Maria dropped a stack of shorts into the bag, unimpressed. “He’s going.”
“I’ll stay home.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
She planted both hands on her hips. “Listen to me very carefully. You met the woman. This isn’t a suggestion. This is Hannah Mills. Mac looked her in the eye and said ‘Yes ma’am’ like she was the president.”
I choked. “What does that have to do with me?”
“She said you’re going too.”
“By name?”
Maria leveled me with a look. “Holly,” she said slowly. “She said—and again, I quote—‘Bring the blonde one too. The sharp-tongued one. That child needs rest.’”
My mouth fell open. “My tongue is not—”
Maria slowly raised her eyebrows.
“Ok,” I muttered. “Maybe a little sharp.”
“Like a machete,” she said.
I threw a sock at her. Missed. Then groaned and flopped back onto the bed.
This was a nightmare. A sun-soaked, mosquito-infested, Jackson-filled nightmare. And the worst part? A tiny, traitorous piece of me wanted to go. Wanted to see him. Wanted to figure out why last night felt like the ground shifting under my feet. I looked up to find Maria stuffing my bright red bikini into my bag and groaned again. She glanced at me, offered a cheery wink, before zipping it shut and heading for the door.
“You’ve got like, fifteen minutes. Hurry up and get ready.”
“This is a cruel and unusual punishment.”
She didn’t answer, just hummed as she shut the door behind her.
In my bathroom a few minutes later, I reapplied my mascara for the third time, then immediately scrubbed it off because I looked like someone trying too hard, then reapplied it againbecause I looked dead, then wiped half of it away because it clumped, then dropped the tube and said several unladylike words that would’ve made my mother faint. Every few seconds I told myself, “You don’t care if Jackson’s there.”
Which was hilarious, because the second I said his name—even internally—my pulse jumped like it was training for a marathon.
By the time I grabbed my duffel bag and stomped downstairs, I’d made peace with the fact that I looked…fine. I was aiming for fine. Fine was safe. Fine didn’t feel anything. Outside, the Mills’ massive truck took up most of our driveway. It was one of those vehicles you could probably tow a barn with. Or an entire town.
Dalton sat in the truck bed eating Doritos and waving them around like he was conducting an orchestra. He shoved them into a cooler that was strapped down before hopping off the tailgate when he saw me. Mac leaned against the hood with the air of a man who had been ready to leave ten years ago. Diego was talking to Maria in low, sweet tones. And Jackson—
He was leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed, jaw shadowed with last night’s bruises. He looked like someone who wished he was anywhere else. But he also smiled a little when he glanced over at Maria and Diego. His eyes flicked over my way when he heard me. They swept over me so quickly I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.
“About time,” he said, pushing off the door.
“Could say the same,” I shot back. “You look like you slept in a ditch.”
Dalton hooted from the truck bed. “He basically did! Their AC broke again last night.”
Jackson flipped him off without breaking eye contact with me. Typical.
Maria tugged on my sleeve. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I muttered.
Mac jerked a thumb toward the truck. “Let’s go. Mom said if we weren’t out of the driveway by nine, she’d ‘light a fire under all our asses.’ I don’t want to find out what that means.”
