I don’t know why I’m worried because Jackson is telepathically on my wavelength. He leaves the undone bra on me and holds up the huge beach towel as a shield. I take my bra off and he wraps me in the towel. It’s stiff and scratchy, but it has a lovely fresh smell of washing powder and I hug it to myself. He crouches at my feet and undoes my jeans button and then turns away.
‘Take your jeans and knickers off and you can put these on.’ He puts the grey jogging bottoms, sweatshirt, and a maroon T-shirt down next to me. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll have anything that’d fit me?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know.’ The words set me off coughing. My throat is scratchy and dry and my stomach still queasy from all the salt water.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find something. Dry yourself off.’
He goes back into my bedroom in search of clothes, and I struggle to get out of the rest of my clothes. They stick to me as I try to shed them and as I peel my jeans and knickers down, goosebumps appear on my bare skin. Once off, I kick them towards the sink and they skid across the tiled floor, leaving a slug-like trail behind them. I pull my towel even tighter around me to stave off the cold.
Jackson comes back into the room and a smile springs to my face. He’s found my oversized Snoopy nightshirt which reaches my knees, but just skirts his hips, and a pair of purple towelling shorts which don’t leave anything to the imagination.
‘I wouldn’t be going to the pub in them,’ I say, trying to joke.
He does a twirl. ‘Do they suit me?’
‘Definitely. You’ll have women running after you.’ I chuckle, then my whole body shakes.
‘You’re going to end up ill.’ He begins rubbing my armsthrough the towel as I keep it clutched to me. When I’m dry, he holds out the jogging bottoms for me to step into and I wiggle them up.
He motions towards my hands. ‘Can I?’ His eyes are soft and searching my face.
I loosen my hold on the towel and he takes it and then holds out the T-shirt for me to put my arms into. I pull it down my body, the dry fabric catching on my still-damp skin. My persistent shivering has lessened to the odd shudder now. I put the sweatshirt on and sit back on the kitchen chair. Jackson uses the towel to tenderly rub my hair to stop the drips from showering my dry clothes.
When he’s done, he steps back and sits on the chair next to me. The levity has escaped from the room and it’s oozing tension now. Jackson wraps his fingers around the wooden chair edge and we look at each other, neither of us sure of what comes next.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’m trying to make myself breathe, but in actual fact, I think I’m hyperventilating. My body still feels shaky from the sea and my insides are leaden and heavy.
‘We need to talk,’ Jackson says, his voice low as he puts a glass of water on the table next to me.
I stare at the light grey stitching on the cuff of my top. The back of my throat is raw, burning from all the salt. ‘I don’t think I can. I said it all. I can’t go through it all again.’ I bite at my lower lip, willing myself to keep it together.
I flash a glance towards him. His brow is crinkled in concern and he’s leaning towards me. I’m desperate to go back in time. Back to before I messed things up. I want to feel his arms wrap around me and hold me tight, his lips on mine. But that’s all gone and it’s never coming back.
He pushes himself upright, businesslike. ‘What you saidyesterday …’ His voice is quiet, but insistent. ‘I didn’t understand it. About the baby. What did you mean?’
I can’t look at him and instead stare at the vase of still-perky sweet peas sitting on the table in front of me. How has it gone so wrong, so quickly?
‘I’ll regret that party and what happened because of it until the day I die.’ I pull my cuff down over my hand and pick at invisible bobbles on the fabric.
‘But why would you think losing the baby was your fault?’
‘Because it was. I didn’t do it on purpose, but …’ I take a ragged intake of breath.
‘Who told you it was?’ he interrupts gently.
I look over at him. His eyes are dark and serious as he studies me.
‘I don’t know. The doctor?’ I say, almost dismissively. I don’t want to delve back into history.
‘What do you remember from that very last appointment?’
I flinch and shrink back from his question. ‘I can’t …’
‘Just this once. Please,’ he pleads. ‘Try to remember.’
I take in a slow breath. The sooner I get through this, the sooner he will go, and this will be over. I tilt my chin up and look at the lines in my white painted tongue-and-groove ceiling to keep my eyes away from his. If I’m going to do this, I don’t need distractions.
