He straightens and sniffs a couple of times, wiping his face with his dirty palms, which only ends up smearing patches of wet dirt across his freckled cheeks.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
He’s about to answer when two headlights beam across our bodies.
Fuck. Wagner’s timing couldn’t be any worse. I pull out my phone to fire off a text, asking him to give me ten, and get an instant thumbs-up back.
I turn my attention back to Jackson’s tear-streaked, dirt-smudged face. “Tell me what’s wrong. I might be able to help.”
But it’s too late.
In the few seconds it took me to text Wagner, Jackson’s walls have come back up, and whatever he was going to confess or confide in me about is trapped on the other side of it.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not fine. I can see that. Something is upsetting you. Tell me what it is. Please.”
“I can’t. No. I’m good. Really.”
“Jackson. We promised, remember? No more secrets.”
The look of anguish on his face shreds my heart into thin strips. I hate seeing him this distraught, but I can’t pry my way into his mouth and force the words out—he has to tell me. He has towantto tell me.
“I will tell you. Just…not right now.” He flinches again, then tips his head toward the beams of light coming from Wagner’s SUV. “Go. We’ll talk later.”
I step back away from him, shaking my head.
No, we won’t.
The moment is gone, and whatever he was going to tell me is gone with it.
I crouch beside Grandma’s cedar chest I’ve lugged into the living room, tracing the intricate carvings with my fingertips. Lifting the lid, I rifle through her silk scarves, lace tablecloths trimmed with crocheted flowers, and yet another stack of yellowed love letters tied with a faded red ribbon. Each item will be added to the growing pile I’m gathering in the guest room.
Despite living in their house for months, I haven’t spent anywhere near enough time sorting through their things, and then when I find myself at a loose end and do it, I can’t bring myself to throw anything away.
Grandma Maggie died when I was young, so I don’t have any memories of her other than the lady in the photos Grandpa Rick displayed all around the house. And there’s no way I can part with any of his stuff. It feels wrong throwing any of it away. Even though it’s old and no one is going to use it, it still belonged to him. It’s more than just stuff; it’s the sum total of two people’s lives.
And why am I the one left to do this? Dad should be here making these decisions, not me. But when has he ever stepped up and done the right thing?
My phone vibrates against the surface of the mirrored coffee table. My first thought is that it’s Jackson calling to talk about what happened earlier tonight because one, I want to make sure he’s okay, and two, I need to know what the fuck is going on.
My best friend’s name, as well as a selfie we took three Christmases ago when we’d both had too much eggnog and thought it would be hilarious and highly original to pull goofy faces, flashes on my screen instead.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey, Mav. How’s things?”
I collapse onto my grandparents’ neoclassical sofa and regret it instantly, rubbing my elbow where it jammed into the rigid arm. This is not a sofa you sink into; it’s a sofa you sit on gingerly and with proper posture. Even the cushions aren’t comfortable.
“I’m fucked.”
“What’s wrong? Are you—what’s wrong?”
“I’m not drinking,” I assure him. It bothers me that that’s the first place he goes to, but at the same time, I can’t blame him for it. He’s only worried because he loves me. I’d be the same way with him if the situation were reversed. “It’s Jackson.”
“What’s happening now? Don’t tell me. You got sprung by some stable hands fucking in the stable.”
“Don’t be silly…that’s what my private bathroom is for.”
