by Dylann Crush
Since I was only two years old at the time, I might not have known all of this, except that Jackson remained a part of our family. He and his mother were at every holiday meal, every family beach vacation and every wedding, funeral and christening that we celebrated. Ellie, Jackson’s mother, was a rare success story. After her stint in rehab, she’d gone back to school, ultimately earning her law degree. Granny had helped her out with Jackson during those busy years, too.
For me, Jackson had been a surrogate big brother and an idol rolled in one. As a kid, he’d taught me how to play baseball and soccer. Later, when he’d gotten his driver’s license, he’d driven my friends and me to the mall, patiently tolerating our endless giggles and whispers. And when I’d begun to realize that boys could be more than just annoying jerks, none of my classmates caught my interest the way that Jackson did.
When I was fourteen and just starting high school, he was seventeen and a senior. He was a football player, popular among the guys and a favorite subject of every girl’s fantasy. When he greeted me in the hallways at school, my friends would moan, clutch my arms and tell me, You’re so lucky!
I didn’t feel very lucky, because Jackson never paid me the kind of attention I wanted. He never treated me like anyone other than little Darcy, and why should he have? I was skinny, with wild, curly bright red hair and freckles everywhere.
After he graduated, Jackson went to the University of Florida on a full football scholarship, and I managed to survive the rest of high school. We didn’t see each much during those years; maybe at holiday meals where we never had more than a couple of moments of conversation, or in passing on the streets of Harper Springs. He didn’t make it to my graduation, though I’d invited him. Granny told me that more than one professional football team had expressed interest in Jackson, and he was hoping to be drafted during his senior year.
I stayed in town after high school and attended the nursing program at a local college. My first year had just ended when Granny called to invite me to drive up to Gainesville with her to attend Jackson’s graduation. I hesitated; he might not want me there, some girl he probably barely remembered. But in the end, I went.
Time had been good to me since I’d seen Jackson last. My skin had gone from freaky pale to creamy white, and my freckles had faded a little. My hair was still curly, but the color had deepened to a gentler shade of red. And I’d gone from skinny to curvy. Still, I didn’t expect Jackson to notice, especially since he would be busy with all the excitement of graduation and his impending football career; he’d been drafted by Seattle earlier this year.
But when Granny and I met up with Jackson and Ellie after the long ceremony, I didn’t miss the brief flare of surprise in his eyes before he reached to hug me. I also knew I didn’t imagine that his touch lingered just a bit longer than necessary.
That summer, Jackson came back to Harper Springs to spend his last real break with his mom before he entered the real world. By eight o’clock in the evening on his first day home, he was at my door, asking if I wanted to go for a walk down to the lake.
I did, in fact, and it was there, as the sun set and frogs sang, that Jackson kissed me for the first time.
For me, that summer was all about Jackson. I had a part-time job in the HR department at the hospital, working for Maybelle Cosgraves, and he was working at the lumberyard, but the minute we were both off for the day, we were together. We drove to the beach. We went to the movies. We even took a quick trip up to Orlando and enjoyed the rides at a theme park.
And we kissed . . . all the time. We made out whenever we were alone. We were mad for each other, crazy to be together, until one afternoon Jackson asked me, his eyes suddenly shy and his voice shaking a little, if maybe he could get us a hotel room at the beach over the weekend. He’d barely had the words out of his mouth before I said yes.
He knew I was a virgin. Had I been unconsciously saving myself for him? Maybe. I didn’t care, though, because I was so happy that he was going to be my first. We left home early on a Saturday morning—I’d told my mom not to wait up, that we were going to stay to watch the sunset and then have dinner afterward—and drove to Clearwater. For about an hour, we pretended to have fun on the sand, swimming in the Gulf.
We were in deep water, our arms and legs wrapped around each other, when I whispered into his ear, “Do you think our room is ready yet?”
As if he’d just been waiting for me to ask, Jackson nodded vigorously. We were dried, dressed and at the front desk of that hotel within fifteen minutes. Once we were in the room, it took us less time than that to be naked, our hands eager to touch everywhere, frantic to finally be together all the way.
The first time had been fast and furious, but after that, Jackson had taken it slow and showed me in every possible way how much he loved me. When we slipped away from the hotel in the rosy light of dawn the next day, I knew the truth: I was crazy in love with Jackson, and I would do anything to be with him.
I confided in Granny one night as we sat on her porch popping green beans.
“I love him, Gran. I know we’re young, and I know everyone’s going to think we’re crazy, but I want to be with Jackson. I don’t want to wait.”
Granny sighed. “Honey, Jackson’s heading to training camp in Seattle pretty soon. And Washington State’s a long way from Florida.”
I glanced down at the beans in my hand. “I know.”
“Long-distance relationships are difficult at the best times, let alone when two people are . . . both at the start of their lives.” She avoided saying young, and I knew it was to avoid an argument.
“You’re right.” I nodded, hiding a smile at my grandmother’s surprise that I’d agreed with her. “But I have a plan. I can move to Washington, get a job there and transfer to a college in the area. I’ll finish my nursing degree, and whenever Jackson isn’t playing football, we’ll be together. It’ll be perfect.”
“Hmm.” Granny’s lips pinched together. “And what does Jackson think about this?”
I squirmed a little. “I haven’t told him yet. But I’m positive he’s going to love it.”
“What about your life, Darcy? Your career? You can’t throw your own dreams away to follow a man, no matter how wonderful he might be and how much you love him.”
“I’m not throwing it away,” I argued. “I’ll finish school there. I’ll work. I can do both. I’m sure I can.”
Granny didn’t answer me, but I saw the troubled expression in her eyes and the way she snapped the rest of the beans with a little extra verve. I knew she meant well; she was only worried about both Jackson and me.
But what did she know about being young and in love?
When I haltingly presented my idea to Jackson, his eyes lit up. He started talking about where we could live—not me, not him, but us. And he showed me all the research he’d done on Seattle, fun things we could do . . . I couldn’t wait. It was as though all of my teenaged dreams had come true.
We hadn’t told my parents yet, but I was nineteen, so I wasn’t worried that they could hold me back. Plus, they knew how I felt about Jackson. I was convinced that they would be happy for us. We had decided that Jackson would go ahead as planned since he would be consumed with training camp for the first month, and then I’d fly out, look for a place for us to live, and have everything ready for him.
About a week before Jackson was scheduled to leave town, I was sitting on our front porch in the swing, waiting for him to come pick me up for our standing date. He was late . . . first fifteen minutes, then thirty, then an hour. I was trying not to freak out. When I called his phone, voicemail answered right away. I dithered about what to do for another half-hour, and then I called his mother.
“Oh, Darcy.” She sounded a little guarded. “Jackson decided to go ahead and fly out to Washington early. He talked to one of the coaches this morning, and they said it would be a good idea. I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he lands.”
But he didn’t. A day lat
er, I received a short text that told me he’d had second thoughts about me moving out there and that we needed some space and time. He’d see me when he came back to Florida at Christmas, probably, and we could talk.
To say my heart was broken wouldn’t even begin to touch the pain I endured. I was devastated. I hid in my room for two days, and when I came out, I asked my parents never to mention his name again.
I threw myself into school, finishing my nursing degree early and going right on to get my BS in nursing. I worked at St. Agnes at the same time that I returned to school to get my masters so that I could be a nurse practitioner. And all of that time, I never saw Jackson. I worked every holiday to avoid running into him at a family meal. I changed my number so he couldn’t call or text, and I forbade my family under pain of death not to share the info with him.
Of course, it was impossible to pretend Jackson had ceased to exist. One hears things. I was aware that he’d played for Seattle for seven years and that he was traded to Tampa this past spring.
Does it make my life a little more difficult, knowing that Jackson is back in our home state? No, because I refuse to allow myself to think about it—or him. I have my own life, and if I’m not necessarily happy all the time, I’m content.
But that was before Jackson Carmichael strolled into this committee meeting, and with one glance my way, shattered all of my carefully constructed defenses.
3
I’m only vaguely aware of the discussions going on around me during the first half of the meeting. Oh, I nod and smile and say yes or no as I should. I’m taking notes, jotting down shit that I don’t think means anything. I’m fairly certain there won’t be a test, after all.
But all that’s happening with one part of my brain. Another part is busy cataloging everything about the man sitting across the table from me, noting his every move.
Eyes? Check. The same beautiful bright blue that would darken to nearly navy when he was aroused.
Lips? Check. The same sensual shape that used to draw cries of pleasure from me on the regular.
Jaw? Check. The same chiseled feature, only today it bears a fine, unmistakable and almost unbearably sexy scruff.
Chest? Check, and check, and check. It’s broader. More defined. Even through the golf shirt he wears, I can see his pecs, and fuck if I don’t want to use my tongue to trace them. I’m imagining doing just that when the chairperson clears her throat.
“Now, we need someone to head up the music committee.” Mrs. Lockhart’s manicured finger taps the table. “Let’s see. Who hasn’t . . . oh, Ms. Ryan.”
“Yes, what? I mean, yes. I can do it.” I pause, coughing a little. “I mean, sure, I’m happy to help with . . . ah, the—”
“The music,” Jackson finishes for me, and damn the man to hell, he has the audacity to wink at me as he says it! As if we’re in this together or some nonsense like that. “And you know, Mrs. Lockhart, I’ll join Darcy on that committee, if you don’t mind. It sounds like it would be a good match for my talents.”
Mrs. Lockhart glances at him with her brows drawn together, and then she nods, smiling. “Oh, yes, the famous rhythm of football players—you’re probably an excellent dancer, aren’t you? What with you being so . . .” She rolls one hand. “Physical. So . . .” She seems to have lost the knack for words.
I want to tell Jackson that no, he cannot be on the music committee. Or even better, I want to tell Mrs. Lockhart that I won’t be on the music committee. But before I can say anything, she’s announcing that we’ve made tremendous headway today, and isn’t that lucky . . . and the meeting is adjourned! She’ll see us in August!
Everyone stands up and begins gathering their papers and shit. I realize that I’m trapped. I need to get out of this room fast before Jackson can corner me. I hope that someone will talk to him, holding him up, and thank the Lord and the Blessed Virgin, the TV station guy does just that. I’m so relieved that I actually smile at Jackson—I hope he reads my triumph and a little bit of nanny-nanny-boo-boo in that expression—as I sweep out of the room.
Okay, I don’t so much sweep as I scamper as fast as my sandal-clad feet will carry me. But the point is, I get the hell out of Dodge, and fast. I’m waiting for the elevator, tapping my toe impatiently, when I hear his voice in the hall. Damn. He and television dude are slowing walking this way, and Jackson glances over the other man’s head, searching me out.
Come on, elevator, I silently beg. As if it is just awaiting my plea, the doors slide open. But of course, the car is filled with other people. And they’re slow getting out. Jackson’s getting closer. Dammit, dammit, shit and fuck. I’m mentally reciting swear words in my head as the last person steps from the elevator. Two others stand with me, and they both move to get in first. I follow close on their heels, and for a glorious moment, I think I’ve gotten away.
Then I hear the dreaded words. “Hold the elevator, please!”
The woman standing to my left hears Jackson, and to my dismay, she jabs the Door Open button.
“You know, they could just catch the next one,” I murmur, but she shoots me a glare that questions my upbringing and leans harder on that stupid button.
“Thanks.” Jackson and the other man nod to the button-pusher as they step in. I maneuver my way to the back corner. Maybe I can just stay on here and ride up and down until I’m sure Jackson has left the hotel.
No such luck. Jackson must be hip to my jive because he also moves to the back wall and turns to face me.
“Darcy, can I have a moment before you take off? We should probably talk about the music and decide the direction we want to take.”
I grit my teeth and nod.
When the elevator stops, everyone gets out. Jackson and I are the last two, and I guess he’s afraid I’m going to make a run for it because he curves his fingers around my upper arm. “Why don’t we just come over here?”
I let him guide me, mostly because if I don’t, it’ll make a scene. We end up in a small alcove, where Jackson turns my back to the wall and rests one arm over my head, looming over me.
“Darcy.” His eyes search my face. “God, I can’t believe it’s really you.”
“It is really me.” I cross my arms and stare at a point on his shoulder, which seems much safer than looking at his face or his chest. “What do you need?”
“What do I need? Well, for starters, I’d love to know why you’ve been avoiding me.”
I snort and roll my arms. “Avoiding you? Get over yourself, Jackson. I’m not avoiding you.”
“Is that why you’ve missed almost every Christmas dinner at Granny’s in the last seven years, and in fact, the only one you didn’t miss was the one when Seattle had the Christmas Day game, and I couldn’t be home?”
I lift one shoulder. “Coincidence, I guess. I’m a nurse practitioner, Jackson. We work all the holidays. People don’t stop getting sick just because it’s Christmas.”
“You’re ridiculous.” His voice is tight.
“Oh, I’m ridiculous?” My words might be a little louder and a little shriller than I planned. “God almighty, Jackson. I don’t even know where to begin with you. And I don’t have the time or energy to do it today. But maybe you should give some thought to why it’s not me who owes you an explanation. It’s exactly the opposite.”
He swallows. I can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. When he speaks again, his voice is huskier. “Darcy, have lunch with me. C’mon . . . you’ve got to admit this is a crazy coincidence, the two of us being on this committee. Please. There’s a little restaurant looking right out over the beach. We can talk.”
I waver for a moment. He sounds so honest, so earnest, and yet . . . I can’t forget what he did to me. I can’t forget how he threw away my love, abandoned me and never even explained why.
So instead of answering, I duck under his arm and step away. “No, Jackson. I can’t. I’m tired—I just worked an overnight shift—and I need to go home.” I hesitate just a moment more and add,
“I’ll be in touch about the music for the ball.”
“Will you?” he questions, his skepticism clear.
I glare up at him. “Yes, in fact, I will. Because I keep my promises.”
With that, I turn and leave.
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Hey. Are you around?
CapGuard90: Yeah, I’m here. How’s it going?
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Good.
SteveNPeggy4Eva: No, actually, I take that back. Not good. I had a crappy morning.
CapGuard90: I’m sorry. Are you okay? Anything I can do?
SteveNPeggy4Eva: I’m okay, in that I’m not sick or in physical pain. Thanks for asking. But I had to spend time with someone who made me unhappy, and it wasn’t fun.
CapGuard90: Yeah, those kinds of things suck the life out of me. Was this work-related?
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Sort of. It was work adjacent, which means luckily it’s not something or someone I need to deal with often. I should just let it go. This is me, shaking it off. (((((shake))))) All right. How about you? How’s your day been so far? Better than mine, I hope.
CapGuard90: Mine has been . . . surprising. And maybe a little depressing. But I’m okay, too. Better now that I’m talking with you.
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Funny, I feel the same way about you . . . can I ask you something?
CapGuard90: Shoot.
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Do you think giving someone the power to hurt you is ever a good idea?
CapGuard90: We’re talking about emotional pain here, right? This isn’t a dom-sub deal?
SteveNPeggy4Eva: Uh, no! No, I definitely mean emotional. Like . . . giving another person the power to break your heart.
