“Do you hate me?” Jackson blurts out. “I know we don’t know each other. But I get it if you hate or hated me. I guess I want to know where we stand without Theo.”
This breakfast is even weirder than the first breakfast you forgot me—the one a few weeks after we broke up, where you didn’t send me a picture of what you were eating with some pretentious caption. Your pictures always had a 90 percent chance of making me smile and feel okay about actually getting out of bed. But Jackson Wright in my living room, asking me if I hate him? That is definitely stranger.
I’m about to try and answer him, when my parents walk out of their room together.
“Gregor, this is Jackson,” Mom says.
Jackson stands and holds out his hand. Every second Dad doesn’t shake it, I feel guiltier and guiltier for being the source of his resistance, with all my hating and crying. He finally gives in, probably remembering he’s an adult who must put that ahead of being a father when another kid is involved—especially a kid who must already be uncomfortable as hell in our house.
“Morning,” Dad says. He quickly moves to the couch. “How long are you in town for?”
“I’m flying back on Monday,” Jackson says, standing. “I should actually make my way back over to Theo’s house now.” He tries to take his plate to the kitchen sink, but my mom intercepts him, the way she always intercepted you. He turns to both my parents. “Thank you for breakfast and for being cool with me staying over.”
He walks back to my room and I follow him, leaning against the threshold.
“You good?” I ask.
Jackson sits on the air mattress, his head hanging low as he flips his phone around in his palms like one of those finger-sized skateboards. “Are you good?”
“Of course not.”
“Same here.”
Jackson puts his phone down, folds his comforter, picks his clothes up from the floor, and heads to the bathroom without a word.
I twist open the air mattress’s nozzle, staring while it deflates, the piercing whistle quieting down as the bed folds into itself. I throw everything in the closet, including the pillow he slept on. I’m drained. I would be game for a nap. I owe him another shot, though. I know it.
Jackson returns from the bathroom and hands me the clothes he slept in. “Thanks again for letting me crash, Griffin. I’m going to hail a cab.”
“Save your money,” I say, pretty unaware what his cash situation is, though I’m going to go ahead and guess average. “I can walk you there.” I grab my peacoat to throw over your hoodie.
“Isn’t it really cold outside?”
“Probably not that bad.” I check the temperature on my phone’s app. “Okay, it’s pretty cold out, but I’m sure you could use some fresh air too.” I pull on my boots and grab my phone and keys. “Especially if you’re just going to stay in the apartment all weekend.”
“You’re right. Thanks, Griffin.” He gets suited up in his jacket and single glove. I’m tempted to look for an extra pair of gloves, but he’s already hurrying for the door. In the living room he waves at my parents; you would know better, but I can’t tell if his wave is halfhearted or hesitant. “Thanks again for breakfast, Mrs. and Mr. Jennings. I hope you both have a nice weekend.”
I never gave him my last name. I’m guessing you did or Facebook told him. But I catch a glimpse of what you must have seen, and not just from his manners. He’s definitely got that pull-over-to-rescue-a-boy-from-the-rain heart.
“Have a safe flight home.” My dad doesn’t get up from the couch; he barely looks up from his laptop. He’s undoubtedly playing one of those puzzle games you got him into so he could keep his mind sharp on days off and weekends. “Where are you going, Griffin?”
“I’m going to walk him back to Theo’s.” I’ll always call it your place, even if you never spent a single dollar on rent, even if you’re not physically living there anymore. “I want to go for a walk anyway.”
Neither of my parents will protest. They’re well aware the alternative will be me camping out in my room, listening to your voice mail on continuous loop.
“Sounds good. Call us if your plans change.” Mom gets off her laptop and comes over to shake Jackson’s hand. “I’m sorry again for . . .” She cuts herself off, her eyes darting around. I really hope she wasn’t about to call you Jackson’s loss—again. “Good luck deciding what you’ll do about school.”