Page 27

Jackson

I rub my bleary eyes, staring at the glowing computer screen as the numbers blur together. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight, but I can't bring myself to leave the garage. What’s waiting for me at home? A meal to heat up and a night of staring at my ceiling?

Glancing briefly at my phone, I tense my jaw and resist the urge to grab it. Chloe hasn’t texted or called all afternoon. She’s probably given up on me.

I don’t blame her.

I force my attention back to the screen, but the words swim before my eyes. Who am I kidding? No amount of late nights at the garage can distract me from the ache in my chest.

I can’t believe she hasn’t replied to my apology text.

Or can I?

Shit. She’s probably just realized everything I am. That I’m a terrible fit for her and she’s better off without me.

The memory of my fist connecting with Ethan's jaw makes me wince. God, what was I thinking? Chloe's brother. My best friend. The look of shock and betrayal on Chloe's face haunts me.

I screwed up. I don't deserve her forgiveness.

I slump backwards into the old leather chair, staring at the phone on my desk. It would be so easy to call her, to hear her voice...

But what would I even say? “Hey, Chloe, sorry for punching your brother in a fit of rage. Wanna grab coffee sometime?” Yeah, that’ll go over well.

I rub a hand over my face, the grease from earlier still faintly clinging to my skin despite scrubbing it off hours ago.

The sharp smell mixes with the stale aroma of the coffee that’s been sitting untouched on my desk for hours.

My eyes burn, both from staring at the computer screen too long and from sheer exhaustion but stopping feels dangerous.

If I stop, my thoughts will catch up with me.

I try to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me—the marketing plan for Hawthorne Auto Repair.

Dad’s been working so hard his whole life and this is the least I can do for him.

Social media campaigns, flyers around Elmwood Glen, maybe even a discount weekend—it all sounds good in theory, but right now, the numbers and ideas blur together into meaningless shapes.

I rub the back of my stiff neck and inhale deeply.

I’ve got this. But my brain refuses to cooperate.

Every time I think I’ve got a grasp on something her face sneaks back in.

The way she looks at me like she can see everything, the soft way she says my name as though it means something.

The look of hurt in her eyes when she saw Ethan holding his nose and realized what I’d done.

"Dammit." I shove my chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. Why hasn’t she called? Even to yell at me? At least yelling would mean she cared enough to be mad. This silence is unbearable.

I guess this is it then. I’ve lost her for good. My stomach churns at the very thought.

She’s probably better off without me anyway. I’m the guy who fixes cars and gets into fights and breaks hearts apparently. What could I possibly offer her except trouble?

I shift forward again. I just have to finish my work. My phone slips from the edge of the desk and clatters against the concrete floor, snapping me out of my haze.

I swipe at the dust smudging my phone screen and see Chloe’s name staring back at me in my recent calls list. My chest tightens—not for any good reason. It’s not like she called me. It’s her number because I must’ve…

The line is ringing.

"Shit," I hiss, fumbling to end the call. My thumb jams the red button so hard the touch screen barely registers it. For half a second, all I can do is stare at the screen, heart hammering in my chest like a loose piston. Did it go through? Did she see my name pop up? What if she answers?

I sit frozen, holding my breath, waiting for a return call. I don’t know how long I sit for but the silence kills me. Not texts, no calls.

Nothing.

The photo on my screen stares back at me. One she took that day at the beach of the two of us. I already knew I was in deep by then. I can see it in my eyes.

It’s stupid, really. I’ve always been fine on my own. I don’t need anyone.

But I need her.

At the very least, I need to talk to her. Even if it means hearing her confirm everything I know.

This isn’t me. I don’t sit around and wait for things to fix themselves. I’m a problem solver. A doer. And right now, there’s only one thing left to do.

"All right," I mutter under my breath. "Let’s get this over with."

My keys are on the workbench by the bay door, tangled in a mess of rags and tools. I snatch them up, the metal jingling in my hand as I stalk toward the exit and get in my truck.

The truck roars to life beneath me, headlights cutting through the dark as I pull onto the main road. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it? Or worse... what if she does and I see the hurt written all over her face, knowing I’m the one who put it there?

The temptation to turn around forces me to tighten my grip on the steering wheel and by the time I turn onto Chloe’s street, my stomach feels like it’s been twisted into knots.

I park across the street, engine idling for a moment longer than necessary.

Just go. Walk up, knock on the door, say what you need to say, and leave. Simple.

Except it’s not simple, because my legs feel like lead when I step out of the truck. The walk to her front door is somehow the longest five seconds of my life, each step heavier than the last.

Somehow, I force myself to press the doorbell and the chime echoes inside. There’s no turning back now.

The door swings open, and I’m met with Mrs. Davenport’s wide, startled eyes.

She blinks at me like I’m the last person she expected to find on her doorstep—which, let’s be honest, I probably am.

I have no idea if Ethan’s explained what happened but if he has, I doubt I’m her favorite person in the world, either.

"Jackson?" she says, the word dragging out like it needs time to adjust to the reality of me standing here. Her voice is pleasant but edged with confusion, like she’s trying to figure out if she missed a memo about my sudden appearance. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes, Mrs. D," I stammer, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. My fingers brush against my truck keys, and I resist the urge to bolt back to safety. "I was just…Is Chloe home?"

Her expression softens, but there’s still that hint of surprise in her gaze. "She’s not here right now," she says. Then, almost as an afterthought, "She’s at work.”

"Right. Of course." The words tumble out before I can stop them, and they sound hollow even to my own ears. Work. Why didn’t I know that? Normally, she keeps me up to date with her schedule.

"Can I… uh…" The sentence dies halfway out of my mouth because I have no idea how to finish it. What am I doing here?

"Did you need something specific, Jackson?" Mrs. Davenport asks gently, her head tilting just slightly.

"Uh, no. I mean, I just…" I clear my throat, heat crawling up my neck. "I just wanted to talk to her. About… stuff."

"Stuff," she repeats with a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a pause, heavy and awkward and I realize she must know something about the fight. "Well, I can let her know you came around if you’d like.”

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks," I mumble, taking a half-step back toward the stairs. "Sorry for bothering you."

"Not at all," she says quickly, but her eyes linger on me as I turn away, like she’s trying to read something in my face that I’m not ready to admit—not even to myself. “See you soon, sweetie,” she adds as I turn around.

“Sure,” I say with a tight smile.

By the time I make it down the porch steps, my chest feels tight, like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs.

Chloe doesn’t want to talk to me. She’s probably told her mom to get rid of me if I turned up.

I’m halfway to my truck when I hear the sound of a door creaking open behind me. My hand freezes on the handle, and I know— I just know —before I even turn around.

"Jackson."

His voice is sharp, clipped. I close my eyes for half a second, trying to brace myself, but it doesn’t help. Turning slowly, I see Ethan stepping out onto the porch. He’s barefoot, wearing an old Elmwood High football t-shirt and sweats. His eyes are bruised and his nose is still swollen.

"Hey." The word comes out rough, like I’ve swallowed sand. I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to look less...guilty? Defensive? I don’t even know anymore.

He doesn’t move closer, just crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me. "What are you doing here?"

"Just…stopping by," I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Like I wasn’t just standing on his porch, asking for Chloe like some lovesick idiot. "Wanted to check on her."

"Check on her?" His eyebrows shoot up, and there’s this low laugh that doesn’t sound amused in the slightest. Ethan steps down from the porch, closing the distance between us. "You sure that’s a good idea?"

The air feels heavier now, thick and charged. I force myself to meet his gaze, even though I already know where this is going.

"Listen, man, I get it," I start, holding up a hand like I’m surrendering, even though every nerve in my body wants to push back. "I just wanted to talk to her, that’s all."

"Talk to her?" His voice rises slightly, and his jaw tightens. "After what happened?” He laughs. “After you punched me, you mean”?

"That was—" I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, until I taste copper. "That was a mistake, okay? And I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But it wasn’t about you, Ethan. It was—"

"About Chloe," he finishes for me, his tone colder now. "Exactly. And that’s why I’m telling you—you need to stay away from her."

My stomach twists, but I try to keep my face neutral. "Ethan, come on. You know I care about her."

"Yeah, that’s the problem." He takes another step closer, and now we’re only a few feet apart.

His voice drops lower, almost like he’s trying to make sure no one else hears this but me.

"You’ve been waiting around, hiding how you felt about her and then you leapt on her the first chance you got.

” He smirks. “I bet you were really happy I didn’t come straight home for summer. ”

“It was not like that at all.”

“I’m not an idiot, Jackson. I know you. I know what you’re like with girls. There’s no way you would have gone the distance with Chloe and she’s realizing that too.”

So that explains why she hasn’t called? I try to swallow past the tightness in my throat that feels like it might suffocate me.

“I only wanted to apologize,” I say, hating how damn feeble it sounds.

“The best thing you can do is stay out of Chloe’s life. Let her just have the summer with her friends and family and stop causing drama.”

I take a deep breath and eye Ethan’s bruised face. I recall Mel’s words and how Chloe looked at me as I swung my fist. I think about Chloe going to college and experiencing a whole life without me.

Who was I kidding when I thought this could ever work?

"Yeah," I finally say. "You’re probably right."

Ethan blinks. I can tell he was expecting a fight, maybe even hoping for one, but I’ve got nothing left to give. The anger, the defensiveness—it’s all drained out of me, leaving behind this hollow ache that sits squarely in my chest.

"She deserves better," I add and I hate saying the words yet there’s a strange relief in saying them out loud. Like admitting it makes it real, makes it final.

"Yeah," Ethan says again, his tone softer this time, but there’s no triumph in his voice.

I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets as silence stretches between us.

"Just, uh, tell her I’m sorry," I say finally, pulling my gaze back to Ethan. "For everything."

"Jackson…" Ethan starts, his brow furrowing, but I shake my head, cutting him off.

"Don’t," I say, sharper than I mean to. Then I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. "Just…don’t, okay? Take care of her."

The truth is, Ethan’s not wrong. Chloe does deserve better—better than me, better than this whole fake relationship disaster that spiraled way too far out of control.

And yeah, maybe part of me thought it could be real, that we could be real.

But what kind of guy punches his best friend and then thinks he’s good enough for someone like Chloe Davenport?

"She’ll be fine," I mumble under my breath as I head briskly back to the truck, as if saying it will make it true.

As for me? Well, I’ll figure it out.

Eventually.