Page 27 of Just One Look

Maverick

After dropping me off this morning, Wagner texted half an hour later to tell me he’d spoken to Candice and that she was free to take a call with me at three. He also mentioned he’s the best older brother in the world. Several times.

The timing for the call couldn’t have been better since Jackson and I usually hook up at two. I called Candice, and it went well. Better than well, actually. She loved my idea of having a local talent show fundraiser and agreed to help me out. Given what I now know, I didn’t offer up my brother on a platter for her to devour.

I regret misjudging her. She’s not some Xanned-out, socialite-climbing trophy wife. She’s actually a really nice person. And even though I didn’t have to resort to whoring Maverick out to her, they could actually make a good couple. Not that I’m going to stick my nose where it’s not wanted or needed.

I’m at my desk, waiting for Wagner to pick me up and take me back to the mechanic to pick my car up. He texted twenty minutes ago that his meeting was running over. I told him not to worry. I have a million things to work on.

Including one thing I’ve been ignoring.

I unlock my phone and hit Play on the recording. Labored breathing. Coughing. Long breaks in between breaths, then gasping for air. This isn’t a snuff porno—I recorded myself sleeping once Jackson and I returned from our weekend away.

He wasn’t kidding when he said my sleep is terrible. I sound like an army of malfunctioning robots echoing through a metal hall. Wagner told me about a great doctor who specializes in sleep disorders a few towns over in Brentdale. Muting the deafening racket blaring from my phone, I look up the number for the sleep specialist and give them a call, booking the first available appointment to see him.

I get back to my actual work, quickly losing myself in a world of spreadsheets, when I hear a metal clang, like someone opening the center pen. That’s strange. I’m the last one here, and the light in Jackson’s cabin is on, so I’m assuming he’s done for the day.

I get up from my desk and walk over to the window.

“What the actual fuck?”

I shake my head in disbelief. Jackson is in the center pen, riding a horse, blindfolded.

He doesn’t strike me as someone who has a death wish, but I don’t waste another second standing around doing nothing. I tear out of my office, thunder down the stairs, and race over to the pen, ruining my shoes and the bottom half of my pants in the process.

He’s taking it easy with Hope. They’re moving at barely a walking pace, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s riding a horse blindfolded!

“What on earth are you doing?”

I call out, resting my hands on the top of the fence as I catch my breath.

“What the fuck?”

His head bobs, and he almost topples over before pulling the damn blindfold off his eyes. He flinches, like he’s struggling to adjust to the light, which doesn’t make much sense since it’s almost completely dark.

“Maverick? What are you doing here?”

“I own this place. Remember?”

His lips thin, and he wipes under his eyes and carefully eases himself down from the saddle.

“I mean, here, right now. Your car isn’t in the lot.”

“I had my car serviced today. I’m waiting for Wagner and Sammy to pick me up.”

“Oh.”

Jackson is still in his work clothes, but there’s something off about him, and I can’t put my finger on it.

“What’s going on?”

He leaves Hope in the pen and steps out. His eyes are stormy, his breathing uneven. It’s as if he’s upset. But why? I’m not mad at him or anything; I just want to know why my head handler is riding a horse blindfolded. That’s not unreasonable, is it?

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out, just…a heart-wrenching sob. He falls into my arms, his warm tears seeping through the material of my shirt and into my chest.

“Jackson, what’s wrong? I’m not angry with you, just curious,”

I say, on the off chance that’s what he’s worried about. I don’t think it is, but it’s the only thing I can come up with. I’m so confused. None of this makes any sense.

He straightens and sniffs a couple of times, wiping his face with his dirty palms, which only ends up smearing patches of wet dirt across his freckled cheeks.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?”

He’s about to answer when two headlights beam across our bodies.

Fuck. Wagner’s timing couldn’t be any worse. I pull out my phone to fire off a text, asking him to give me ten, and get an instant thumbs-up back.

I turn my attention back to Jackson’s tear-streaked, dirt-smudged face.

“Tell me what’s wrong. I might be able to help.”

But it’s too late.

In the few seconds it took me to text Wagner, Jackson’s walls have come back up, and whatever he was going to confess or confide in me about is trapped on the other side of it.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not fine. I can see that. Something is upsetting you. Tell me what it is. Please.”

“I can’t. No. I’m good. Really.”

“Jackson. We promised, remember? No more secrets.”

The look of anguish on his face shreds my heart into thin strips. I hate seeing him this distraught, but I can’t pry my way into his mouth and force the words out—he has to tell me. He has to want to tell me.

“I will tell you. Just…not right now.”

He flinches again, then tips his head toward the beams of light coming from Wagner’s SUV.

“Go. We’ll talk later.”

I step back away from him, shaking my head.

No, we won’t.

The moment is gone, and whatever he was going to tell me is gone with it.

I crouch beside Grandma’s cedar chest I’ve lugged into the living room, tracing the intricate carvings with my fingertips. Lifting the lid, I rifle through her silk scarves, lace tablecloths trimmed with crocheted flowers, and yet another stack of yellowed love letters tied with a faded red ribbon. Each item will be added to the growing pile I’m gathering in the guest room.

Despite living in their house for months, I haven’t spent anywhere near enough time sorting through their things, and then when I find myself at a loose end and do it, I can’t bring myself to throw anything away.

Grandma Maggie died when I was young, so I don’t have any memories of her other than the lady in the photos Grandpa Rick displayed all around the house. And there’s no way I can part with any of his stuff. It feels wrong throwing any of it away. Even though it’s old and no one is going to use it, it still belonged to him. It’s more than just stuff; it’s the sum total of two people’s lives.

And why am I the one left to do this? Dad should be here making these decisions, not me. But when has he ever stepped up and done the right thing?

My phone vibrates against the surface of the mirrored coffee table. My first thought is that it’s Jackson calling to talk about what happened earlier tonight because one, I want to make sure he’s okay, and two, I need to know what the fuck is going on.

My best friend’s name, as well as a selfie we took three Christmases ago when we’d both had too much eggnog and thought it would be hilarious and highly original to pull goofy faces, flashes on my screen instead.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey, Mav. How’s things?”

I collapse onto my grandparents’ neoclassical sofa and regret it instantly, rubbing my elbow where it jammed into the rigid arm. This is not a sofa you sink into; it’s a sofa you sit on gingerly and with proper posture. Even the cushions aren’t comfortable.

“I’m fucked.”

“What’s wrong? Are you—what’s wrong?”

“I’m not drinking,”

I assure him. It bothers me that that’s the first place he goes to, but at the same time, I can’t blame him for it. He’s only worried because he loves me. I’d be the same way with him if the situation were reversed.

“It’s Jackson.”

“What’s happening now? Don’t tell me. You got sprung by some stable hands fucking in the stable.”

“Don’t be silly…that’s what my private bathroom is for.”

An amused chuckle drifts out of my speaker.

“Walked right into that one. What is it, then?”

I tell him about what happened this evening, how I caught Jackson riding a horse blindfolded, and then when I asked him about it, he broke down.

“He was just about to tell me, Ollie. He was right there, and then Wagner pulled up, and it scared him off. I’ve been trying to figure out what he was about to say ever since.”

“How did you leave it?”

“He refused to say anything, so I left.”

I scratch my chin.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“He was acting…weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like, blinking and squinting a lot.”

“Do you think he was on something?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve spent a lot of time with him recently, and nothing I’ve seen indicates he does drugs. Then again, I’m the poster child for addiction not discriminating. So…maybe?”

“Hm.”

“I’m so confused. Every time I think we’re making progress, we seem to hit a wall.”

“Sorry to hear that, man. You’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks. Anyway, sorry. I’m talking your head off, but you called me. Is something up?”

“Actually, yeah.”

I can tell by his tone it’s serious, and here I am, yammering about my problems with Jackson like I have been for months now.

“Has something happened? Are you okay? How’s the leg?”

“Healing. Way too slowly for my liking, but it’s fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about Derek.”

I gasp.

“He proposed?”

“No. He cheated.”

“What?”

Ollie lets out an anguished sigh.

“He went away to a fire rescue expo in Raleigh two weeks ago and ran into an ex. A group of them went out for drinks after the first day, things got a little rowdy, and…they slept together.”

“Holy shit.”

“He says he regretted it immediately and that he’s been riddled with guilt and remorse ever since. He says he still loves me and begged me to give him another chance.”

“And will you?”

“No idea. I’m so blindsided by this, I don’t think I’ve had time to properly process anything. He fucked up, that’s for sure, but he was honest in telling me about it. He didn’t have to do that, and if he hadn’t confessed, there’s a good chance I’d have never found out about it. How do I balance those two things? Does him being honest count for anything?”

“Honesty definitely counts,”

I blurt out a little too quickly.

“But what he did was majorly not okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“How did you find out?”

“He told me last night.”

“Can I do anything?”

“No. Not really. I just needed to get it off my chest.”

“I’m always here for you, man. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Ditto. The only advice I can give you about Jackson is what you already know. He needs to be honest with you, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

We end the call, and I lean my arm against the back of the couch. Honesty. One simple word, so why is it such a hard concept for so many people to grasp?

That’s why I’m so affected by what happened tonight. There’s always been this undercurrent of Jackson holding something back from me. First, it was not telling me that Clancy was his grandfather. Then it was withholding the fact that his family used to own the sanctuary.

And it was there again today.

I don’t even care how bad the thing is; I just want to know what it is. Being kept in the dark is a special kind of torture people who have never been lied to or betrayed can’t comprehend.

What makes it even more frustrating is that he was seconds away from telling me.

But ultimately, he chose not to. Even after we made a deal to be completely honest with each other, it wasn’t enough to make him tell me the truth.

Ollie’s right.

If Jackson can’t be honest with me, what hope do we have of making it work?