The Reality of Everything (Flight & Glory)

by Rebecca Yarros

  Jackson.

  “Please tell me you’re okay,” he begged, his chin resting on the top of my head.

  “I’m…f-f-f,” I stammered, my knees starting to shake. What the hell was wrong with me?

  He pulled back, wincing at something he saw on my face and then scanning down my body. “Are you injured?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tell me if anything else hurts.”

  Anything else?

  His hands swept down my arms, then my ribs just under my breasts, over my belly, and then framed my hips, his eyes locking with mine every few seconds to see if I’d flinch.

  Then he did the same from midthigh to my ankles. “No pain?”

  I shook my head. “I’m f-f-fine,” I managed to get out.

  He rose, standing so my eyes were level with his chest. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding,” he said softly, his thumb brushing my cheek and coming away red.

  Ah, so that was the wetness.

  “I’m okay. I can wash up.” At least my mouth was working again. I turned to head toward my steps, but my knees went all wobbly.

  “Yeah, no.” Jackson lifted me, putting one arm behind my back and the other behind my knees. “I’ve got you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I asked as my hand trembled. Was this an anxiety attack? They’d never presented like this before.

  “Adrenaline rush. It has nowhere to go,” he explained as he carried me across my yard, passing the small gathering of construction crewmembers. “It’ll pass in a few minutes, maybe a little longer.”

  “I can clean my face,” I protested as he reached his driveway.

  “Morgan, you just saved my daughter’s life. Could you please just let me help you?” he snapped.

  I studied his face as he climbed his stairs. His jaw flexed, his lips pressed into a line, and in his eyes, there was a wildness—fear. Of course he’d been afraid. He’d nearly lost Finley.

  All because I’d taken her to the house when Steve told me they’d finished for the day. I’d nearly gotten Fin killed.

  The inside of his home wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Not that I even knew what to expect from Jackson. The decorations were simple, clean, a blend of coastal blues and rich wood tones with white accents. The walls were decorated with framed artwork I assumed was made by Finley.

  He carried me through the living room and into the kitchen, setting me carefully on the granite counter near the sink.

  I yelped as the icy stone came into contact with my sun-warmed skin.

  “What hurts?” he asked immediately, scanning me like he could see through my clothes and skin.

  “Nothing. Granite’s cold,” I muttered, bracing my hands on the edge of the counter.

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry about that. Wait here.”

  He disappeared, and I studied his kitchen. It was U-shaped, the opening facing the living room. A long slab of granite to the left served as a breakfast bar. A small dining set filled the space to the sliding glass door, and off to the side, a play nook was happily cluttered with toys in contrast to the immaculately clean kitchen.

  Does he keep his bedroom this clean, too?

  I blinked that thought right out of my head. God, was this trembling going to stop anytime soon?

  He returned, set a first-aid kit on the counter, then wrapped a soft quilt around my shoulders, his arms encircling me for the barest of moments. “That should help,” he said softly.

  “Thank you.” I tucked the blanket closer.

  “That’s my line.” He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, then gently tilted my head so he could examine my cheek.

  “Finley’s really okay, right?”

  “She’s fine. You’re both fine.” That last part was nearly a whisper.

  My heart galloped as the adrenaline ran its course, and the sight of his lips so close to mine wasn’t helping slow its cadence. “Your house is beautiful,” I blurted, trying to think about anything other than what had just happened…or the warmth of his fingers. Those were dangerous subjects.

  “Thanks. It works for us,” he said in that way guys had of dismissing compliments and giving me a half smile. He was good under pressure.

  I tried to pull myself together while he dampened a washcloth at the kitchen sink, but he was back faster than I could manage the herculean task.

  “You got blasted with sand and a few rocks, if your cuts are anything to gauge by. I want to clean it out.” He paused. “Unless you’d rather we go to the clinic?”

  “No. Here is good.” I shifted my legs so he could get close enough to do it.

  He stepped between my thighs, his hips resting against the insides of my bare knees. Mercy. The flush of heat that swept over my body had nothing to do with the warmth of the blanket and everything to do with his proximity. It had to be the adrenaline, right? One of those you-almost-died coping mechanisms?

  It’s because he’s gorgeous as sin, you moron.

  “This one looks the worst, but it’s not too deep,” he murmured, cradling the uninjured side of my face with warm, gentle fingers while assessing the other.

  “Okay.” I mentally listed every reason I wasn’t allowed to be attracted to this man and prayed my body got with the program.

  One, I was pretty sure he was in love with his ex and apparently something had gone down with them last night.

  Two, he lived next door, which meant when whatever I wasn’t going to allow happen anyway eventually didn’t work out, I’d be stuck seeing him every freaking day.

  Three…

  I hissed as the washcloth brushed over an abrasion along my cheekbone.

  “Sorry.” He dabbed carefully at the skin.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on his and failing.

  Three, his eyes were too blue. Ocean blue. Flawlessly freaking blue. That was a con because…well, because they were too distracting. Who the hell wanted to be constantly distracted like that? I’d never get anything done.

  Four, I was in the middle of some pretty intensive therapy and didn’t have anything to offer. My emotional tank was on empty, and that wasn’t fair to him.

  Five—

  “This might hurt.”

  Exactly. He’d said it perfectly. I’d already swallowed all the pain I could take when it came to relationships.

  “I know.” But it still didn’t stop me from staring at his mouth.

  He applied antiseptic, taking extra care with a couple of the cuts, and I welcomed the sting, using it to keep me grounded.

  “I don’t think you need stitches.”

  “That’s good.” I looked down at my hands. At least they’d quit shaking. How the hell had I let that happen? I should have known better than to take Finley so close to the construction.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

  My eyes jerked to his.

  “Thank me? I almost got her killed.”

  His forehead puckered as he braced his hands on either side of me and leaned forward.

  My breath caught.

  “Morgan, that was not your fault. Steve said they were done for the day. You had no way of knowing that guy would fall. It was an accident, plain and simple.”

  “It was so close,” I whispered. “She…it was so close.” Just the idea of losing—don’t go there.

  He rested his forehead on mine and overwhelmed my senses. Sight, scent, touch, sound…it was all Jackson. “It was too close. But you saved her. You got her out of the way and shielded her with your own body.”

  “Anyone would have done it.” My heart rate picked up again.

  His head lifted as he cradled my face. “No, a lot of people would have dived the other way—to safety. You deliberately put yourself between Finley and a hundred pounds of sharp, pointy bron
ze. That’s extraordinary.” His gaze dropped to my lips. “You’re extraordinary.”

  Not for you. NOT FOR YOU. My sense of self-preservation screamed at me to run the other way, but a craving for him raced through my veins, flipping on switches that had lain dormant for almost two years. All that adrenaline had been replaced with something far more dangerous: need.

  He lowered his head—

  The door burst open, and Jackson retreated.

  Before I could process what had almost happened, Sam stood at the edge of the kitchen, her eyes wide.

  “I can’t even leave you alone for two weeks!” she exclaimed before crossing the floor and hauling me into a hug. “Are you okay? Steve and Finley told me what happened. They’re both worried sick down there.” She grabbed ahold of my shoulders and pushed back far enough to see for herself. “Ouch.”

  “It’s just a scrape, and you’re two days early!” I’d never been so happy to see her in my entire life.

  “Is that a complaint?” She arched a brow.

  “Never.”

  “Good, because I’d hate to see what would have happened in another two days,” she teased with a shaky smile before yanking me into another hug.

  “Me, too,” I whispered, locking eyes with Jackson over her shoulder.

  Yeah, I saw it all too clearly—how easy it would be to step into something I wasn’t ready for, assuming I wasn’t misreading his signals. How incredible it would feel to kiss him, to have those sculpted arms around me for more than just a few minutes.

  How impossible it would be to survive when my ruined heart was inevitably broken again.

  Sam had shown up just in time.

  …

  “That sounds a little harsh,” Sam said slowly to Dr. Circe as she sat back in the armchair next to mine four days later.

  “It’s not about being harsh,” Dr. Circe countered softly. “It’s about both Morgan and myself being aware of how Will’s death has changed her. She’s chosen you as her support person through this process, and I know she has immense trust in you. You won’t be harsh.”

  Sam’s gaze skittered my way.

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged.

  Sam swallowed and looked back at Dr. Circe. “Before it happened, Morgan was fearless. She commanded every room she walked into and never hesitated to let anyone know what she was thinking. She had a smile that would light up half the state, and she…got out more, I guess you could say.”

  She glanced my way, and I nodded my support.

  “She was something of a social butterfly, and she was happy. Not all the time, of course—no one’s happy all the time. She and Will got into a few legendary fights, and her temper was quick, but whatever emotions Morgan felt were there for the world to see. She was always brave like that.” She turned toward me. “I always envied that about you. You were never scared to speak up and fight for what you wanted. You never ran away from the hard things like I did.”

  It took all the energy I could muster to hold her gaze while trying to remember the girl she described.

  “And now?” Dr. Circe prompted.

  “You’re quiet,” Sam said to me, as if it was just the two of us and we weren’t in my third session of therapy for complicated grief. “You hide your emotions, and I don’t know if it’s because you’re incredibly strong or scared that the people who love you can’t handle what’s inside.”

  I focused on my joined hands that rested in my lap.

  “She’s avoiding the rest of our friends, which is something she never would have done before Will died, and I wish she didn’t feel like she had to. She’s drawn so far into herself that she’s basically a few cats shy of a cliché, and she won’t open herself up to even the slightest possibility that she might be happy again someday.”

  Because it’s not possible. I kept the thought to myself.

  “But mostly, she’s sad. So damned sad. That light she’s always had inside is still there. I see it flicker from time to time, but it’s almost like she has it buried, and I just want to help her get it back.” She reached over and took my hand.

  “She will,” Dr. Circe promised before she changed the subject, detailing what the remaining weeks of therapy would bring. I hadn’t quite made peace with the fact that I was going to have to talk about Will’s death in depth next week, but I knew I had to try. I had to beat against the instinct to withdraw and find whatever spark of light in me still lived on.

  We were just about ready to stop for the day when Sam held up her finger.

  “One thing,” she said to Dr. Circe and then shifted to face me. “I need you to know that you’re still you. The things that make you amazing haven’t changed, Morgan. You’re still incredibly brave, and if you don’t feel it, just look at what you’re doing now. This takes incredible courage. Look at how you saved Finley the other day. You’re still the friend who puts others first—”

  “Like making you stay here for the next thirteen weeks while I try to get my shit together?” I teased with a watery voice.

  “Stop it. You took me in when I had nowhere else to go. You never judged me for my choices, and you still don’t. Your grief for Will is just as deep as your love, and that’s not something to be ashamed of. I’m so damned proud to be your friend.”

  She yanked me against her in an awkward over-the-chair-arm hug, and I felt twin tears escape. She might be proud of me now, but I knew the worst was yet to come. I’d avoided the worst of the pain for the last two years, and that came with a price.

  Chapter Eight

  Morgan

  Lean on our friends, Morgan. God knows you’ve let them lean on you.

  “So where are we at?” I asked Steve, handing him a cup of coffee as he stood at my kitchen counter. Longest two and a half weeks ever, but we were back in my house.

  “Thank you.” He took a sip and then flipped through his binder. “Okay, the new concrete pilings are in place for the deck, and the support ones for the foundation set perfectly, we released the jacks, and your house is still standing, which is good since you moved back in three days ago.”

  “Considering you told me there was every chance we’d have a major issue during that process, I consider that a victory.” I raised my glass, and he grinned.

  “Me, too. Your head looks way better, by the way.” He motioned to where my cuts were just little pink lines on my forehead. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Stop. You’ve told me at least twice a day since it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Still. I grew up with Claire, and just thinking about what could have happened…” He shook his head.

  “You grew up with Fin’s mom?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “There wasn’t a guy in school that wasn’t half in love with her, and I guess that didn’t change in college, seeing how Jax is still waiting around for her to come back. Guy hasn’t had a serious relationship since she left. Anyway, I’m really sorry it happened.”

  Apparently, oversharing was a bad habit in every southern town.

  “I’m just sad that the weathervane’s broken. Seems a shame to lose something that’s been with the house so long.”

  “Even if it tried to murder you?”

  “Well, stronger things have tried and failed.” I shrugged. “How about this monstrosity?” I pointed to the very large, very visible piling that now ran from the roof through the garage level and into the sand below. Granted, it was a great addition for anyone considering exotic dancing for a living, but I wasn’t a huge fan of the eyesore or the hole they’d ripped in every story of my house during installation. The five-thousand-dollar investment had been driven straight through the master bedroom, not that I’d even fathomed starting that chunk of the remodel.

  “It set well, and— Oh, you’re talking cosmetics, aren’t you?”

  I raised an eyebrow.


  “We’ll hide it as well as we can once we start the interior portion of the remodel.” He flipped to the page I despised. “You’re already at a little over fifty thousand.”

  Ouch. Not that I hadn’t known I was racking up the charges. I’d signed enough checks, but Lord, that was a punch to the belly—or, rather, the wallet.

  “Okay, and that’s for the new roof, the foundations on both the house and the boathouse”—I gestured to the steel pole—“waterproofing the garage level…”

  “As much as possible,” Steve repeated. “If that ocean comes up, there’s nothing we can do to keep the water out of that garage. The house is built for water to flow right under it. The boathouse is another story.”

  “Right. I understand.” Nausea crept up my throat at the thought of Will’s truck being swallowed by flood waters. “And next?”

  “All of the windows have been purchased. I have them stored. Also, the storm shutters and lumber for the new decks.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  He flipped back to his calendar. “Deck construction will start once we’re done in Frisco. Should be about another two weeks, and then window installation in three. Feel free to start ripping apart the inside now that your foundation is reinforced.”

  Now that your foundation is reinforced.

  The phrase ran through my head as we finished the scheduling talk and I walked him to the door.

  Standing in the living room a few minutes later, I looked out over the ocean through the open door. The breeze was heavy with salt and humidity but better than the stagnant air inside the house.

  A few weeks and I’d have my deck back instead of this rough, wooden X nailed into the lower portion of the doorway baby gate-style. Like I was going to forget there wasn’t a deck there and step into nothingness.

  But the pilings were in, ready to support what came next.

  The house’s foundation was done. Mine still felt cracked.

  “Hey,” Sam said as she came down the stairs, twisting her hair into a ponytail. “Are you ready?”