The bathroom door bangs open, and Jackson emerges naked with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and shampoo still visible in his hair. “Wha? Wha’s wrong? Is there a fire? Are we dying?”
“Oliver wants me to wear a tux.”
Jackson stares at me. Blinks. Removes the toothbrush from his mouth. “That’s why you screamed like you were being murdered?”
“He’s taking me somewhere special for our first official date! And I need to wear a tux!” I thrust my phonetoward him while dutifully ignoring the morning wood situation going on downstairs. “Jackson, I haven’t worn one since?—”
The words die in my throat. Since Mom’s funeral.
Jackson’s expression shifts immediately, the teasing evaporating into something softer. He crosses the room, shampoo dripping onto his shoulders, and takes my phone gently from my trembling hands.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. We’ve got time. We’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t know if I can?—”
“You can.” His voice is firm but kind. “And I’m going to help you. Just let me rinse this shampoo out and take care of my boner, and then we’ll find you a tux that’ll give your boyfriend a boner.”
Jackson disappears back into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start up again. I glance down at my phone, at Oliver’s message still glowing on the screen, and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
A tux. Our first date.
We founda tux at the mall, and it fits perfectly.
This is either a miracle or a curse, depending on how you look at it. The black fabric hangs correctly on my frame, the pants break at exactly the right point above my shoes, and the jacket buttons without strain.
I stand in front of the mirror on the back of our closet door, staring at my reflection as if it belongs to a stranger. The last time I wore a suit, I was sitting in the front pew of a church, trying not to cry while a priest said words I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears.
“Okay, looking sharp!” Jackson appears behind me, dressed in casual clothes. The contrast between us is almost comical. “VeryJames Bond. Very leading man. Very—” He pauses, tilting his head. “Why isn’t your tie tied?”
I look down at the strip of black silk hanging loose around my collar. My hands, I realize, are shaking.
“I can’t,” I admit quietly. “I don’t—I never learned how.”
“You never learned to tie a tie?” Jackson moves closer, studying the situation. “How is that possible? You’re the most put-together person I know.”
“Clip-ons,” I confess. “Mom got them for me when I was young, and I never stopped. The only time I wore a real tie was?—”
The funeral.
Jackson’s face softens with understanding. “Who tied it for you then?”
“My grandmother.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw by memory. “She flew in from Ohio for the service. She stood in the hotel bathroom, tying my tie while I stood there. I couldn’t even lift my arms. She did everything.”
I can still remember Grandma’s weathered hands, steady despite her grief, working the silk into a perfect Windsor knot. The smell of her lavender perfume mixed with the hotel soap. The way she cupped my face afterward and said, “Your mother would be so proud of you, sweetheart.”
She passed two years later. Heart attack in her sleep. I didn’t even own a suit that fit anymore by then.
“Hey.” Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Let me.”
I gape at him, this ridiculous, wonderful person who somehow became my best friend. “You know how to tie a tie?”
“My dad taught me when I was twelve. Said every man should know.” Jackson moves to stand in front of me, taking the ends of the silk in his hands. “Hold still. And don’t cry, because if you cry, I’m going to cry, and then we’ll both look like disasters when Oliver gets here.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out strangled.
Jackson’s fingers work with surprising dexterity, looping, folding, and pulling the fabric into shape. He’s close enough that Ican smell his shampoo—something coconut-scented that Drew apparently loves—and see the concentration furrowing his brow.
“There,” he says finally, giving the knot a final adjustment. “Perfect.”
