And Now, Back to You

And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 5

CHAPTER 5

DELILAH

I set the time, but Jackson decides the place. I’d pat myself on the back for how well we’re already working together if it didn’t take fifteen minutes of bickering back and forth to come to such a simple conclusion.

The café where Jackson demanded we meet is nestled on a narrow side street of Fells Point, tucked between an antiques mall and a sneaker store.

SKULLDUGGERY is written in large, looping letters on the wooden sign that hangs over the door, creaking as it swings in the late-February wind.

The few times I’ve managed to come here are during the busiest parts of the day, so it feels like a treat to walk in without getting smacked in the face with a rogue handbag. Today the only people here are a guy typing furiously on his laptop, a beleaguered medical professional in wrinkled scrubs, a woman taking a picture of her croissant, and . . . Jackson sitting at the high-top bar in the back, a newspaper folded at his elbow and one foot propped up on the bottom rung of his stool. His other leg stretches out beneath the seat next to him, his coat folded neatly on top.

Jackson Clark. Always so neat. Always so organized. I wonder if he sleeps in his pressed chino pants.

The bell above the door jingles as it shuts and he turns halfway, light glancing along his clean-shaven jaw. A pair of thick, dark-framed glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with his thumb. They’re practical frames, like something Gregory Peck used to wear. When they fell

off his face in the hallway, there was an indent in the side, likely from where he’s run his fingers along the metal.

He does that now as I watch, dragging his pointer finger along the edge before adjusting them with a frown. My stomach gives a low swoop, something about that easy, practiced motion feeling indecent. Then he pushes his dark blond hair back over his forehead, forearm flexing beneath the rolled sleeve of his sweater, and I have to avert my eyes to the chalkboard menu just behind his head.

Objectively speaking, he’s a very handsome man. I think I’d be able to appreciate it more if he didn’t have the personality of a wet piece of cardboard.

As it stands, he probably dreams about alphabetization. I bet his darkest fantasy involves a pocket protector. He’s probably never given a woman an orgasm in his life.

I’m still snickering to myself as he clears the stool next to him, draping his coat over the counter instead. I slide onto the seat, fighting my way out of my parka.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, watching as I struggle with one of my sleeves.

“Nothing.” I bite my bottom lip and try to contain myself, but I’ve always been terrible at hiding what I’m feeling. “Do you have any pocket

protectors?”

Jackson blinks at me. “What?”

“Never mind.” I shove my jacket in between the bottom legs of the stool, then reach over him for the menu. I'm two inches short, and I grunt as I try to close the distance. “Can you hand me that?”

He’s busy staring at my coat on the floor like I’ve just personally offended him and his grandmother. “Don’t you want to hang up your

jacket?”

“It’s fine where it is.”

“It’s on the floor.”

“I found it at the station’s lost and found two years ago. I’m not worried about it.” Jackson keeps staring at the heap of my jacket while I press up on the bottom rung of the stool and lean across him, my shoulder digging into the middle of his surprisingly hard chest. He smells like maple syrup and fresh air. Perfectly sharpened number two pencils.

I pluck the menu from the tiny brass pirate ship holding it in place.

“What’s good here?”

He grabs the menu and places it back in the ship. “I already ordered you

something.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“How do you know what I like?”

The barest hint of amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes, and my stomach flips over itself. I bet he’s devastating when he smiles. “I ordered whatever had the most sprinkles,” he deadpans.

Okay, fair enough.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t even like sprinkles.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“What did you order?” I poke at his arm. “Oat Bran? Fruitcake? Steel-cut oatmeal mixed with water?”

His mouth twitches. “I ordered a cruffin.”

“That’s a surprisingly whimsical decision, Jackson.”

“I can be whimsical.”

“Yeah, okay,” I snort, trying to situate myself on the stool so I don’t flip right off. With my luck, I probably will and I’ll take him down with me.

Break off the other side of his glasses so they’re even.

“I was trying to be nice, Delilah. Not insult you.”

“You’ve left mean Post-it notes on my car window for almost two years, Jackson. Forgive me if I’m a little suspicious.”

He looks confused. “They weren’t mean.”

I shrug. “A little bit.”

He frowns. “I never meant to be mean, Delilah.”

“Could have fooled me.”

The most delicious shade of pink climbs either side of his neck, right above the collar of his sweater. “Well, I wouldn’t have to leave you notes if

you just parked within the lines.”

“I do park within the lines.”

“Crooked. You park crooked, and I can’t park in the space next to you with your bumper hanging out.”

“I drive a Volkswagen Beetle. It’s physically impossible for the bumper to hang out.” I tilt my head to the side. “There are always a ton of spots.

Why do you need to park in the space next to mine?”

“This isn’t—” Jackson pinches his nose, then gives me a long-suffering

look. “Can we start over, please? Talk about something that isn’t a parking space?”

“Fine,” I sniff. I don’t know what it is about Jackson that immediately gets me riled up and ready to brawl. It’s out of character for me, arguing over something as trivial as a parking space. I decide to extend a peace offering. “Thank you for ordering me the sprinkles.”

“You’re welcome.” He rubs two fingers across his forehead. “I’m sorry about the notes. You’re right. They were mean. I think you caught me at a

bad time.”

I stare at him. “For two years?”

His smile is subdued. “I’ll do better.” He seems to brace himself. “In the spirit of that . . . you were right about the European model.”

“What?”

His eyes cut in my direction. “You were right about the European model,” he repeats, his voice stronger. “It was a more accurate

representation of the data.”

A loud laugh bursts out of me.

“Wow.” I press the back of my hand to his cheek, the same way my grandpa used to do when I was nine and trying to weasel my way out of going to school. “Are you coming down with something? Was that painful for you?”

He reaches up and grips my wrist, pulling my hand away from his face.

“I regret saying anything.”

I laugh. “No, you don’t.”

He squeezes my wrist. “I do. I think I like it better when we’re arguing.”

“Well, the day is young. I’m sure we’ll find something else to disagree on.”

I tap my hands on the counter and study our surroundings. A cozy dining space fills the bottom floor of the café. Booths against the wall and a long counter along the back. Heavy wooden beams stretch across the ceiling and an empty fireplace anchors one wall. There’s no fire, the grate filled instead with stacked books and empty mugs, the ceramic handles scribbled with handwritten names of the regulars. Mismatched love seats slot together in front of it, paired with upcycled coffee tables. A narrow staircase on the left leads to a loft up above, overflowing with used books. Little pirate flags peek out above the shelves, labeled with genres. Fantasy. Mystery.

Romance. A surprisingly robust Self-Help section and two entire shelves dedicated to Baltimore Lore.

“I didn’t realize they had an upstairs.”

Jackson nods. “It’s usually too crowded to get up there. If you come on a weekday around eleven, you can get a good spot. The owner, Patty, is usually taking fresh stuff out of the oven to restock from the morning, and the lunch rush hasn’t hit yet.”

I was wondering why he chose such a specific time. Incredible, how he approaches every aspect of his life with such detail. “So you’re always this fun, then.”

His back goes rigid. “I guess so,” he says, defensive again.

I exhale a deep sigh. I didn’t come here to fight with Jackson. I came to figure out how in the hell we’re going to work together to cover this snowstorm. After our nightmare of a meeting the other day, Keith made it clear that Jackson’s agreement to the plan is now my responsibility. If I can’t get him to agree, I’ve got a feeling there will be more turtle coverage in my future.

“All right, I’ve got two cinnamon bun lattes. One with oat milk just a hair short of scalding, brown sugar instead of white, and the cinnamon crumble on the side.” Our server gives Jackson a stern look as she slides the drinks on the counter in front of us. “The other as god intended.”

“Thanks, Patty.”

She sets her hands on her hips. “You’re lucky I like you, Jackson. I don’t do special orders.”

“I’ve seen you do three special orders just this morning,” he says with a quirk of his brow.

“Well, I don’t like doing special orders.”

“Noted.” He drops his spoon into his mug and stirs. “It’s appreciated as always, Patty.”

Patty’s eyes slant in my direction. Her mouth pops open in delight. It’s a look I’m familiar with, and the warm burst that comes with being recognized by my community pops like a champagne bubble in the middle

of my chest.

“Delilah Stewart!”

“That’s me!” I beam at her. “Hi!”

“What are you doing here?” She drops one elbow on the counter, immediately leaning into my space like we’re old friends. It’s my very

favorite thing. I love when people feel like they know me. I put so much of myself into my job, it’s a treat to have those pieces held safe in the hands of the people watching. To be seen. To be known. To be welcomed into their worlds, even if it’s just for ten minutes every morning and every night.

Patty drops her chin into her hand. “I watched your segment the other day. The one with—what was it? Oh! It was the one about Mr. Trash Wheel.

I can’t believe you actually got in there and poked through some of the trash. You’re a brave woman.”

I flinch. Mr. Trash Wheel is a semiautonomous trash interceptor in the harbor that’s been humanized by the city of Baltimore. Keith thought it would be fun if I tried to find the most interesting thing Mr. Trash Wheel scooped out of the harbor that day. I had genuine concerns for the first six minutes of that segment that I was about to discover a python while picking through the trash. Luckily, all I found in the rubble was one of those portable scooters that have been terrorizing the city. And a cardboard cutout

of Pedro Pascal.

I gave it to Gianna.

“I learned a lot about the people of Baltimore that day.”

Patty barks out a laugh. Her honey blond hair is tied back with a bandana, and she has a cute little pale pink nose ring. “I bet you did.” She pushes off the counter. “What are you doing here with my favorite radio man?”

“Oh, um.” I glance at Jackson, hoping for an assist. But he’s busy staring at his latte like it holds the answers to life’s great mysteries. “Jackson and I might be collaborating on a work project.”

“Oh?”

“I’m still trying to wrestle him into a commitment,” I say, bright and cheery. Like his continued lack of enthusiasm about working with me doesn’t feel like another wobbly brick on my half-leaning tower of self- consciousness. “Maybe your coffee will loosen him up.”

Jackson finally deigns to join the conversation. “I’m loose,” he defends.

Another loud laugh tumbles out of Patty. She pats the top of his head gently. “Sure you are, honey.” The bell rings at the register and Patty glances over her shoulder. “The people beckon. Give me a holler if you two need anything.”

Patty leaves and a heavy silence descends. Jackson stares thoughtfully down at his coffee while I stir mine. For all our awkward encounters over

the years, I don’t think we’ve ever spent more than a handful of minutes in each other’s company. Despite our proximity, we don’t know each other at all.

“So,” I start. My brain wants to fill in the empty space. Learn as much as possible, as quickly as I can. “What do you think—”

“Why did you stop reporting the weather?” he interrupts.

My mouth snaps shut. “What do you mean?”

He curls one big hand around his mug and gives me a Don’t be stupid look. I’m used to seeing that look from across a parking lot. Up close, it’s a lot more impactful.

“Why are you reporting on Mr. Trash Wheel,” he asks, “instead of the five-day forecast?”

“Mr. Trash Wheel is a very important part of the Baltimore community,”

I defend.

“I’m aware,” Jackson says lightly. “I have the limited-edition sticker to prove it.”

I perk up on my stool. “Did you see they started making shirts too?

They’ve got his little cartoon body printed all over it.”

“Don’t change the subject, Delilah.” He brings his mug to his mouth, staring at me over the rim. “Why aren’t you reporting on the weather anymore?”

I shrug and decide to play dumb. It’s easier than explaining. The truth just makes me feel like an idiot. Or a pushover. Or an idiot who also happens to be a pushover. I keep my mouth lifted in an easy smile. “Keith wanted me on different projects.”

Jackson’s eyes are hidden behind the glare of his glasses. “Keith doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he says.

“Well, don’t beat around the bush about it,” I laugh. Embarrassment pricks at the back of my neck, but I push through it, busying myself with a sugar packet. It’s one thing for me to notice, but Jackson? The guy who thought I couldn’t interpret a weather model? I blow out a gusting breath.

“Maybe the two of you can form a club. Get a new commemorative sticker for your water bottle that says ‘I Hate Delilah Stewart.’”

“Delilah.” Jackson’s voice sharpens around the consonants of my name, his teeth biting down with a clench of his jaw. “I don’t hate you.”

“You once left a note that was just a frowning face.”

He drags his hand over his mouth, trying to hide a . . . smile?

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “I’m just . . . confused by you.”

A laugh sputters out of me. “Oh, that’s much better.”

“It is,” he insists, blue eyes earnest.

I roll mine. “Sure.”

“I’m serious. You don’t—you don’t even realize, do you?”

“What?”

He studies me, choosing his words carefully. My heart picks up the pace under his attention, my throat suddenly dry.

“You are utterly unpredictable,” he finally says. Beneath the counter, his knee bumps into mine. “Most of the time, I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“And correct my parking,” I try to joke.

The barest hint of a smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Also that.”

My eyes search his, looking for the hidden insult. But all I see is an honest sort of apprehension, a deep groove between his brows. “Okay,” I

say slowly. “I believe you.”

His mouth lifts. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. His shoulders curl forward with relief. He props one elbow against the counter and slips his spoon back into his coffee.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what Jackson thinks of me. I’ve gotten very good at ignoring the opinions of others. “I suppose I do have a habit of making your life more difficult,” I concede.

He smiles down at his mug. “More colorful, certainly.”

I snort a laugh. That’s a nice way of looking at it. I think I’ll hold on to

that.

Not difficult.

More colorful.

I’ve always loved a little color.

Jackson fixes me with a look. “You going to tell me the truth now?”

Why not? Jackson already has his preconceived notions of me. There’s not much further I can slip. I abandon my sugar packets. “I haven’t been reporting on the weather because Keith is trying to sabotage my job.”

His spoon clinks against his mug, but his face remains impassive. “Why do you think?”

I like that he’s asked Why? and not Are you sure? He didn’t ask me to defend myself, and the knot of pressure that sits heavy over my heart loosens, just a bit. It’s nice to be believed. Right from the very start.

“A couple of months ago, we had this marketing company come in. He wanted to do an analysis of all of the on-air personalities. I think he was hoping—I don’t know. I think he was hoping to embarrass me. There was a roundtable with regular viewers where they shared their opinions. We got to watch the live video feedback.” I trace my finger across a bit of foam on the top of my latte. “Despite some leading questions, everyone had really positive things to say about me. I scored the highest out of the broadcast

team.”

“Shouldn’t Keith be happy about that?”

I thought he would be. I remember sitting in the meeting when we discussed the results, not understanding why he was delivering good news with such an ugly look on his face. “I’m not entirely sure what his problem with me is. I just know I’ve been paying for it ever since. He hardly ever lets me report on the weather anymore, even though he knows it’s what I like doing best.”

It’s what I went to school for. It’s why I was hired at the station. It’s what I dreamed of, spread out on the floor of my grandfather’s living room, watching Bob Turk on the boxy television with a static-filled picture.

“That’s why I wanted to meet with you before you agree to this snowstorm coverage,” I say slowly. “I think it’s another setup from Keith.”

“You think he’s sending you to the middle of nowhere to make you look like an idiot?”

“It would certainly fit his recent pattern of behavior, yeah. And it’s the first time he’s given me a weather feature since that dumb marketing meeting. I think he’s hedging his bets that he can put me in at least seven different ridiculous scenarios during this coverage.” I offer him a tight smile. “You don’t need to be a part of it.”

“But you’re going through with it,” Jackson says. “Even though you think Keith has ulterior motives. Why?”

I debate sharing the truth. Can I trust Jackson? Will he understand?

Or will he use this against me later?

“I don’t really care why Keith is giving me this opportunity,” I say. “I want to use it to show him that I’m not the disaster he keeps trying to turn me into. I love this job. I’m good at it. And I think if I go out there and deliver on this coverage without the whole circus act, Keith might actually let me do it.” I sneak a peek at Jackson, but there’s no judgment or

amusement there. Just a rapt sort of attention that I’ve rarely felt the glow of. “I want to do my job without becoming a punch line, you know?”

Patty arrives with a tray in her hand, unloading the small plates on the counter in front of us. Two cruffins, and a doughnut roughly the size of my head, covered completely with rainbow sprinkles. Jackson slides the latter in front of me without a word and I’m grateful for the distraction. It feels like I just opened up my chest and showed him some of my stickiest parts.

“What about you?” I ask, picking the sprinkles off one by one and popping them into my mouth. “What do you want out of this assignment?”

He rubs his thumb over the handwriting across the handle of his mug. His name is written in bubbly letters, a heart instead of an O at the end of JACKSON. I’m familiar enough with his notes to know what his handwriting looks like. Someone else doodled his name across the ceramic.

“I have guardianship over my sisters,” he says quietly. My eyes snap up to his. “They’re fifteen and they’re—” He huffs out a short laugh. “They’re really excited about this. About the idea of me trying something different.

Apparently”—he drags out the word—“I’m more boring than I thought. Or maybe, I guess, I’m just as boring as I thought. I don’t want to disappoint them. And—”

He stops and swallows, the long line of his throat tensing and relaxing.

“And?” I prompt.

“And I think I need to try something different. Something new. I think I need to step out of my comfort zone. I think I need to know that I can.”

Neat and orderly Jackson. Breaking his mold.

I smile. “Can I have a Post-it note?”

Jackson’s eyes flick down to my mouth, then dart quickly back up. “Who says I have Post-its?”

I roll my eyes. “Please, I know you keep them on your person.” I hold open my hand, palm up, fingers wiggling. “Gimme.”

He grumbles something under his breath then reaches for his neatly folded jacket, withdrawing a square stack of yellow Post-its. He slaps them into my hand.

I grab a stray pen and immediately start to write. Jackson leans over, trying to get a look, but I pull the paper closer to my chest, shielding it with my hand.

Jackson huffs, hovering. “What are you writing?”

“A contract,” I tell him without looking up. “So we’re both on our best

behavior. If we do this, we need to be a real team.”

I hand him the finished Post-it. His blue eyes scan what I wrote, then the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk.

I, Delilah Stewart, promise to be on my best behavior for the duration of this trip.* No picking fights, no making fun, and no parking sabotage.

*mishaps and mistakes, notwithstanding

“So you admit the parking is on purpose,” he says.

“I said no such thing.”

He laughs. A low, rough rumble. “I like the asterisk.”

“I figured if I made an absolute guarantee, you’d have your doubts.”

“Fair point.” He holds out his hand. “My turn.”

I hand over the pen and he scribbles something on the tiny notepad.

“There,” he says. I flip the pad around and read. A laugh bursts out of me.

I, Jackson Clark, promise to be on my best behavior for the duration of this trip.* No picking fights, no making fun, and no sad-face notes left on car windows.

*and will allow for mishaps and mistakes, without complaint

I laugh. Jackson smiles, pleased with himself. I set the notepad down next to my sprinkle plate and extend my hand. “Deal?” I ask.

His eyes are right on me. Shining and bright, bright blue.

His hand slips into mine. I ignore the flip in my belly and squeeze tight.

“It’s a deal.”

DELILAH STEWART: How binding is a Post-it note contract?

DELILAH STEWART: If I were to, I don’t know, somehow destroy the document . . . would the contents within still be valid?

JACKSON CLARK: What happened to the Post-it note, Delilah?

DELILAH STEWART: I spilled my coffee on it.

DELILAH STEWART: But it’s okay! I dried it off with a blow-dryer.

DELILAH STEWART: Only burned off a corner of it when it caught fire!

DELILAH STEWART: It’s still together. Mostly.