He pours himself a cup, tears open a package of creamer (it will have to do), and stirs until the liquid turns from ink to the color of sand.
Before he hit the Italian place for dinner, Jackson visited two gay bars he used to frequent back in the day. Asked the bartenders, the cocktail servers,anyone, if they’d heard of Ethan Swift.
No one had.
After nursing a Tom Collins at each, he left, feeling bummed.
Ethan Swift is an unusual name. It’s not like Tom Johnson or Ryan Jones or something generic. It’s as memorable as the man himself.
Yet Jackson can’t fathom Ethan living this close to the gay bars while he was in Dallas and not sneaking out, visiting them.
Maybe he really is just a closet case, and, with a flush of pride—and okay, maybe it’s not a flush of pride but the warmth from the wine at dinner, coupled with the hot coffee now—he thinks that maybe heisthe only one who coaxed the real Ethanout. The thought of which also dashes him because that would mean theydidindeed have a connection, or at least an attraction as electric as Jackson felt it was.
Sadness and shock spear his chest again, replaying the scene in his mind, the nasty, surprising way Ethan turned on him when he found out about his wife banging Alexander.
Again, a lump forms in Jackson’s throat just thinking about having to tellbothof these betrayals, these secrets to Charleigh. First, that he slept with the enemy—and worst of all, kept it from her—and secondly, and more horrifyingly, that her husband did, too.
The red light on the phone keeps blinking at him from across the room.
Piping-hot mug in hand, he plods over to it.
Presses it.
The front desk answers. “Mr. Ford?”
“Yes.” Jackson sips at his coffee, stares out over Dallas.
“You have a message from a Charleigh Andersen. She said to call right away. That it was urgent.”
Jackson sighs over his coffee.Of course it’s urgent. It’s always urgent.
“Thanks.” He thuds the phone down into the receiver. He’ll deal with Charleigh when he’s ready.
63
Charleigh
The tires on Charleigh’s Jag mew as she screeches into the hospital parking lot.
Trembling, she twists the key, kills the ignition.
During the five-minute drive over here, she kept repeating, over and over in her head,Please let this really be an accident. Please let Blair be okay.
Still dressed in her swimsuit, she managed to at least throw on a cover-up, but she looks like a wreck, feels like one, too.
She shuffles into the ER, and the waiting room is clogged with people, faces she knows; everyone is there for Blair.
In the corner with Chip, Blair’s father, she spies Kathleen, dressed demurely in a white tee and cotton shorts.
Charleigh looks down at her attire and feels naked, ashamed. But she knows that’s not why shame is rushing over her skin right now. It’s because of what all this might mean.
Fuck.
Kathleen looks up; Charleigh catches her eye, motions her over to the only corner that’s not littered with folk.
“I came as soon as I heard. As soon as Nellie got home and told me—”
Tears brim in Kathleen’s eyes. She shakes her head.
