I spot Jackson through the window, crossing the parking lot in worn jeans and a BSU football hoodie that hangs impeccably well on his frame. My chest tightens with the familiar ache that’s become my constant companion.
“There’s your boy,” Kyle says, following my gaze.
Your boy.If only.
Jackson strides into the store, eyes sweeping across the aisles until they lock onto our group. His whole face instantly transforms, the corners of his mouth lifting into that crooked smile I’ve grown to love. I force my gaze to the floor tiles, counting the scuff marks to keep myself from showing him my “Jackson face.”
“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless as he reaches us. “Ryan said you might need moral support.”
“More like Nathan needs last rites,” Oliver says.
“I’mfine,” Nathan insists, then immediately undermines himself by swaying on his feet when Gerard holds up a paint swatch labeled “Peachy Keen.”
“Now,thiswould complement your skin perfectly!” Gerard exclaims.
Jackson’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline as he watches the exchange, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “Do I want to know?”
“Gerard’s planning their performance,” I explain, trying not to notice how Jackson’s hoodie smells of his detergent. “Nathan’s handling it well.”
“I can see that.” Jackson’s lips twitch. “He’s very…green.”
“That’s his complexion!” Gerard says. “Which is why we need warmer tones to balance it out!”
We weave through the towering aisles of the lumber section, the sharp scent of fresh-cut pine filling my nostrils. Jackson’s shoulder bumps against mine as we round a corner, his footsteps falling perfectly in rhythm with my own. I reach for a two-by-four just as his fingers graze the same plank. The heat of his skin sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I snatch my hand away so fast I nearly smack it against the metal shelving.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time.
This is ridiculous. We’ve rubbed off on each other in a public bathroom, but now I can’t even handle accidental contact without my heart trying to escape through my ribs.
“So,” Jackson says quietly while the others debate deck stain colors, “about next weekend…”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Are you sure you want to do this? With me, I mean. You could ask someone else.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than intended. “I mean—no, I want it to be you.”
He smiles at me with those warm brown eyes, and I swear he can see straight through to the parts of me I’m desperately trying to hide. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We stand there, caught in a moment that feels suspended outside of time, until the overhead speakers crackle to life and the opening a new wave song drifts down from somewhere above the plywood displays.
I recognize it instantly. That haunting melody, those sparse electronic beats that somehow manage to sound both cold and achingly warm at the same time. It’s one of those songs that gets played at weddings and funerals alike, the kind that burrows into your chest and refuses to leave.
The singer’s voice floats through the store, and I feel each word like a physical blow.
Jackson’s browsing an end cap, completely oblivious to the way my world is tilting on its axis. He’s comparing two packages, squinting at the fine print like it actually matters, and all I can think about is how desperately I want him to look at me.
The question the singer asks echoes through the fluorescent-lit aisles, and I want to laugh at the cosmic joke of it all.Can he hear me?I’ve been screaming at him without words for months now—every lingering touch, every loaded glance, every time I’ve pulled him close under the guise of this fake relationship. And he hasn’t heard a single thing.
Or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t want to answer.
My throat tightens. The lyrics feel like they were written specifically for this moment in a Home Depot, surrounded by lumber and paint and the wreckage of my carefully constructed walls.
Because it’s true. It’s so fucking true that it hurts.
Only Jackson. Only his stupid crooked smile, his perpetually messy hair, and the way he blushes when I tease him. Only the sound of his laugh and the warmth of his hand in mine.
