And this afternoon it felt like it would take at least that long for Jackson to land on the perfect shirt.
Sigh.
He can’t believe Charleigh roped him into this, but he’s elated to be going. And nervous. And excited. And delirious.
Last night, over margaritas by her pool, she trotted out the ask.
“Darling, you don’t have plans tomorrow, do you?”
Jackson didn’t, but hehadplanned on calling Ethan. Seeing if he could sneak out there again. But that was for later, in the evening.
“Umm, no, why? What are you—”
Charleigh licked the rim of her salt-crusted glass, swirled the drink around before taking a generous sip. “Well, this is gonna sound ridiculous, but I’m going to this workshop thingy out at the Swifts tomorrow—”
The blood drained from Jackson’s face. He raised his own glass to his mouth, not to drink more, but to hide his expression. “But…you hate them?”
“Obviously. But apparently they’ve taken in this troubled teen, and…wait for it…” she said, uncrossing her long bronzed legs, and leaning in, “Nellie’s got a crush on him. Like big time.”
Jackson gulped at his margarita. “So, what does that have to do withyou?”
She batted him on the arm. “Duh.Everything. And you know this.”
“And what’s this workshop?”
Charleigh rolled her eyes so dramatically that Jackson thought they might spring from her head. “It’s some freaky bullshit that Abigail’s cooked up. And all my otherfriendsare going.” Her voice was slurry now. “About herlovepotions, Kegel exercises—”
“Ewww, hold it right there—” Jackson laughed.
“And you get a sack lunch for the price of admission. Fuck me. But it’s a good excuse to go out there and investigate. Get eyes on this boy. See what we’re dealing with.”
And not for the first time, gratitude washed over Jackson for the fact that he has no kids. What an absolute nightmare, it seemed. And his sister’s children are no different. Well, they aren’tNellie, but theyarespoiled rotten, running roughshod over Katelyn and her husband, Blake.
Blake deserves it, though. Ever since the AIDS crisis exploded, Blake treats Jackson as if he’s contaminated, eyeing him when the kids crawl in his lap begging for shoulder rides. Jackson sees them less and less because of this. Now, when he goes to Dallas, he’ll make some excuse about how he’s short on time and can’t swing by the house, begging Katelyn to bring herself and the kids to a restaurant instead.
Charleigh lifted the pitcher, refilled their glasses. “So? You in? Please,pleaseGod damn it, don’t make me go out there all alone!” Her crystal-blue eyes were pleading, desperate.
“But I’m a dude, lest you forgot. Are you sure I’m welcome at this Kegel bash?”
Jackson was horrified about what Ethan would think, him tagging along on this. But he was also antsy to lay eyes on himagain. He hadn’t called since their rendezvous last Sunday, and Jackson was getting restless.
Fuck it.
“Yes, I’m in. But if it’s gets weird, you have to promise me we’ll bail.”
“Deal!” Charleigh crashed her glass into Jackson’s, dumped the rest of her ’rita down her throat.
He settles on a faded graphic tee, a royal-blue shirt he picked up at Amoeba Records in San Francisco years ago. It hugs his chest nicely and shows off his triceps, which he flexes in the mirror, promising to make them even more toned in the coming weeks. Ever since Sunday, he’s been pumping iron every day, running laps around his block, punishing himself with push-ups.
He untwists his bottle of Obsession, then dabs the tiniest amount on his neck.
He jumps when he hears Charleigh in his drive, her door clapping shut.
What is he doing, trying to get found out by her? Will it be awkward with Ethan? And also obvious?
As they turn off the blacktop into the Swifts’ in Charleigh’s Jag, Jackson stifles the urge to tell her to slow down when they approach the cattle guard. She’s been here already, of course, and must know to decelerate; also, he cannot let on thathe’sbeen here.
His hands tremble in his lap; his breath spasms in his throat.
