Chapter 21
Maia
If you asked me whether I knew where Jackson was going to be on that Wednesday afternoon, I would have lied and happily told you that I had no idea. The truth is that I did know. I knew that he played basketball every Wednesday and Saturday at the college courts, and that he spent an unusually large amount of time in the library these days. He wants to be friends? That’s a novel idea! Especially since the very thought of being close to Jackson causes my stomach to erupt in beautiful butterflies. Nonetheless, we can do this, we both can.
Surprisingly, he’s already at the Bean by the time I get there. “Hi,” I say casually, trying to ignore how hot Jackson looks freshly showered, his arm swung casually over the back of the chaise lounge where he’s seated. I immediately regret my decision to be in such close proximity to him. We, him, us, all of this is far from over, and way too raw to revisit so soon. We both know that, but here we are, irrespective of that fact.
I perch myself awkwardly across from him, hoping against all hope that something in my demeanor, or eyes, or voice doesn’t betray me, in this little game that we’re trying to play. That I can hide behind this fa?ade well enough to get through the next few hours. Jackson offers me a sweet, platonic smile that both warms my heart and breaks it simultaneously. All of a sudden, in the list of epically bad ideas I’ve come up with in my lifetime, this seems like it might just be number one. With a bullet. Despite my stoic expression, my mind reverts back to the moments I spent with my arms...and legs wrapped around Jackson. A searing heat courses through my body, flushing my cheeks.
“Hey!” The words that left my mouth were supposed to be casual, supposed to ooze with nonchalance and, well, just ease. Except they don’t. The single, solitary word shoots out of my upper orifice like it was synthetically sped up, and combined with the awkward grin on my face, it’s just an enormous fail on my part. The only way I’m getting through this, I decide, is with indifference. It’s going to be one long ass afternoon.
I didn’t, however, take into account that when I was trying to be an elusive ice queen, the fact that I am and probably always will be annoyingly comfortable in Jackson’s company. After stuffing our faces, we order drinks and relax into the evening, which as it turns out, flies by with ease. The more scotch I drink, the more attractive Jackson becomes and my eyes revert more than once to the bulge in his jeans. If he notices, he doesn’t mention a thing, but does casually adjust his pants when I lean forward to grab my phone from my bag, or to reapply my lip-gloss. I know I’m teasing, deliberately bending forward to flash my black lace bra. I want him to want me. But at the same time, I told him not to. More than once in the evening I’m distracted by the head versus heart versus vagina dilemma I have going on.
“This is nice,” Jackson says quietly during our third round of drinks.
“What?” I ask curiously.
“Having drinks, no pressure. I guess we can be friends after all. Who knew?” He gives me a cocky sideways grin.
“Easy huh?” I say with mock offense.
“Not even missing me a little?” I try to sound nonchalant, but the sadness makes its way past my smile.
“Every day,” he says looking down with sudden interest at the label on his beer bottle. “If being friends is the only way to see you, then it’s what I gladly take.”
The conversation stalls right then, because truthfully, there’s nothing either of us can say. We’re both lying and we know it. This awkwardness, this conversation, will always be the elephant in the room for us.
I knock back the contents of my glass and order another. I should stop drinking. That’s what I should do. We should say goodnight and exit stage left to our respective lonely beds right f-ucking now. But neither of us go. Neither of us can. The Clever Bean around us is alive with the sounds of glasses clinking and drunken merriment. I knock back the next glass as it lands in my hand.
“I should go,” I say with hesitation before grabbing my bag.
“I’ll walk you,” Jackson says standing up.
“I’m fine, it’s a few doors down,” I reply with a polite smile.
Jackson gives me a cocky grin, “Mama said to be a gentleman at all times. Gotta listen to mama, now.”
I shrug and we walk. The whiskey obviously has a much stronger effect on me now that I’m standing up and using my lower extremities. After me missing the curb twice, Jackson slides an arm around my waist. I would tell him to back off, but he’s all that’s keeping me walking in a straight line. And he smells so f-ucking good, like soap and fresh mint mixed with an ocean breeze.
This half drunk, half lucid state that I’m in is doing nothing to help me maintain my resolve. I want to f-ucking leap into Jackson’s arms, wrap my arms and legs around his person and hold on for dear life. The urge almost brings me to my knees a few times in our short walk. I stay silent, as I’m not able to trust myself with whatever could spew verbally from my mouth. Jackson opens my building door and holds it open for me. “
Will you be okay from here?” he asks.
Yes, no, not really, maybe. What the hell do I say? Before my brain formulates a decent response to the question, my body answers for me, and my traitorous lips crash into his. Jackson grabs my waist and kisses me as though he’s been roaming a desert and I’m his oasis, his water.
“Maia.” My name leaves his lips through the kiss in a guttural moan, and it sounds so freaking hot. It must be the alcohol affecting me, because every nerve in my body feels like it’s laced with live voltage.
Jackson pushes me up against the far wall, and the first thought that pops into my head is, thank God I don’t have a doorman. My body rocks between the wall and Jackson, and his hips grind me into the plaster so hard I’m worried for a moment that I’ll go straight through. Our kisses are feverish, almost suffocating us, and the air around us electric. He struggles to find bare skin, practically clawing at my dress. Without a moment’s hesitation, I reach down for his belt buckle, my fingers clumsily prying it apart. I want to feel Jackson so badly that the thought clouds every other in my mind.
Jackson lets out a half-guttural moan and sighs before placing his hand over mine and moving it gently away. My foggy brain takes a moment to process what he’s doing. I meet his eyes and though still lust filled, there is a sadness that illuminates them. Regret? My partially coherent brain can’t quite process what’s happening.
“Maia…” Jackson’s voice trails off as though he wants nothing in the world more than to avoid what he’s about to say.
I hand him the out he needs. Before he can finish the sentence, I shove him away and run up the stairs. He doesn’t follow me, and I don’t dare glance back, although I know he’s watching me race up the stairs. The world blurs as tears distort my vision and the true weight of my stupidity dawns on me, pushing through my impaired lucidity. I let him go, what the hell did I expect?
My shaky hands unlock the door as I stumble over the threshold. My body and heart both ache for Jackson, but abject humiliation stops me from running back out the door to stop him. What will I say? No, I don’t want to be with you. But I do want to sleep with you. No I’m lying because I love you and I need you. But I can’t need you. And I definitely can’t tell you that I need you. My body curls itself into the fetal position on the couch, and that’s where I stay.
The morning sun filters through my bay windows and the blinding glare sears my eyes, which I already know are red rimmed and puffy. I had hope that the alcohol would provide me with a much-needed sense of vagueness about the previous night’s happenings. Sadly though, that was not the case. Along with my throbbing head and churning stomach, I remembered, with absolute clarity, the way Jackson kissed and held me just before he pushed me away.
I peel myself off of the sofa and slowly amble my way to the shower. Coffee, I need coffee. After washing yesterday’s funk from my skin and hair, and deciding that my giving-zero-fucks factor will only allow me to throw on a pair of yoga pants, my Brown sweater and a pair of running shoes, I make my way down to the Clever Bean. The waitress eyes me cautiously when I order a double shot piccolo, but doesn’t venture to make small talk. I must have my f-uck off face on as well. As I turn to leave, a familiar frame catches my eye. And it’s the last person I want to see. Not only that, it’s the last person I want to see in the last situation in which I want to see him.
Jackson sits at the window, chatting animatedly to some school-girl looking blond. Her neat bob and swept back fringe, combined with her almost flawless, makeup free face, liken her to a candidate for the nunnery. She smiles shyly as he talks. And all I can do is stare. And envision myself strolling over and yanking every strawberry blonde lock from her scalp.
I turn to walk away, figuring that leaving with my dignity and my coffee is the only likely solution, but in my feverish attempt to escape, I collide with a rock solid structure, sending my coffee flying to the floor, with my person in hot pursuit. A pair of arms catches me just before I completely lose my footing.
“Whoa!” The voice is cheerful, if not slightly mocking.
“Sorry, I…sorry,” I stammer. Well, there goes my dignity. The arms that grab me are long and lean, and so is the body they are attached to. And if I weren’t so mortified by the situation, and horrified by the sight of Jackson with that blonde, I may have paid attention to the rest of him. But I don’t. I hightail it out of the Bean like my ass is on fire. As I steal a glance back, Jackson’s eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, I think I see pity in those beautiful brown wells.