Page 9

CHAPTER 9

RUN

THEODORE

L ike the obsessed man I’ve become, I’m spending my morning staring out my front window, staring at the eerily-quiet house across the street. I’m on my second cup of coffee with my favorite salted-caramel creamer, and I don’t have the urge to move any time soon.

Emerson suddenly pops out their front door. Not the man I was looking for, but at least it’s something. My eyes stray to the piles of Halloween decorations in his hands.

Fuck.

It suddenly dawns on me what day it is. The Saturday before Halloween.

They’re throwing another party—I can feel it in my bones.

Because the last party went over so well for me.

At least Bridget won’t be here. She hasn’t been all week, but what else is new? I couldn’t even tell you where she is, but I remember her saying she needed her passport. I zoned out after that, though. However, I do know that she’ll be gone for at least another week. If not longer.

All I want to see is Jackson. It’s been too long. I’ve been fighting this whole month with myself to put distance between us. I stopped following him into school, stopped watching out my window, and have been actively avoiding him when I see him on the school grounds or in any of the practice facilities.

And it’s only made what feels like a gaping hole in my chest even bigger.

As the day goes on, I see more and more people heading into the Bakers’ house while I’m doing my weekly chores around my own house, looking across the street any chance I get.

I go downstairs to put away a suitcase that Bridget decided not to use for this trip and left out. And out of the corner of my eye, I spot my bin of Halloween decorations I clearly forgot to put out this year. And next to that bin… the one filled with all of my old costumes. I stare at it for what feels like hours, contemplating every possible scenario, before I finally make my decision.

Fuck it.

I decide right here and now that I’ll be crashing that party whether they like it or not.

I need my eyes on Jackson Baker.

* * *

Despite the usual stifling Florida air, it’s finally starting to feel a little like fall. And thank god because the sweltering heat would’ve had me sweating like a whore in church beneath this full-face skull mask.

It’s just before midnight when I finally grow the balls to walk out my back door, lock it, and slide my keys into my back pocket. The last thing I need is someone’s door camera capturing footage of me in this get-up walking over to the party. So I follow my privacy fence that leads down my driveway, and, as stealthy as possible, move to the sidewalk. Then, like the true fucking creep I am, I walk over to Jax’s house and make my way to the backyard where most of the noise seems to be coming from.

Correction, the music is booming inside the house, but the sounds of laughter and fun echo in the backyard. There’s a small bonfire going, groups of people talking, and guys holding each other up doing keg stands.

Nice to see some college traditions never die.

“Oh my fucking god, yeeesss, we have another masked man here. I love Halloween,” some girl screams, as she runs up to me with her hands out.

“Stop!” I throw my hands up and back away from her like she’s a rabies-infested animal.

“Playing hard to get? I like it.” She twirls her hair around her fingers and bites her bottom lip.

My eyes roll so hard I fear they might get stuck in my skull. “Do you know where Jax is?”

Confusion and disappointment take over her face before she throws her thumb over her shoulder and says, “I just saw him inside on the dance floor a couple minutes ago with Clay. But you don?—”

I cut her off, sidestepping and spinning around her grabby hands to make my way inside. “Thanks!”

I run to the backdoor and make my way through the kitchen. As I round the corner, my eyes land on a gleefully happy Jackson Baker’s face popping out of the center of a blowup Patrick Star costume. And little to my surprise, the same man who was dancing with him at the beginning of the year, who I’m assuming is Clay, is next to him in a matching Spongebob Squarepants one.

I laugh beneath my mask at their ridiculous costumes as I find a spot against the wall in the living room, letting the lyrics of ? * “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado wash over me.

Bobbing to the beat, I find myself completely enamored by Jax and the happiness he seems to carry around with him anywhere he goes. But then I see it, and my heart stops.

He looks out his front window at what could only be my house and just stares for a second. A brief look of sadness washes over him before he leans in and whispers something in Clay’s ear, and then moves toward the front door.

My feet follow him before my head has a chance to stop me. Jax walks past people milling around the front porch, steps off, and makes his way toward the street. Clearly making a beeline straight for my house. I manage to easily catch up to his waddling form, grab his arm, and pull him to me.

“What the f—” He stops as his eyes meet mine. I should have known this wouldn’t be enough to fool him.

“Theo? Is that you?”

I answer with a question, “Doesn’t that ruin the game?”

He seethes, “What are you doing here?”

“Where were you just going?”

He huffs in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest. But the pink blow-up fabric doesn’t allow him to move as desired, and I can’t help but burst out in laughter at this ridiculous scene.

I stand there and laugh so hard, bent over wheezing, tears stream down my cheeks beneath my mask. When I’m finally able to get it together, I dab inside the eye holes of my mask to try to collect the tears, and when I look back up at Jax I find him clearly unamused.

“I was coming to ask you if the music was too loud,” he deadpans.

“Bullshit.” His brows raise at my blunt response.

“I didn’t want your old ass to be over there alone, so I was coming to see if you wanted to come to the party, okay?” Alright, that very well could be the truth, but it still leaves me with too many questions.

“Jackson Baker, I am not that old.”

His curiosity peaks. “How old are you, Mr. Young?”

Shit. I walked right into that one. Sighing, I answer regretfully, “Thirty.”

He moans and bites his fist dramatically. “You can’t say you’re thirty while you’re wearing a fucking mask in my front yard.”

“And why not?”

Damn it, Theo. You’re playing with fire.

His face falls again, but it’s not in frustration or anger this time. No, this time it’s… acceptance . “I don’t have an ounce of self-control left in me when it comes to you,” he says softly, and despite his ridiculous costume, it fucking does me in.

Fire is better than being left out in the cold.

I take two steps closer so the two of us are standing as close as possible. Reaching up I brush a wayward strand of hair from his forehead. We both bristle at the touch. “Good. You don’t need any tonight,” I say as my eyes dance between his.

He raises a brow and whispers, “We shouldn’t be doing this… remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say softly, but I’m actively going against every alarm bell that’s going off in my head at the moment.

“Theo,” he says my name the same way he always seems to. Like he’s begging me and exhausted by the situation all at the same time. And I’ve got to say, I’m really growing tired of it… despite how wrong I know all of this is.

So I say the one word that’s been ringing through my brain since I saw him head toward my house.

The one word that just might make this wild man listen to me.

For once.

“Run.”

* ? Maneater - Nelly Furtado