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“Oh, yeah? For whom?” Jackson nudges my leg.
“You.”
29
Marlow
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
I nod, not quite composed enough to say all the things I want to. The surprise of seeing him, that boyish smile that knows its time and place, the heat that reaches me across the bench, and the unwavering connection that bonds us. It’s all so much at once.
“How’s he doing?”
I keep the tears at bay and finally breathe through the buildup of the situation. “He’s been taken to surgery.”
“I know it’s scary.”
“It is.”
I look at him. Judging by the dark circles and the wrinkled clothes, I’m thinking he didn’t get much rest on the plane.
He says, “I missed your call. I was in a meeting.”
I want to touch him, hold his hand, or even run my fingers over the scruff that’s thickened on the overnight flight. I want to kiss him and that half-hearted grin from his mouth. It’s unnatural for Jackson to look as though he’s unsure of a situation. He’s unsure of me. I’ve done that to him.
I clasp my hands together to restrain them and bite my lip, feeling a bit unsteady in his presence as well. The love’s still there, thriving under the skin and rushing my veins, but we shouldn’t fix this, whatever seems to be wrong, with the physical. We’ve relied on it too long. I ask, “You flew all the way to LA to tell me that? You could have just called.”
“I didn’t want to. I wanted to tell you in person.” His own struggle is playing out before me, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket while his eyes are set on his shoes in front of him.
I wrap my arm over my stomach because as good as it is to see him, the butterflies have changed direction. “What’s going on? I’m nervous. You’re nervous.”
Resting his forearms on his legs, he angles his head to face me. “I didn’t go to work thinking there was anything going on at home that we couldn’t work through.”
No flowers are blooming in this garden despite the unpredictable California weather this time of year. Just greens and browns. “I’m sorry, Jackson, for not leaving a note or a message, something behind. I wish I could explain my thoughts when I got the news, but there was no rhyme or reason. Nothing was done to hurt you or to make you feel abandoned. I wouldn’t want to do that to you anyway. But yesterday, you abandoned me. Emotionally, you put miles between us, and I still don’t know why.”
“I have.”
“Here’s the thing. I’m tired. You must be exhausted. I’m not thinking clearly. A nurse told me four hours minimum for my dad’s surgery, but it could be upward of eight if there’s more damage than they suspect.” I stand and hold out my hand because why are we torturing each other? “I don’t know where you’re staying, but I need more sleep, and you look like you could handle some rest. I’d like to have you come with me . . .” I leave the offer lingering and stand here long enough for him to know I mean it.
But he reaches for it without question, stands, and wraps his around my hand. Without taking a step, though, he asks, “This has changed, hasn’t it?”
I know what he’s asking, but I’m afraid to tell him the truth. “My love for you hasn’t.”
He nods, accepting what his gut tells him, and we start walking back to the main entrance. “Where’s your suitcase?”
“I rented a car at the airport.”
My eyebrows arch, and I have to lift my jaw off the ground. “You’re such a New Yorker. I didn’t know you knew how to drive.”
Wrapping his arm around me, he says, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, baby.”
The release of tension feels good, even if it is short-lived.
I wait while he pulls the car around to pick me up. I stand from the bench where I’m waiting as soon as I see it. Sleek. Black. Lamborghini. He shifts it into park and comes around to help me in. “I should have guessed you’d rent a luxury sports car.”
“It’s not every day I get to drive one of these babies.” He shuts the door and runs around to the driver’s side and gets back in.
“It’s not every day you get to drive at all. Are you sure you can handle her?” I’m met with a dead-eyed glare. Raising my hands in surrender, I laugh under my breath. “Just saying, if you need me to drive her home—”
“Settle down. I may be a city kid, but I’ve got this handled.”
He did. He handled the car like a dream . . . until he met rush hour on the 405. After the fourth stall-out, he looks at me and says, “She’s meant for speed, not sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.”
