Page 38 of What If It Was Us
I shook my head, crossing my hands on the counter. My finger grazed against his forearm and I inched my hand away. “If you can’t drink, I’m not drinking.”
He smiled at me before grabbing a glass and filling it with water. “Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“I don’t want to. Seriously,” I added.Unlike your future wife, apparently.He slid the glass across the bar to me while he poured his own.
“So, what’s your family doing? Didn’t you guys always get together for the Fourth?”
He walked around the bar to sit next to me, his knee bumping against mine in the process. “Everyone usually flies in for the holiday,but they were just out here for the engagement party, so we decided to skip a family party this year. We’re all going to FaceTime later.”
I only got that one quick hug from Julie, and never even got to see Marie when she was here since they flew back the same day I ran into Jackson and Julie at the restaurant. I was so close to being with all of them again.
“You guys seem closer now?” I questioned.
He nodded. “Yeah, Julie and I are best buddies, even with her living farther away. Sam and I are the same as always—I’m really close with his kids, though.” He took a sip of his water, then wiped his mouth. “Marie and I are better, too, now that I’m sober.”
I traced my finger up and down the condensation on his glass, remembering the one and only time I heard Marie yell at Jackson.
“What about your mom?” Jackson asked.
I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Denise? The only time she managed to get a hold of me was to tell me the house had been left to me. She never gave a shit about me.”
Jackson’s fists were clenching and unclenching. He was staring straight ahead at the bottles of wine, and I wondered if he was thinking about a drink. About how good it would feel to taste a drop, let the fuzziness overcome his body, and forget about everything. If he could fight the feeling, then so could I.
We changed the subject, and he gave me his phone to choose music to play softly over the speakers. He left to go to the ice cream shop to get something to hold us over through the parade.
We were drinking peanut butter banana smoothies and sitting on the floor in the lobby, cross-legged against the front windows like little kids. Every time someone threw candy into the street, Jackson sprinted out to grab some and hand it to the kids who were sitting on the curb. It was adorable, and I wanted to hate it.
When the parade ended, we moved to the dining room, still seated on the floor with our backs up against the wall like we did in high school. Except this time, we weren’t passing a bottle back and forth.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” Jackson asked.
I pulled my knees up to rest under my chin. “Nah. I haven’t dated in a while. I haven’t had the best of luck.”
“No?” he questioned.
I ran my hands up and down my legs. “I mean, I’ve been a live-in nanny for ten years. It’s kinda hard to meet people unless I use a dating app. Every time I try dating, the guy has some underlying issue. Apparently, I can only attract addicts. You’d think I’d know how to stay away from them after being surrounded by them growing up.” I said it jokingly, but as soon as it came out, I wished I could take it back. I didn’t mean to make a jab at him specifically. My eyes met his apologetically.
“I’m sorry,” Jackson said.
I raised an eyebrow. Was he sorry I had a bad experience with dating? Or was he sorry he had been one of the previous addicts in my life?
I knocked my elbow into his. “I’m proud of you, ya know,” I told him sincerely.
He looked away, staring at the bottles of wine on the wall. So many nights we had stolen from that bar and gotten drunk together.
“Thanks, Addie.” He didn’t sound like he believed me, and it tugged something in my heart.
“I’m serious, Jackson. I know how hard it is to get sober, and it’s even harder tostaysober. I mean, look at Peter. He always claimed he wouldn’t be like his dad. Then ended up exactly like him.”
Jackson rubbed a hand over his mouth, letting out a deep, shaky breath. This was probably the nicest I had been to him in the time we’dspent together so far. And it felt . . .good. Jackson wasn’t a bad guy. He never really was, he just hadn’t known how to handle his problems.
“What did Peter do to you that night?” Jackson whispered the question, like he was scared to know the answer. I looked down at my arms. I couldn’t believe he’d brought it up—that we were going to talk about that night. I wasn’t ready.
When I didn’t answer, he grabbed my right arm, extending it so he could see the inside of my right bicep.
“Is this from him?” he managed to ask.
It wasn’t a huge scar; maybe two inches long, and it was the only mark Peter had ever left on me. I pulled my arm back, tucking it between my thighs. “It really wasn’t that bad.”
