The kitchen hadn’t changed since the eighties—yellow linoleum that had seen better decades, oak cabinets Dad had installed himself, and a small window over the sink that looked out onto her prized tomato garden.
Jackson went straight to the sink, rolling his sleeves higher before turning on the tap. Water cascaded over his hands, and watching became an exercise in not making needy sounds. A drop of water clung to his wrist before sliding down his hand, disappearing into the sink.
“Your mom’s got good water pressure.” Jackson reached for the dish towel hanging on the stove handle.
“She had the well pump replaced last year.” I leaned against the counter, turning away from him to pull myself back under control.
Jackson's stomach emitted a low, rumbling growl that echoed through the quiet kitchen. His cheeks flushed slightly. “Time to feed the beast.”
I was going to stuff earplugs in my ears if he kept making everything sound dirty.
“Lucky for you, my mom keeps this place stocked like a doomsday bunker.” Moving toward the refrigerator felt like emerging from underwater. Suddenly I could breathe and think again. “Sandwiches okay?”
“Perfect.” He straddled a chair, arms resting on the back, and watched me like sandwich making was riveting.
Pulling ingredients from the fridge gave me something to focus on besides him. Turkey, cheese, the good mustard my mom splurged on because Dad had loved it. Normal things. Safe things.
My hands trembled as I laid out slices of bread on the cutting board. His undivided attention was playing havoc with my nerves.
“You okay?” His voice came from much closer than expected.
Startled, I looked up to find him standing barely two feet away, those green eyes studying me. This close, I could see the small scar above his left eyebrow. The skin was roughly healed, probably from some childhood mishap that left him looking slightly roguish. Flecks of gold sparked in the green of his eyes like sunlight on water.
“Fine,” I managed, though my voice cracked embarrassingly on the word. “Just hungry.”
Jackson didn’t look convinced, but took a step back, as if reading my need for space. “Need help?”
“I think I can handle sandwich construction without supervision.”
I pointed the mustard bottle at him. “It’s easier than sink homicide.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Never doubt a man with capable hands.”
I was starting to think the innuendos were on purpose.
We ate at the small kitchen table, the same one where I’d done homework and played board games.
It was also the table where Matt and Jackson had taught me how to play cards on late summer nights, where we had laid out all our money to figure out if we had enough for movie tickets and a large pizza. Where Jackson had sat, angry and hurt, as my dad explained that divorce didn’t mean his parents loved him any less.
I’d been listening just outside the entrance to the kitchen, to the wisdom my dad had imparted, making Jackson’s world feel a little more stable.
“This is good, Ollie,” he said before taking another bite.
“Thanks.” I thought of the moment I’d fallen in love with him. We were still in high school, Jackson’s senior to my junior, and I was broken down on the side of the road, at night in the pouring rain. I’d been afraid, stuck on some back road, and had called my brother for help.
But it was Jackson who’d shown up instead, becoming soaked to the bone while working on my engine without a single complaint. Then he’d followed me the entire way home just to ensure I’d made it safely.
Never once had Matt or Jackson made me feel like a third wheel. They always included me, except when females were involved. Matt would just say “chicks, Ollie” and I would hang out with my dad, trying not to fall apart. My dad had known, had seen the way I looked at Jackson when I thought no one was watching. He would give me a hug and tell me one day I would find a man who would look at me the same way.
Fuck, I missed my dad.
“Been thinking I need a vacation,” Jackson murmured, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “Haven’t taken time off since before Halloween.”
For one wild, impulsive moment, I almost opened my mouth to invite him to go with me to the resort. Almost. But I kept the invitation trapped behind my lips, like so many other secrets dying to spill out.
“Where would you go?” I asked instead, curious of his answer. I’d known him seven years, yet I felt like I didn’t know him at all.
Jackson shrugged. “Somewhere warm. Beach, maybe. Somewhere I can forget about engine problems for a week.” He chuckled. “I’d even settle for a few days.”
