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50
LUNA
I'm running late.
I have fifteen minutes to get to the Jacobs’ place but considering I’m shoeless, pantsless, and only have mascara on one eye, there’s no way I’m making it.
You’d think after so many weeks, I would’ve found a way to not be late for these damn dinners.
To be fair, it's not entirely my fault. It was late when we got back from the ranch, and I went straight to the bar for a late shiftandI stayed later than usual because some assholes decided to be obnoxious and hassle us long after closing time. And then today, I had a shit ton of college work to catch up on and I had to go to the office for a couple of hours and on top of all that, I missed a few doses of my meds—it’s not like I had the time or the wits to grab them before racing to the hospital.
What's that saying? When it rains, it pours? Well, yeah, the last few days, it has definitely poured.
For the first time since I started going there, the days I spent at the ranch weren't entirely tranquil. I love Lux, I really do, but God, she was a nightmare—and that's coming from me. She only got worse when Grace and Lottie came home, the former turning up out of her mind with worry about being summoned home mid-week while the latter…well, she arrived pissed as hell, probably because Lottie is perpetually pissed. And she was most definitelynotas delighted as her sisters to find out about her nephew.
She just sat there silently, sullenly, while the others celebrated, and then stormed out when Lux tried to talk to her. Grace tried to go after her but got a door slammed in her face, Lux cried which made Eliza cry which pissed off Jackson and…
And it was a mess.
Never did I think I'd be glad to swap Serenity Ranch for Sun Valley.
Well, I was glad until Friday rolled around.
By the time I locate my pants and finish my make-up, Pen is blowing up my phone with all the ways I'm dead to her. Snatching my keys and handbag off the counter, I hop to the door, wrenching it open with one hand and slipping my heels on with the other. A yelp of surprise leaves me at what, or rather who, I find lurking in the hallway.
Jackson is wearing a shirt. And a blazer. And slacks. And those dressy shoes he used to wear when he’d take me to an obscenely fancy restaurant.
What the fuck?
“What're you doing here?”
Amusement brightens his face. The fist that was poised to knock unfurls and drops to my hip, pulling me close so he can kiss my temple. “Hey. Am I late?”
I blink up at him. “For what?”
“It's Friday, right? You're having dinner at the Jacobs' place?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Cool.” Jackson tugs me outside, stealing my keys and locking the door behind me. “You mind if I drive?”
If he notices me staring at like he’s grown two heads, he doesn’t comment. “You're coming?”
“If that's okay with you.”
He... he's coming to Friday night dinner.
I will not cry.
Pressing my lips together, I nod. My knees wobble as I follow him to his car, my grip on his hand vice-like. Ring-adorned fingers are cool against mine, and when I glance down and catch sight of the familiar battered one adorning his pinky, my eyes burn.
I will not cry.
It's not until he clicks his seatbelt–and mine–into place that I feel like I can talk without bursting into tears. “You don't have to come.”
“I want to.”
I pull a face. “I think you're gonna regret it.” When Jackson makes a dismissive noise, I squeeze the hand that quickly settled on my thigh. “I'm serious. It's bad, Jackson. Like, stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-fork bad.”
