Wild Child (27 page)

But it was easy to laugh at something you’d never experienced. Easy to disregard something the rest of the female world took such pleasure in, when she had no idea what that pleasure felt like.

She imagined Jackson taking the time to cut the flowers for her. Finding the ribbon, walking over with them and leaving them with Jay. It was an apology, sure. But it was also … a whisper in her ear. A hand against her back.
I’m thinking of you
, the flowers said in subtext.
I took the time to do something that would bring you pleasure
.

She put her nose in the blooms, inhaled their sweetness.

It wasn’t enough, but it was a pretty good start.

She put the blooms in a water glass and set them on her desk where she could see them as she got ready for her day. It was the last day of her fake writing class and after that, she had to take some time to answer the worried emails her agent and editor were sending her.

But first
, she thought, grabbing Reba’s leash,
coffee
.

Fifteen minutes later, Sean turned to look at her from his seat at the counter at Cora’s.

“You’re becoming a regular around here,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Good coffee is good coffee.”

“Even if it comes with attitude,” Sean said, casting Cora a poisonous glance.

“You don’t like it, make your own damn omelette at your own damn house,” Cora said, pouring coffee into a to-go cup.

“It’s kind of nice not having the film crew around, isn’t it?” Monica asked. It was as though the whole town had been sucking in their bellies for three days and now they were finally comfortable again.

“I’ve had enough of cameras in my face for a while,” Cora said.

“Well, if we make the finals they’re coming back,” Sean pointed out. “Hey, did you hear? Next Tuesday morning we’re having the
America Today
party at the garage next
to the bar. We’ll watch the results live. The whole town’s invited.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said.

“Then you’ll come? We’re going to have specials on Bloody Marys.”

“I’m making fritters,” Cora said.

“What a disgusting combination,” Monica said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Cora handed Monica her coffee and Monica held out a five-dollar bill, but Cora put up her hand.

“Oh come on, Cora, not this again.”

“It’s not on me,” she said, pointing over Monica’s shoulder to the far corner of the café. “Talk to him.”

Monica turned only to see Jackson, his head down over a notebook. A cup of coffee steaming at his elbow.

“Standing rule as of this morning,” Cora said. “He’s buying whatever you’re having.”

“Then give me one of those peach muffins, too,” she said, unable to look away from him. The roll of his shoulder, the way he rested his head in his hand, scribbling away in that notebook.

He was the picture of dejected. Of burdened.

Cora handed her the bagged muffin and Monica approached Jackson, who didn’t look up until she stood nearly beside him.

“Hi,” he said, the light in his eyes flaring for just a moment. And she felt like a spider caught in his gaze. Caught in him. Caught in the memory of the pleasure he gave her. The soft wilted edge of those flowers.

“I understand you’re paying my way around here,” she said.

“The least I can do,” he said.

“No one’s ever given me flowers before.” She had no idea why she told him that. What was the point of revealing yet another piece of herself to him?

He ducked his head, humble and earnest. “Then I am especially glad I picked them for you.”

“Christ, Jackson, you are so polite,” she breathed, both charmed and then angry that she was charmed.

His smile was different from all his others. This one was worn. So terribly depleted, yet she refused to be swayed by that smile. She knew, with the sixth sense that came with the intimacy that they had shared—and not just the intimacy of their bodies, but of all they had inadvertently revealed about the parts of themselves they usually hid from people—that whatever was weighing on his mind was heavier than her.

“Sadly, Monica, I can’t find it in myself at the moment to be rude, just to please you.” That he tried to make it a joke broke her heart.

“I’ll … I’ll talk to you later,” she said and again he nodded, before running his hands through that thick curl of hair over his forehead and looking down at the notes he was making.

She got as far as the fire hydrant she’d tied Reba to, the sunlight glittering and sparkling, causing her to squint against the dazzle of the day.

Jackson had come back for her. Despite the disappointments of yesterday, she had to remind herself that he was also the guy who came back to her hotel room after she’d rejected him and pushed him away with no explanation. He’d been so concerned for her that he came back. Asked her if she’d been raped, for crying out loud. He’d sensed her wounds and returned to see if he could help. And he had. He’d helped her immeasurably.

And in that back corner booth, he was wounded. It was obvious, despite his efforts to pretend otherwise.

And she could accept his flowers, and his coffee. Bilk him for a free muffin every once in a while, and eventually let him back into her bed—but walking away from
him right now would be a betrayal. She’d be using him the way all those men had used her.

And she didn’t want to be that kind of woman.

She had no idea if he would feel that way. She really wasn’t even sure if he would talk to her, but for herself, for her own peace of mind, she had to try.

“I’ll be right back,” she told the dog and walked back into the café, heading right for Jackson’s booth. He looked up, startled, when she slid onto the bench across from him.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

It was obvious he’d been putting all his energy into pretending he was fine. She waved her hand. “Don’t answer that. Just … just tell me what happened.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I think … I’m trying to be your friend.” It was hard work being honest. Being vulnerable with all her clothes on. “Because you need one. And I need one, and something is clearly bothering you. I don’t think just being unkind to me yesterday would make you act like you’ve been gutted.”

“Is that how I’m acting?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry I was unkind.”

“I know.”

“I told my sister I was leaving,” he finally said.

“Good for you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We got in a huge fight. She said, and I quote, ‘I don’t give a shit.’ ”

“A fight is better than nothing, right?”

“I don’t even know. I’ve screwed things up so bad.” He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the ends as though he’d pull the whole mess out if he could. “Before our mom and dad died, I barely knew Gwen. I was so much older than her. I was barely her brother, and then suddenly I was in charge of her. I couldn’t be her parent,
there was no way. So I tried to be her friend, but she … she was so smart. Just. So. Smart. And I remember so clearly, after the funeral, after it had all settled down and it was just her and me … she looked at me with these eyes, these old-woman eyes in a little girl’s face, and she needed me. I … I don’t know, I just freaked out a little. She needed me so much.
So much
. And I had no clue how to help her, how to be what she needed. How to meet these unmeetable expectations she had. I couldn’t … I couldn’t fix things for her. I couldn’t make things right. So I backed off. And all the doctors tried to tell me to make her life normal and I … I didn’t even understand what that meant for her, you know? So I just kept inviting these kids around, because I didn’t have to look into her eyes when we had a bunch of kids around.”

Never had she heard anything so pointedly honest. So terribly cowardly and brave at the same time. She felt torn in two by his words.

“You’re probably not all that different from her, Jackson.”

“I feel like either I’m an alien or she is, that’s how different we are.”

“Come on,” she laughed, but he wasn’t joking.

He sighed, putting his hands down on the table as if he could shove it all away. Which, she realized, was probably what he’d been doing for years.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Okay,” she said, knowing it wasn’t a reflection of how he felt about her. He’d probably revealed more to her than anyone else in his life. “Do you want me to leave?”

His eyes pierced hers. “No.”

Well, that didn’t leave them much, did it? She opened her bag and split the muffin, putting it back on the bag before pushing it into the no-man’s-land between them. It took him a second, as if he were some wild animal she
was trying to tame with crumbs. A ridiculous notion, but still. She acted normal, ate a little, sipped her coffee. Nodded to people as they passed, until finally he reached out too and took a piece of the muffin.

Piece by piece, they ate the muffin in silence.

Chapter 17

Other than Jay watching Gwen like a puppy dog, the third and final installment of Monica’s fake writing class was relatively uneventful. The assignment for the first part of class was for the students to write a letter to someone who had hurt them. Gwen kept her head bent, her blond hair hiding her and her paper from view.

She’d been manic all class. Fidgety and snappy. She’d yelled at Ania already, called Jay an idiot.

And she sat there writing so furiously, it was a wonder the pages didn’t burst into flames.

Monica hoped she was getting some catharsis over Jackson.

In the second part of the class the assignment was to write a letter to themselves, pretending they were the recipients of the first letter. Basically, switch places with the person who had hurt them.

“What?” Ania asked.

“The whole point of books, of art in general, is to experience empathy. To allow ourselves to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. And as a writer, you’ve got to do that. You have to learn that.” She tried not to look at Gwen, but she couldn’t help it. Vicious unease radiated off that girl like fumes. Even if Monica weren’t aware of what had happened between her and Jackson, she’d be worried about Gwen’s behavior.

“Ania doesn’t understand empathy,” Gwen snapped, flipping the page in her notebook so hard it ripped. “All she understands are grades.”

“That’s not fair!” Ania cried.

“It is, kind of,” Jay said.

“Stop,” Monica said. “Everyone just stop arguing and start writing.”

“But what if the person we’re writing to did something really bad?” Gwen asked.

“Even villains think they’re heroes,” she said, and Jay gasped.

One mind blown, yay me
.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Try. No one has to read this if you don’t want.”

They split back up and kept writing until Shelby came to the back door of the barn.

“Time!” she yelled across the lawn to the picnic tables that had become Monica’s makeshift classroom, and the three teenagers started collecting their things. Jay reluctantly stopped writing.

“That …” he sighed, “was epic.”

Delighted, she laughed. Almost clapped her hands—this feeling, of being important, of making even a little impact on these kids—it was pretty great. She suddenly envied Shelby, who got to have this feeling all the time.

“I’m so glad,” Monica said. “And since this is the last of these classes, I just want to say … it was fun.”

Gwen snorted.

“It was. It … I mean, you may not have learned anything, but I did, and I appreciate that.”

Jay gave her a fist-bump before leaving. Ania asked hesitantly for a letter of recommendation for colleges next year, but Gwen took off across the lawn and back into the barn without even a backward glance.

Alone at the picnic tables, Monica sighed, feeling like a big stone had been rolled off her back.

But she kind of missed the stone.

She took a few minutes to use Shelby’s wi-fi and opened her laptop to answer her agent’s and editor’s slightly frantic
emails. Her agent wanted a sample of what she’d been working on, just as a sign of faith for the editor, and Monica struggled to put together a couple of brief character sketches. A loose scene between JJ and Simone, when Simone was a teenager and JJ was committing what was in all actuality statutory rape.

What a beautiful family I have
, she thought, poisoned by the story all over again.

She glanced up, suddenly aware that the sun had shifted behind clouds. Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d been here for two hours.

“Holy cats,” she breathed, and put her things away. She was surprised Shelby hadn’t been out here with a pitchfork, kicking her off the property.

Inside, the classroom part of the barn was mostly empty. Except for Gwen hanging up art on the drying wire.

“Hey,” Monica said softly, aware that the girl was deep in thought and practically coated in radioactive ill will.

“What are you doing here?” Gwen asked with heavy suspicion.

“I was just …” She pointed behind her toward the outside. “Just working on some stuff. I lost track of time. The campers are gone?”

Gwen nodded, putting the last of the comic books on the wire. “Everyone’s gone. Shelby’s in her office. Jay had a shift at the Peabody and Ania … Ania flew away on her broomstick.”

Everything about Gwen screamed that she needed someone to talk to. She had a cosmic neon sign over her head saying “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Well,” Monica said, fighting her instinct to help. Because she’d probably screw it up and Jackson would hate it and really, frankly it was none of her business. “I’ll see you—”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.” Eagerly, Monica put her bag back on the floor, relieved that Gwen was going to make it her business. Another reason intimacy was so weird—it showed up in the strangest places without visible boundaries. It was like the Bermuda Triangle. “Shoot.”

“Are you mad at your mom for killing your dad?”

Whoa
. Talk about unexpected. And … and not anything she’d really ever thought about before.

“It was self-defense,” she said. “My dad was going to kill her. Probably hurt me. My mom was doing her best to protect us. There are plenty of other reasons I’m mad at my mom, but that’s not one of them. Are you … are you mad at your parents for dying?”