It Started with a Kiss

“Which is?”

“Choosing me.” I set the glass down and stare out the window. “Choosing to follow through with what she said last night and getting together before she leaves.”

“I don’t think you need backup, but if you want me to go, I will.”

Reaching over, I rub his leg and lean my head on his shoulder. “Thank you, but I think I’ll be okay. It was just so unexpected to see her, to see her flying in to celebrate with friends when I know how many of my birthdays she missed and my graduations—both high school and college.” I snap my fingers. “But when a friend calls, she’s there in a heartbeat.”

He’s gone quiet after the second taco. I glance at him and ask, “Already stuffed?”

“No.” Setting his plate aside, he hops down and comes to settle between my legs. The air changes like his mood, the laughter gone along with his smile.

“What’s wrong?” I set my plate beside me, that queasiness returning.

He runs his fingers over the top of my hand, not looking at me. When he does, it’s as if he’s steeling himself. “You should check your messages.”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Digging my fingers into the denim covering my thighs, I brace myself the best I can. “Why?”

His hesitancy only makes this worse. I slide to the right of him and land on my feet. “Where’s my phone?”

“It’s still plugged in over there.”

Though dread fills each step, I reach for it and pull the cord from the bottom. The screen lights up, and I just catch the name when it flashes before going dark again. Amelia. I whip back to look at Jackson. “My boss.”

“When did the message come?”

“I was getting water last night—”

“Last night?” Panic infiltrates my tone as I finally get the nerve to touch the screen to brighten it again. My chest was empty, but my sunken heart with the dwindling beats dwelling in the bottom of my gut finally ceases. My hand starts shaking. “I’m fired?” My tone not doing any better, I look at Jackson, needing any ounce of hope he musters to help me through this.

He's there, picking me up before the words sink in and carrying me into the living room. I wrap my arms and legs around him, and when he sits, I stay the same, wrapped around and completely wrapped up in him.

I take a deep breath. It’s filled with the scent of his soap and the cologne he wears on the weekends. I start to laugh that he has weekday and weekend scents. When I tip my head back, my stomach begins to ache from the belly laugh.

Tears fall, but they’re not sad.

“Are you okay?” he asks, smiling at me, but I see the concern in his eyes.

“No . . . I’m not.” I slide off his lap and stand. With my back to him, I put my hands on my hips as I catch my breath from the delirium that surfaced, making me feel at a loss of control of my own emotions. I stand, staring into the distance at the building across the four lanes of traffic twelve floors below.

His hands cover my shoulders, his warmth exchanged. I feel weak. Jackson catches me before I sink to the couch. Resting against him, I am secure in his arms. He kisses behind my ear and then whispers, “You’re not alone. We’ll figure it out together.”

Turning in his arms, I look at him and wonder how his good intentions flow so sweetly from his lips without a second thought. “I lost my job, Jackson. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that job . . . and I’m fired. For what?”

“Fuck them. Find a place where they appreciate you.”

I stare at him as if he’s speaking an alien language. “Fuck them? I have the money from selling the bags, but nothing else. I still have bills. Expenses.” I back out of his reach and start pacing, my thoughts spinning faster than my feet. “I can’t live here forever. I’ll have to put down deposits and—”

“Slow down, Marlow. I understand this is another hit coming at you, but you’ll be okay. You can stay here as long as you like. Maybe you never have to—”

“And live off you?” Shaking my head, I say, “No. No. No. I can’t do that.” I hit him with a look. “I can’t do that.”

He holds my glare, silently staring back, but he’s better than I am. He always was. He refrains from allowing any judgment to color his expression and sits down. I lose sight of his eyes and thoughts, wanting to hear him talk sense into me.

He doesn’t.

In fact, he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, letting my worry spiral out of my hands.

“Jackson?”

Looking back at me, he says, “You probably won’t remember discussing this last night, but I told you we’re not going to fight. You have a lot of pent-up anger, as you should. You have every right to feel like you do.” Waggling his finger between us, he continues, “But it’s not going to flow in my direction.” He stands back to his full height. “These are the times that determine if we make it.”