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“You coming in?”
I hadn’t planned on it—at least not consciously—yet I find myself nodding. And when I step across the threshold, I’m caught between relief and regret.
Being back here feels… weird. Nostalgic.Sad.
So many memories, not enough emotional strength to process them all.
Thankfully, Jackson doesn’t notice my misty-eyed reminiscing; he’s already halfway to the kitchen. “You mind if I heat this up now? I haven't eaten yet.”
“Go for it.” Grabbing the other Tupperware from my bag, I follow him into the kitchen, dropping the container on the counter and sliding onto a barstool. “I have pie too.”
He eyes the food with raised brows. “Who made all this? Your mom in town?”
I barely manage to contain my wince. “No. Pen's mom.” Instinctively, my thumb goes to the ring on my forefinger. Still the one Jackson got me. I never took it off after the funeral.
Must've forgotten.
Jackson notices too, his eyes burning into the jewellery, his grip on the spoon scooping casserole into a bowl tightening. Coughing, I tuck my hands under my thighs, out of either of our sights. “I had dinner there tonight.”
Jackson tears his eyes away from my hands, or more specifically my thighs, I guess, and nods jerkily.
“That's where I was last Friday night too,” I add. The night he asked me to do something and I blew him off.
For a moment, he freezes. Seems to think hard about something, brow furrowed, and comes to some conclusion that has him blowing out a breath. “You eat there a lot?”
Oh, if only he knew. “Kinda.”
He wants to ask more. I can see it on his face. But he restrains himself, busies himself heating up dinner. Silence settles, heavy and confused, only interrupted by the low buzz of the microwave. I'm worrying my bottom lip to the point of bleeding, gaze fixed on a random spot on the counter, when Jackson eventually sighs.
“Lu, why are you here?”
My gaze snaps up to his. “I had leftovers.”
He doesn't look convinced. “Why are you really here?”
I don’t know.“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That scrutinizing expression softens. “I'm okay.”
“I'm glad.”
The microwave beeps loudly but Jackson doesn't move. “You could've just called.”
I don't have it in me to admit that I deleted his number. Or, more specifically, Pen did. Those first couple of months, when I wasn't doing so well, I sometimes tried to call him when I was drunk. Hid my number and left voicemails I never sent. Pen got annoyed, said it wasn't fair to Jackson. She transferred his number to her phone, deleted it from mine, and told me if I really wanted to call him, I could. When I was sober. All I had to do was ask.
I never did.
Exhaling hard, I slowly admit, “I wanted to see you.” The tiniest twitch tightens his jaw. “I feel like we left things on a weird note last week.”
“You mean when you left me alone in my own bed?”
I choke on my next breath, wincing and already preparing an apology before I look up and realize he's joking. Shoulders slumping in relief, I cough out a weak, breathy laugh. “We shouldn't have done that.”
Another twitch, his hand this time. One finger drumming steadily against the countertop. “Probably not.”
“Or any of the other stuff.”
The tapping stops. One dark brow arches. “The other stuff?”
