally glance at him where he’s standing next to me.Hismouth is open just like the teenage checkout kid’s, and his hands are clenched in fists at his sides.Iguess that worked, then.
“Selena.”Myname is a low growl.
“Yes,Jackson?”Iask innocently.
Ahundred different things flash across his face.AndIbet there’s a hundred different things he wants to say to me.Buthe doesn’t say even one.Instead.Hepicks up the paper bag from the checkout counter and storms out of the store.
Thinking,Islowly follow behind him.Cominghere toJackson’shometown, spending every waking minute with him has been… a lot.Andwe only got here yesterday.Ican’t think clearly when he’s always right there, looking so handsome, practically growling at me.No, actually growling at me.It’sputting all kinds of ideas in my head thatIhave no right to think about.
So,Ineed to create some distance between us.Ineed some room to breathe properly and remind myself that this is all fake.Allof it.Whateverwas really responsible for pissingJacksonoff, he obviously didn’t mean for things to get so heated between us.
Orso heated between my thighs.
Ineed air.Ineed space.Ineed miles of space.Andbeing stuck out at the old farmhouse by ourselves at night is the opposite of space.
chaptertwenty-eight
