And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 4

CHAPTER 4

JACKSON

Once when Penelope was six, she decided to take a vow of silence until I bought her the Polly Pocket Groom and Glam Poodle Compact she wanted.

Unfortunately for her, I’ve always enjoyed silence. She caved before I did and had to settle for a secondhand barrel of Legos instead.

I’ve been channeling that same energy since I left the YBAL News studio two days ago. I didn’t agree to a partnership with Delilah and Delilah didn’t agree to a partnership with me. Maggie has been trying to get me to commit, but I feel fundamentally unable to comment on the situation.

“Hey, buddy.” Aiden Valentine, host of the late-night romance hotline and my supposed best friend, edges his way into my office. “I brought you some cookies.”

I grunt in acknowledgment of his presence, not looking up from the weather model on my screen. I’ve been running dual projections every day with the European model and the Global Forecast System model. The differences aren’t huge, but they’re there. And one thing is glaringly obvious.

Delilah was right about the European model. It is more accurate for this type of storm prediction. I dismissed her because I thought I knew better,

but— Delilah was right.

I minimize the forecast screen. “Did Maggie send you?”

“Yep.”

“Because she wants an answer about the broadcast?”

“Correct.”

“Great.” I click around some more, trying to pretend I’m doing something productive. “I still don’t have an answer for her. You can leave now.”

“Don’t be like that.” Aiden holds out his peace offering and shakes it.

“Have a cookie, at least. I brought you your favorite.”

I eye them speculatively, then turn back to my computer screen.

“One is missing,” I say woodenly.

“What?” He looks down at the box. “How do you know?”

“Because Berger Cookies don’t come with the plastic wrap torn open and you have chocolate on your chin.” Aiden immediately lifts his hand to wipe at the spot that doesn’t exist. I snicker. “Guilty, asshole.”

Aiden rolls his eyes and tosses the box of cookies at me, collapsing in the one small chair I have wedged up against the wall. When Maggie said I could have an office at the station, she neglected to tell me it used to be the

cleaning supply closet.

“What’s going on with you?”

“You mean besides being guilted into accepting an absolute disaster of an assignment that sends me to the wilderness of Western Maryland three hours away from Baltimore to report on a historic snowstorm that will probably leave me stranded with a woman who thinks chocolate pudding is

an acceptable dish at a potluck?”

“You and this pudding,” Aiden mutters.

“It was my favorite shirt,” I defend. “She spilled pudding all over my favorite shirt. And I lost my second-favorite shirt to the coffee incident on Tuesday. I now have a collection of shirts ruined by Delilah Stewart. How many more shirts need to sacrifice themselves before enough is enough?”

“All right, bud.” Aiden tries to hide his smile and does a poor job of it. “I get it. Anything else holding you back?”

“I have a lot on my plate right now,” I deflect, dragging the projections up on my screen again, staring at them like I can change them by sheer force of will. They’ve only solidified in the two days since our meeting at YBAL News, both of them aligning in agreement on one thing.

There is a storm coming and it’s a big one. Some of the heaviest snowfall Maryland has ever seen.

And Maggie wants me to get in a car, drive two hundred miles west, and

place myself smack-dab in the middle of it . . . with Delilah.

The rest of the meeting at YBAL was an out-of-body experience.

Everyone’s voices faded into low, droning womp womp womps as I stared a hole into the carpet, my hands clenched so tight against the armrests I had marks on my palms for the rest of the day.

Joint broadcasts.

Covering the storm live.

You’re going to do it together.

Together.

Together.

At the end of the meeting, I stood up and left without a word. I walked straight out the front door of the television station to my car, where I sat unmoving until it was time for my radio shift to start.

Aiden creeps forward and reaches for the box of cookies. I swat it out of

his reach.

“What did Maggie say?” I ask.

“She demanded I get an answer out of you by whatever means necessary.” He nods at the box. “Cookies were the first step.”

“And the next?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet.” He kicks his long legs out. “Why haven’t you given her an answer?”

“Because I don’t want to give her an answer,” I grumble, picking at the edge of the cookie box.

“Well, you have to. You can’t just pretend it doesn’t exist.” Aiden tilts his head to the side, considering me. “You know, this is a real role-reversal situation. Usually, I’m the one being surly and difficult.”

“I preferred you when you were surly and difficult. Now you’re optimistic and irritating.”

Aiden grins. “That’s the power of love, my friend.” His head tips to the side. “And biweekly therapy sessions.”

I snort. A year ago, Aiden would have punched this version of himself in the face. He was busy trying to pretend all his emotions were inconvenient impulses he could bury under a terrible attitude and denial. But then a kid called into the station looking for relationship advice for her mom, and their phone call went viral. Aiden was roped into helping Baltimore’s favorite single mom find her match. When Lucie made her 101.6 LITE FM debut, she bowled Aiden over. It was delightful watching him try to keep his head

above water, but now that he and Lucie have been together for a while, his

attitude has officially lost its shine.

Now he’s in tune with his feelings.

It’s the worst.

“Let’s talk it out, buddy.” I give him a dark look and he chuckles, sprawling himself in my spare chair like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon. “Bit by bit. What’s your biggest holdup?”

“Delilah,” I bite out immediately.

Aiden grins. “Ah, yes. The weather woman you love to hate.”

“I don’t love to hate her.” I don’t even hate her, but no one believes me when I say it. Maybe it’s because I descend into a grunting, groaning asshole whenever her name is mentioned. Maybe it’s because we argued about weather models for half our meeting on Tuesday. Maybe it’s because the prospect of working with her sent me into a catatonic tailspin, and I sat silently in my car for close to three hours. “I just find her irritating.”

“Because she doesn’t like spreadsheets? Because she does things differently than you? I think she’s fun.”

“Fun,” I repeat.

Aiden nods. “She does a good job with the weather, when they actually let her report on it. The two of you are actually more alike than you think.” I take an oversized bite of cookie. “You’re both massive nerds.”

“You’ve been watching her reports?”

“Why did you say that like I’m cheating on you?”

“Because you should come to me for your weather reports. Not Delilah.”

I grab up a half-crumpled piece of paper wedged under my pencil cup and thrust it at Aiden. “Look at this. I found it taped to my car window this morning. She wants me to pay for the turtle suit.”

I thought it was a parking ticket. But then I saw it was stuck to my window with a wad of chewed gum and knew immediately who it was from.

Aiden’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “The what?”

“Her turtle suit. She wants me to pay to have it dry-cleaned, even though she was the one who ruined it when she ran into me.”

Aiden looks delighted. “Is she leaving you notes on your car now?” He reaches for it. “Good for her.”

“No.” I yank the note away, thrusting it in the top drawer of my desk.

“Not good for her.”

“Jackson,” he sighs. “You have got to relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You are hunched over your desk and shoveling cookies into your mouth like a troll. When I came in here, you were muttering under your breath about low-pressure systems. You are not relaxed.”

I tug off my glasses and toss them on the desk, digging my palms against my eyes until I see spots. I hear the creak of leather as Aiden shifts in his chair. The slow slide of the cookie box against the desk as he seizes my moment of weakness for his own advantage.

“Do you want me to coddle you, or be honest?”

“You’ve never coddled me a day in your life,” I grumble.

Aiden snickers. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Maggie won’t force you. It’s a good opportunity for the station, but we’ll have better. Our numbers are strong. This isn’t the same situation as last year.”

Last year, when we were so close to having to shut down completely.

We’re better than we were, but not by much. I’m the one who runs the numbers. I know exactly how thin of a line it is between us staying on the air, and everyone looking for new jobs.

I feel the press of that truth like a weight in the middle of my chest. I struggle with choosing my own comfort when other people are depending on me. If this arrangement will benefit the station, I’m not sure how I’ll be able to say no. Which is exactly the issue I’ve been wrestling with for the past forty-eight hours.

“But if the only reason you have for not doing it is Delilah, well—are you really going to let someone who infuriates you dictate your behavior?”

I clench my jaw so tight my teeth grind together. “No.”

“You sure? Because that’s what it looks like.” He plucks another cookie from the box with a smug look on his stupid face. “It looks like you’re afraid of a five-foot-nothing woman who dresses in amphibian costumes.”

“Turtles are reptiles, you idiot.” I scrub my hand against the back of my head. “And I meant no, that’s not the only reason I have for not agreeing to Maggie’s plan.” I swallow heavily, my mouth going dry just thinking about

it. “I don’t want to be on television.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because you get a little tongue-tied?”

“I wouldn’t call the departure of my soul from my body every time I have

to talk about something other than the forecast getting tongue-tied.” I pause.

“Maggie said we’re going to be broadcasting live.”

Aiden shrugs. “Maybe television will be easier than radio.”

I stare at him. “It’ll probably be worse.”

“It can get worse?” At my dark look, Aiden cracks another smile, holding up his hands. “I’m just giving you a hard time. You won’t know until you try, yeah?”

I mutter a string of obscenities under my breath.

“What else? C’mon. I know you like your lists.”

I drag my hand down my face. This is my heaviest burden. The thing that keeps me staring at the ceiling of my bedroom long into the night. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’d be so far away. “Who will look after the girls if I’m not here?”

“I told you. They can stay with me, Lucie, and Maya. We’ve got the space.” Aiden moved in with Lucie and her daughter after they expanded Lucie’s Fells Point row home into the house next door. “Maya is excited about the prospect of an extended sleepover.”

“With this storm, we’ll likely be stuck out there for a week. Maybe two.

It’s a lot to ask.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. And you raised those two to be scary-good houseguests. Last time they stayed with Maya, my entire record collection

was organized and dusted.”

“By color?”

“By genre and artist last name, as god intended. You did good with them, Jackie.” He leans forward, his face earnest. The teasing is over now, and Aiden means business. “You can trust me with this. I’m not going to let you down.”

“I know you won’t. I trust you.” And I do. I know the girls will be in good hands if they stay with Lucie and Aiden. “I just—I haven’t been away from them since I got full custody. I like our routine.”

“I know you do.” There’s no judgment in Aiden’s voice. Just quiet understanding. He knows how much I rely on having things neatly laid out in predictable sequences. “But I think it might be good for you to break out of it every once in a while. Try something new. Have a little fun.” He stands from his chair and brushes the crumbs off his lap. “Look at me. I tried

something new and I found Lucie.”

“Your something new was emotions.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. It worked out all right in the end.” He raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Maggie isn’t going to let you think on it for too much longer,” he warns. “I’ll buy you some time, but you’ll need to give her an answer sooner rather than later. I’ll see you in an hour?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ll meet you in the booth.”

Aiden leaves and I try to break it down logically, but my brain follows the tried-and-true route instead. I think about the girls, and how excited they were at the prospect of something different. I think about giving in, saying yes, and the long drive I’ll have to take to the doldrums of Western Maryland. I think about standing in the middle of a field—a street, a sidewalk—holding a microphone in my hand and staring at the blinking red light of a camera. I think about Delilah Stewart standing right next to me, watching as I fumble. I think about the smug delight that would light up her eyes.

I think about stepping outside of my routine, and the way everything could crumble because of it. I think about falling short and making an ass of myself. I think of the crushing disappointment, not just for me, but for the girls too. The station. I think about letting everyone down, letting everyone see. The cracks in the foundation that reach up. The things that make me wrong.

My phone buzzes across my desk and I reach for my glasses. I tried to fix them last night using one of Penelope’s bracelet-making pliers, but I think I just made them worse.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tape an eyeglass repair bill to Delilah’s car window.

My phone stops vibrating, then immediately starts up again. I glance at

the screen.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

This is another one of my routines, though I don’t particularly care for the predictability of it. I hesitate, then swipe my thumb across the screen.

“Camille.” I clear my throat. “Hello.”

Cars rush in the background. A horn honks, someone yells, and it’s another fifteen seconds of panting and ambient noise before she remembers she’s dialed the phone.

Or, in other words, a typical conversation with my mother.

“Jackson,” she says, sounding out of breath. “I really wish you’d call me Mom.”

“Okay,” I deflect without agreeing, a skill I’ve honed to perfection after

years of wild demands. I stare at the weather model open on my computer screen and watch the massive low-pressure system that’s forming at the base of the Rockies. The map cycles through the forward projection and the pressure grows and grows. A giant blob of red that shifts and morphs. I can

relate. “What do you need?”

“Don’t you mean, How are you doing?”

I don’t need to ask. I know exactly how she’s doing. She’s in an exciting new place with an exciting new job and exciting new friends, and everything is sunshine and rainbows and chocolate-frosted cake.

Still, I cave. “How is the essential oil business these days?”

“That was two cities ago, Jack. I’ve told you, haven’t I? I work in music management now.”

The background noise abruptly cuts out and a car door slams. Music management. Coffee shop supply. Antique broker. It’s always something.

Once during one of these little check-ins, she was sitting in a truck full of livestock exploring her options in restorative goat yoga.

“That’s great,” I answer, unable to rally any enthusiasm. This is not what I need today. It’s another brick on top of my otherwise impossible load. I’m buckling beneath the pressure. “What can I do for you?”

She laughs and my skin pulls tight. “Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”

She never wants to say hello. “Hello. What else?”

“Jackson,” she sighs. “You really do think the worst of me.”

“It’s a prediction based on previous behavior.”

My mother doesn’t do check-ins. She prefers whimsical appearances and sporadic phone calls whenever she needs something for her bright and shiny new adventure, usually with dollar signs attached.

“You make me sound like a monster.”

No, not a monster. Just absent and self-absorbed.

“Camille.” I find the clock at the bottom right of my computer screen. I have about twenty minutes before I need to go on the air. “What is this call about?”

She sighs, put-upon that I’m not indulging her. “I wanted to ask about the girls.”

“Why?” I ask, my hackles immediately up.

“Because they’re mine,” she says simply. “And it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.”

They’re not yours, I immediately want to say. They’re mine. I’ve changed

diapers and cooked dinners and done seventy-three thousand loads of laundry. I’ve been at every back-to-school night and fixed every ponytail.

I’ve done every sleepless night and every early morning. You gave them to

me. They’re mine.

“The girls are fine,” I bite out.

“That’s it?” She laughs. “That’s all you have for me?”

“That’s it.”

She pauses, waiting for me to fill in the gaps. I refuse to.

“Well, what are they involved in? They’re twelve now, right? Almost high school.”

Something in the middle of my chest bends and buckles. She doesn’t even know how old they are.

Suddenly, I’m seven years old again, sitting at a kitchen table with a hollow, aching stomach and clothes that are two sizes too small, watching my mother bake a cake and wondering if she will remember to take it out of the oven before it burns. Ten years old and sitting on the curb outside of my elementary school, watching the sun sink over the parking lot, painting the asphalt in golds while I wait and wait and wait.

Where’s your mom, Jackson?

She’s probably working late. She’ll be here soon.

Always wondering. Always waiting.

“They’re fifteen,” I grind out. “They’re in their sophomore year.”

They skipped seventh grade because they were both reading at an advanced level and got bored in their classes. They’re smart and kind, and wildly funny. They both made the volleyball team, though I think Adeline is more interested in hiding in the library. But she didn’t want Penelope to be alone at tryouts so they did it together. They still do everything together.

You would know this if you really did care, I almost say. You would know this if you stuck around.

But I don’t, because she doesn’t deserve to know.

“Fifteen,” my mother repeats.

“Yes.”

“That’s . . .” Her voice drifts. “That’s incredible. I bet they’re fun. Are

they fun?”

I stay quiet.

“Don’t tell me they’re little pencil pushers like you.” She laughs and it slithers beneath my rib cage. Twists into something harsh and ugly that

pinches and prods. “I swear, Jackson. You were the most serious little boy.

You would write your schedule down in your school notebook and tape it to the refrigerator. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember.” I glance at the file cabinet in the corner of my office and the habit I never figured out how to kick. The days of the week are labeled in neat, color-coded dry-erase maker.

I feel a hot flush of embarrassment.

“You’ve gotta make sure you’re giving those girls fun, Jackson. Teenage

girls need fun.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t be a stuffed shirt. You’ve got to live every once in a while. You don’t want your sisters to end up like you, do you?” A laugh bursts out of her, prickling at my skin. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

I am this way because of you, I want to snap. I want to twist my words like knives until they hurt. You made me this way. Utterly reliant on systems and routines and habits so I can fucking breathe.

Instead, I say, “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it under consideration. I’m hanging up now.”

And then I do. I hang up on my mother and place my phone carefully to the left of my keyboard, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Again. Again.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I pick it up.

“What is it now?”

Silence fills the line. Then, “Is that how you always answer the phone?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This fucking day.

“Not usually, no.” I dig a knuckle into my eye, then adjust my glasses.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“A jilted lover? A loan shark? Who inspires that level of venom from Jackson Clark?”

I slump back in my chair. “How did you get this number?”

“Your loan shark,” Delilah answers, light and breezy.

“Is this loan shark named Maggie?”

She snickers. “This loan shark is named Aiden Valentine, and he left your

phone number taped to my car window.”

“Of course he did,” I sigh. Asshole.

“I thought the note thing was your move.”

“Apparently, not just mine.” I pick up the dry-cleaning bill I found stuck to my window this morning and a reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. Some of the tight feeling in my chest disappears. If nothing else, Delilah is an excellent distraction. “What can I do for you, Delilah?”

“You and I . . . we need to talk.”

JACKSON CLARK: Storms typically develop out of low-pressure systems. In a low-pressure system, air from higher-pressure areas moves down toward the low, and as air rises and cools, any moisture in it condenses, forming clouds. The greater the difference in pressures, often, you know, the bigger the storms. And other factors can obviously exacerbate this as well, but pressure plays a huge part. Lots of pressure. Tons of pressure just—moving around.

AIDEN VALENTINE: What do you—

JACKSON CLARK: There’s this thing called an atmospheric lift where rising air can cause significant cooling and condensation. An orographic lift is when air is forced to rise over a topographic feature like a mountain. All of it driven by immense pressure.

AIDEN VALENTINE: Are we . . . experiencing one of those?

JACKSON CLARK: One of what?

AIDEN VALENTINE: Whatever that lift thing is you just described.

JACKSON CLARK: Oh. No. I’m just talking about pressure.

JACKSON CLARK: So much pressure.

AIDEN VALENTINE: I think you need another cookie.