Abandoning the new releases, I trudged toward the storeroom. I needed some water and a brownie because brownies made everything better.
Instead of a brownie, I found Jackson leaning against the table. It was a casual pose, his arms folded across his chest, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, but it was his expression that had me frozen in the doorway. His head was tipped down, his gaze steady on the floor but distant, his jaw clenched. His collar was open at the base of his neck. I stared at the golden skin there for a long moment.
"I dropped by to say hello because I wanted to talk to you," he started, his tone sharper than any knife, "and I learned you're not dating anyone and your mother is fixing you up with other men."
I clasped my hands together and tucked them under my chin, the only shield I had from this war on two fronts. On the one side was my family and their insistence I wasn't meant for a man like Jackson. I could scrape the black-tarred stick of their words away—and I would—but I'd always know they believed he was settling with me. That he could—and should—do much better than the bookish chick who didn't own an iron. It didn't matter that they were wrong or that I'd discarded that notion as soon as they floated it. They'd never look at me and Jackson with anything less than exasperated hand-wringing and I wasn't sure I could continue scraping that away without leaving myself tender and raw in the process.
On the other side, Jackson wanted so much more than I could fathom. He wanted all the relationship bells and whistles but I didn't know how to operate the most basic bell and I couldn't find my whistles. He was ready for all these things and I was busy constructing a bridge of spun sugar. It was a thin, fragile connection between me and all of my doubt and issues to his boundless belief in us.
In the middle of it all was me and the creeping notion that I wasn't meant for this man. What had I done to deserve him? Nothing. He happened to drag my drunk ass home one night and I'd employed my limitless talent of making it awkward. If not for that run-in, we would've gone along without seeing each other naked. I'd forced this, just as I had with Owen.
He pushed away from the table and paced toward me, all six-foot-something of him towering over me. I knew he wasn't attempting to intimidate me but I already felt so small after my family's visit that I couldn't help but shrink even further.
"If we're not together, Annette, would you care to explain to me what we are?"
20
Punching Down
v. The process of pushing dough down, pulling the edges in on itself, and flipping it over after it has reached the point of doubling in size.
Jackson
"If we're not together, Annette,"I started, gazing down at her, "would you care to explain to me what we are?"
She dragged her teeth over her lower lip and asked, "How much of that did you hear?"
"Is that the best you've got?" I asked. "I had to read about you being very single in the Portland paper and then I listened to you dodging every question about our relationship. I need you to do better."
She shook her head and pressed her clasped hands to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry, Jackson. I wish I had the right thing to say but you've caught me at a bad moment and I'm fresh out of the right things. All I have is wrong. Actually, I came in here to gorge myself on chocolate. That's how much wrong I'm working with today."
I shoved my fingers through my hair as I stared at her, desperate for more. Just a bit. I only needed a hint that we were on the same team but I wasn't getting it. "Then help me understand," I replied. "Tell me why your mother is setting you up with Angie Dixon's son and you're not refusing. I want to understand this. I want a reason to stay instead of walking out right now."
Annette started to reply but stopped herself, her hands holding back the words. She blinked away, her gaze darting to the table behind me, the door, the boxes in the corner. I didn't understand what was going on here but I couldn't climb out of my mad to figure it out.
"I don't think I can give you what you need," she said eventually. "Not right now, maybe not ever. I mean, I don't even iron. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything."
"Were you planning to go through with that date?" I asked, my patience far past frayed. "At least tell me that much."
She buried her face in her hands. "My mother is always trying to set me up with people. I smile and nod, but nothing comes of it."
"Is that what you're doing now? Smiling and nodding, and letting me believe we're in a really fucking intense relationship? Because that's what it seems like today."
We stared at each other for full minutes but didn't move an inch closer to comprehending anything. And perhaps that was my biggest issue, beyond the very single, the refusal to acknowledge that we're together, the blind date. We didn't understand each other and we couldn't fuck our way out of it anymore.
That realization sank in my stomach like a stone. I couldn't stay here, not when I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and snap her out of that fifty-yard stare. And wasn't that a bitch? Even as she was pushing, pushing, pushing me away, I wanted her more than ever.
"If you ever figure out what you want, give me a call," I said, backing toward the door. With one hand on the knob, I raised the other in a wave. "And god help me, Annette, keep this damn door locked."
21
Fermentation
n. The chemical change in a food during the baking process in which enzymes leaven a dough and add flavor.
Annette
I spentthe rest of the day flying on autopilot. I didn't remember the people who came through the shop, what we talked about, or which books I sold them. But I made it through without spending more than a stray minute or two acknowledging the day's bruises.
