Now she’s leaning over a mixing bowl with my mom, heads close together.
The teacher’s cadence still lingers in Mom’s voice. “I always add a little shredded cheddar. It makes it creamier.”
“Can’t wait to try this at home,” Jackie says, absorbing every one of my mom’s instructions. The simple, domestic warmth of it melts my insides. This gentler version of her is still there, though she rarely lets people see it.
I keep bracing myself to spot any flicker of discomfort in her expression since we arrived in Maple Hollow. Hesitation or polite distance. But it never comes. She’s been curious and thoughtful with everyone we have met so far.
Like she belongs anywhere she decides to stand.
I’d be inclined to think that maybe, all this time, the discomfort about our vastly different childhoods had lived only in my head, if it weren’t for the clear picture Blanca painted, so vividly that it still lingers.
“I’ll send you home with some wild rice from the pantry,” Mom says and preemptively holds up her palm before Jackie can argue.
“I can order—”
“No arguments.”
I stand in the doorway, struck by how easily we’ve slid into an alternative version of my life, where somebody carved out all the hurt with surgical precision, and she didn’t get on that plane. It’s a glimpse into what we could’ve had. And it feels too good not to pretend a little longer.
“Smells good in here.”
“Jackie’s about done with the chicken and wild rice casserole,” Mom says.
Jackie shakes her head, smiling at her. “Only followed instructions. It’s been ages since I’ve tried something new.”
“Dibs on the leftovers. Heading out tonight. Theo and the guys are hitting Rusty’s. Haven’t seen them in forever.”
Jackie’s shoulders dip, her smile slipping, then she does that thing I hate, especially when she uses it on me. The mechanical tilt of her lips, the false brightness in her voice.
“That’s cool you still keep in touch. I wouldn’t grab a beer with a single person from back then.” She laughs, thin and brittle. “High school was brutal.”
“These are good people. A bit rough around the edges. But you’ll like them.”
Jackie is not aware I’m pretending we’re living in an alternate timeline. So, I spell it out for her.
“Youarecoming with me, right?”
My mother, of course, doesn’t miss Jackie’s cheeks color, and she smiles into her chest, as she fusses over a plate. “Gonna take your dad some sausages before he gets all cranky.” She wipes her hands and sweeps out, leaving us alone.
“I don’t want to ruin your night,” Jackie says tentatively. “I can stay in.”
Her uncertainty catches me off guard. It’s so unlike her. We’ve been dangerously close recently, but I can’t help but step into her space once more.
The apron’s tied in a neat bow at her waist. I reach out and grab the end of the fabric, and her back arches toward me. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” I murmur. “I want you there.” I tug, and the bow unravels, the apron loosening over her curves. “It will be good for you.”
Her lower lip is trapped under her teeth, so still she looks like she’s not breathing.
“Nobody will leak pictures of you to the media,” I go on, sliding a finger under the strap at her neck. I lift it slowly over her head, freeing her hair to fall in glossy waves across her shoulders. “No headlines. Just us. I promise.”
She holds my gaze. With the smallest nod, she gives me that fragile piece of her I’ve been craving. Another inch of her trust.
Driving Dad’s truck along the dirt road through the forest feels like high school all over again. Like when I took Maggie to prom. I don’t remember much from that night, but for sure I wasn’t nearly this nervous.
Jackie sits quietly next to me, drumming her fingers against her thighs, denim stretched over perfect curves. When she walked out the door, I took my time to appreciate her ass in those pants. Now, seeing her agitation, I can barely resist the urge to reach across the cab, thread my fingers through hers, and comfort her.
“Do I look OK?” she asks at last, her voice small, uncertain. “I want to blend in.”
I flick a glance her way, tracing her from head to toe, before settling my focus back on the road. “That’d be impossible.”
