“The contacts. Trying something new.” Jackson makes air quotes around the last three words. “Is this about impressing a certain hockey captain who carried you across campus like a bride on her wedding night?”
“He carried me like a sack of potatoes, not a bride. And no. This has nothing to do with Oliver.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It doesn’t.”
“So the fact that Oliver’s going to see you tomorrow without glasses for the first time ever has zero influence on this decision?”
“Zero.”
“And the fact that you’ll be seeing him every day after that for whatever summer punishment they cooked up played no part in you booking this appointment at eight a.m.?”
“The appointment was the earliest available slot. That’s scheduling, not scheming.”
Jackson nods slowly, the way a detective nods when a suspect’s alibi has more holes than Swiss cheese. “Riiiight. Scheduling. And if those hazel eyes of yours happen to make his jaw drop, that would be a purely accidental byproduct of your practical decision.”
“You’re reading into this.”
“I’m readingyou.” Jackson flashes me an infuriatingly crooked grin that makes it impossible to stay annoyed at him. “And buddy, you’re an open book.”
“I am not an open book. I am a locked archive with restricted access.”
“You’re a locked archive whose cheeks are turning pink.”
I press my hands against my face. They are, in fact, warm.Damn it.
The fish tank hums beside us. A clownfish darts behind the miniature castle, and the angelfish resumes its kamikaze runs against the glass. On television, the muted home-renovation host gestures enthusiastically at a backsplash.
“For the record,” I say into my palms, “this is about me not clinging to the same patterns I’ve had since childhood because my father drilled routine into me until I wanted to cry. I lost my glasses, and instead of replacing them with the exact same pair, I’m choosing something different. Some people would call that growth.”
Jackson is quiet for a moment. When I lower my hands, he’s watching me with an expression stripped of teasing, his brown eyes steady and kind.
“Hey,” he says. “I think that’s great. Seriously. Growth looks good on you.”
“Thank you.”
“And if it also happens to make Oliver’s brain short-circuit, well.” He shrugs, the picture of innocence. “That’s just a bonus.”
“Jackson.”
“Shutting up.”
He doesn’t shut up. He never shuts up. But he does lean his shoulder against mine in that solid, grounding way of his. And I let him, because Jackson Monroe is the only person on this planet who can tease me relentlessly and make me feel safe at the same time.
The nurse reappears in the doorway. “Ryan Abrams?”
I stand, smoothing my khakis, adjusting my button-down collar. Jackson gives me a thumbs-up from his chair, his long legs still sprawled across the aisle.
“Go get ’em, four-eyes,” he whispers. “Well. No-eyes. You know what I mean.”
Deep down, in the part of myself that I keep locked behind reinforced steel and multiple deadbolts, I admit what I will never say aloud.
It might have a little something to do with Oliver.
13
OLIVER
