And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 9

CHAPTER 9

DELILAH

“This is so much fun,” Jackson deadpans from the driver’s side of the news van, his hands flexing on the wheel. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.”

I launch a peach ring at his head, smirking when it bounces off his temple and lands somewhere in between the armrest and the center console. He slowly turns, giving me the most haughty, offended look I’ve ever seen.

I immediately descend into giggles.

“You’re just mad I disregarded the timetable.”

“What timetable?” he grumbles.

“The one you think I didn’t see.”

Jackson picked me up in front of my tiny Hampden row home this morning just as the sun was edging its way over the horizon. He stood at the curb, two cups of coffee in his hands, and one of those sleek, efficient winter coats hugging the strong lines of his body. He didn’t let me haul my suitcase down the steps. He just wordlessly held out the coffees until I gave in, then slotted my roller board with the broken wheel and my doughnut sled neatly in the back of the van. He was surprisingly quiet about the sled, only sparing the doughnut a quick, scathing glance.

Then we bickered in the narrow street for seven minutes about who was going to drive. I only relented when Jackson pointed out that as passenger, I could control the radio and snack distribution.

“You’re going to let me eat in the van?”

He had placed his hands on his hips and leveled me with a stern look from behind his glasses. “I’m not a monster, Delilah.”

Unfortunately for me, radio control turned out to be a bust. The only two stations the van gets are NPR and a static-filled salsa mix. I vetoed the conga drums right away, but maybe I shouldn’t have.

“Not to be dramatic, but if I have to listen to one more second of BBC World Service Newshour, I am going to fling myself from this vehicle.”

Jackson snorts. “You don’t like NPR?”

“I love public radio, but I don’t like whatever medieval-medicine episode we’ve been listening to for the past one hour and twenty-three minutes.” I burrow down further in my seat, shivering. “It’s depressing.”

I don’t want to hear about holes in skulls and rare fungal diseases and whatever implements they used to use to crack people open. I want to eat peach rings off my fingers and sing along to Whitney Houston.

But this van is not outfitted with any sort of modern equipment. I can’t plug my phone into the audio system, and I don’t have any cassettes on hand to feed into the player. So it’s just us and the spotty radio, an utterly demoralizing NPR broadcast and bursts of static.

I curl my arms around my middle, shivering again. This van is also not equipped with proper heating. I’m about to dig out one of the silver thermal emergency blankets in the back and wrap myself like a burrito. “How much longer do we have?”

“If only we had some sort of timetable,” Jackson says.

I snicker. “Like you don’t have it memorized.”

He rolls his eyes and I turn my body toward the window, trying to imagine myself someplace warmer. But everything is cast in heavy grays today, the sun’s weak rays barely managing to peek out from behind the cloud cover. It’s only going to get colder as we head into the mountains, the storm’s icy fingers starting to reach toward the foothills.

Something heavy and warm lands on my lap. I glance down at Jackson’s coat spread across my thighs.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he says in explanation.

While I’ve been shivering in the passenger seat, Jackson has been pushing up the sleeves of his slate gray crewneck. There’s a tear at the collar I can’t stop looking at. A nick in his shiny armor. He balances one watch-clad wrist over the steering wheel and glances at me again from over

the top of his thick-framed glasses. Sitting over there like that, he looks like

some sort of hot calculator ad.

“What’s that about?” he asks.

“What?”

“You’re giving me a look.”

“What sort of look?”

He swallows and my eyes drop to the strong line of his throat. He’s all dips and lines and curves. Shadowed skin in the thin light that streams in through the windshield.

It is my professional opinion that no one should look so good while driving a news van.

“Like you’re thinking of new and creative ways to assault me with peach rings,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

“Breaking news, Jackson.” I drop my chin to my chest and do my best broadcast voice. “Woman considers new and creative ways to assault

weather partner with peach rings.”

Another shiver twists my shoulders.

“Delilah,” he says, concern quickly overshadowing his amusement. “Put

the jacket on.”

“Or what?” I ask.

The barest hint of a smile deepens the lines by his eyes. “Or I’ll put it on for you,” he says.

The traffic in front of us finally starts to break and he turns his attention back to the road. I unfold the jacket and carefully spread it across my lap, tucking the collar to my chin and slipping my arms through the sleeves.

They fold over my hands and I curl my fingers in the buttery soft material, a happy sigh pressing out of me when I’m instantly wrapped in coffee-

scented warmth.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, nosing down further in the material and tucking my legs beneath me on the seat. Only my eyes are visible, like some sort of North Face gremlin. “Much,” I say, my voice muffled. “Thank you.”

He hums. “Look at us. The picture of teamwork.”

I snort and wiggle in my coat blanket. “Does that mean you’re ready to talk about it?”

His face instantly shutters. “No,” he snaps. “I’m not.”

I let my forehead fall against the window and give in to the laughter

that’s been burning a hole through the center of my chest since 6:03 a.m.

We decided to introduce Jackson with the morning weather report at YBAL before we got on the road. Unfortunately, that didn’t proceed much better than the radio broadcast.

“What possessed you to wear green?” I say with another peal of laughter, my voice high and breathy. I try to wrangle control of myself but I can’t. I will be holding on to the mental image of Jackson’s floating head in front of the weather map until my dying day. “You wore a green shirt in front of a green screen, Jackson.”

Jackson drags one hand through his hair and anchors it against the back of his neck, his arm straining beneath the material of his sweater. His face is a delightful combination of bemused and bewildered and it only makes me laugh harder.

“My Friday shirt is green,” he says faintly.

“You didn’t think to change it?”

“I haven’t done a television broadcast before, Delilah. I forgot about the green screen. Radio doesn’t have a green screen.” He drops his arm with a heavy exhale. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before we started?”

“I tried to. I would have, if you didn’t wait in your car until the last possible second.”

“I was meditating,” he says, eyes squinting with the lie.

“You were stress-eating a hash brown.”

I could see him from the front window of the studio while I waited for him to come inside. He sat in the driver’s seat of his car staring at the building like he’d rather toss himself off the top of it, shoveling a greasy hash brown into his mouth.

“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath, trying to push down on the laughter that keeps bubbling up. “If I’m forcing you to do this—”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” he cuts me off quickly. His features relax, that little line between his brows disappearing. “I’m fine, I’m just processing. I’m trying to figure out how to do this.”

“This?”

“The broadcasts. The . . . partnership. I want to be good at it.” He pauses for a second, then, quieter, “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

My laughter finally settles, a silly smile still stretched across my face. It’s the most honest Jackson has ever been with me, and I know it cost him. I

can tell by the way he’s holding himself. How he’s firmed his shoulders, waiting for me to rib him some more.

“Well, you don’t need to figure it out alone,” I tell him gently. “We’re a team now, remember?”

Jackson glances over at me, a smile quirking his lips. Behind his head, rich, full evergreens blur past. Frost-tipped fence posts and open fields. A

kaleidoscope of winter colors.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “A team.”

“Yeah.” My lips twitch. “And while your news debut didn’t go the way you wanted, you certainly made an impression.”

He winces. “Great.”

“Very Wizard of Oz.”

He palms his hand along his jaw. “I was too afraid to look at the screen.

Was it just my head? Floating around?”

Another laugh rockets out of me. I clap my hand over my mouth, then spread my fingers to whisper, “You could see some of your shoulders too.”

“Oh, good. Glad my shoulders could make it.” His hands flex on the steering wheel, the lines of his body tensing and then relaxing.

“All of Baltimore now understands why you’ve stuck to radio.”

His eyebrows pop up. “Are you saying I’m too ugly for television?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It sounds like what you’re saying.”

I eyeball him, holding himself still on the other side of the van. Glancing over at me every so often out of the corner of his eye.

“Jackson,” I hedge. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe.” He pauses and clears his throat. “What would you say if I was?”

My attention drifts along the contours of his face and snags on his mouth.

He has a faint scar, right below his bottom lip. I’ve never noticed it because I’m not sure he’s ever given me these smiles before. Scowls? Sure. Vague grunts in my general direction? Obviously. But this easy, playful grin?

Never.

“Is this another team-building exercise?”

“It could be.” He shrugs. “I could even pull over, if you wanted. One of us could climb up to the top of the van and we could do trust falls.”

I snicker. “You would never.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I would never.” Another easy grin lights him up,

transforming his face. All those severe lines, melting into something warmer. Is this how everyone else gets to see him? Does he save all his hard edges for me? “C’mon, Delilah. Tell me the truth. I can handle it.”

“What do you want to know?” I laugh.

“Do I have a face for TV?” His half smile tumbles into a full one. “The first time we met, what did you think of me?”

“I think the first time I saw you, you were climbing out from the trunk of your car.”

Pink touches the base of his throat. “That’s because you always park too close to my car door. Sometimes I can’t open it.”

“Sure.”

He mutters something under his breath. “All right, fine. How about later, then? At the start of this whole thing. What did you think?”

I remember his blue checkered shirt. The press of his body against mine.

Too-sweet coffee and no air in my lungs. “I thought, Where did this man come from and why is he on top of me in this hallway?”

“When you found out you had to work with me,” he clarifies with a huff.

“In Keith’s office. Or at the café, I don’t know.” He scratches roughly at the back of his head, some of the longer strands of his blond hair sticking up at odd angles. My fingers itch with the insane urge to smooth them back down.

I press my palms to my thighs and clear my throat, feeling flustered. This news van has never felt so small.

“Never mind,” he says gruffly, his eyes intent on the road. He digs his knuckle into his cheek, jostling his glasses and then straightening them again. “I didn’t mean—”

“When I saw you sitting at the counter at the café,” I interrupt, “I thought it was a shame you’re so handsome because you have the personality of a

wet piece of cardboard.”

There. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Jackson takes several seconds to process. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “You think I’m handsome?”

I snort. “I think you’re focused on the wrong part of that statement.”

“I don’t think so.” He grins, so sudden and uncharacteristic that it takes me several seconds to process. “I thought your smile was weird,” he offers.

“What?”

“Your smile,” he says again. “I thought it was odd.”

“In what way?” I ask, offended.

“You’re always smiling,” he answers. “Even when you don’t want to be.”

His fingertips tap their way across the top of the steering wheel. “It’s weird,” he adds as an afterthought, that little line appearing between his eyebrows again. Thoughtful.

“I don’t like this game anymore.” I burrow back down into his jacket. “I say you’re handsome, and I get Your smile is weird.”

“Would you rather I lie?”

“No. I never want you to lie to me.” Maybe that’s the best part about working with Jackson. He’ll never tell me something untrue. He won’t tell me one thing, but mean another. I’ll always get the truth.

Still. He could use a little finesse.

“What’s wrong with being happy?” I begrudgingly ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Not if you actually feel it.”

I draw a tiny snowflake in the condensation on the bottom-right corner of the window, my eyes suddenly tight. “I feel it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Usually. Most of the time. When it matters, I guess.

“Hmm,” Jackson offers, and something about the short, knowing sound has frustration pulling tight across my shoulders. I sit up straighter, his jacket slipping down to pool in my lap.

“Well, I’m certainly not feeling it right now,” I snap.

Jackson rolls his lips against a grin and my stare turns narrow-eyed. I imagine the satisfaction of a spitball, right to his temple. A crumpled up Post-it note to the middle of his forehead.

“You’re infuriating, do you know that?”

“I’ve been told a time or two.” He hits the blinker, shifting over lanes while checking the mirrors. “Do you want to know another thing?

Something I thought when I saw your broadcast outside of the aquarium?”

I didn’t realize he’s been watching my broadcasts. I pick at a stray piece of thread poking out at the bottom of his jacket, twisting it around and around until it snaps. Curiosity is a terrible thing.

“What?”

“I was . . . irritated . . . by the turtle costume.” The blush on his neck creeps up, along the line of his throat. “So do with that what you will.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Yes,” he sighs. “You do.”

The realization is a slow-moving thing, slowly bouncing from synapse to synapse until the connection is a tenuous thread.

“Jackson,” I gasp. “Were you attracted to the turtle suit?”

He shifts, uncomfortable. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Was it the shell?” I ask with a wobbling voice. There’s a laugh caught in the middle of my chest that I’m frankly afraid to let out. “Or was it the finned hands that did it for you?”

“I think it was your enthusiasm, actually, and your ability to make everything look easy,” he answers lightly, smacking the turn signal off. That shuts me up. My laughter sputters and dies, that tight feeling spreading from behind my eyes to the bridge of my nose.

“Oh,” I say. “I see.”

Jackson grunts in vague agreement, then merges over again. I glance out the window at the trees speeding past, my eyes tracking the billboards. One in particular catches my attention, and I make a split-second decision.

“Take the next exit,” I tell Jackson.

“What? Why?”

“Because I want to see something.”

He takes the ramp without further explanation. The news van slows considerably as we rumble around a sharp turn.

“Delilah?” he asks.

I need to get out of this van. I can’t be this close to him—wrapped in a jacket that smells like his coffee and cologne—when he’s being sincere.

Plus, my stomach has been grumbling for the past hour, and the peach rings aren’t doing it for me anymore.

“Time for a little spontaneity,” I say. Up the road there’s a large rotating sign creaking above a parking lot proudly boasting BREAKFAST ALL DAY.

Except ALL DAY is spelled with two upside-down sevens, and the A is another color entirely. Below the sign, handwritten in spray paint, is:

ASK US ABOUT OUR FAMOUS HOT TURKEY SANDWICHES

“Oh no,” Jackson says. “I have no desire for food poisoning, thanks.”

“You said you wanted to try different things, right? Disrupt your routine?” I gesture out the window with wide eyes.

“I didn’t say I wanted to die in Appalachia from salmonella.”

“Hot turkey sandwiches,” I emphasize. “Presumably, it’s cooked through.

You’ll be fine.” I wiggle happily in my seat. I hope they have French fries.

And milkshakes. “It’s a sign.”

Jackson ducks his head and peers out the windshield. “I’m pretty sure that’s a piece of plywood, Delilah.”

The van slows to a creep as Jackson reluctantly enters the parking lot. He picks a spot near the back, though there’s not exactly a shortage of choice.

There are only two other cars in the lot. He cuts the ignition, but otherwise remains motionless in the front seat.

“Great, let’s go.” I unclick my seat belt, then reach over and do the same to his. I push my arms through the sleeves of his jacket and wedge open the passenger door. I hop out without waiting for him. “Turkey sandwiches await!”

For a second, I don’t think he’ll follow. Then I hear a car door slam and boots against the pavement.

Somewhere behind me, Jackson sighs, weary. “This wasn’t in the timetable.”

I smile into the collar of my stolen coat.

COMMENT FROM MORETHANRATSHERE: Excuse me, but is that what Jackson Clark LOOKS LIKE?

COMMENT FROM ORIOLESMAGIC28: It’s what his head looks like, at least.