It Started with a Kiss

I don’t even have a chance to gulp down my nerves before the door swings open. Wearing nothing but plaid pajama pants, Jackson leans against the doorframe. There’s no warm greeting or kiss like he gave me at midnight. No smile or offer to come inside. He doesn’t even look me up and down like he usually does. I miss that. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “What brings you by?”

The uneasiness I had returns with a vengeance. I hate that I react this way. I hate that he makes me feel as if I’m the one to blame. I stuck to our agreement. Did I misread the situation?

“I . . .” I hold up the bag. “I brought queso.” I’m a fool around him. I need saving from myself.

His blue eyes narrow into suspicion. “You brought queso to take to Rad’s place.”

I don’t like the tension between us. It’s not what I’m used to. Sure, he’s the worst about teasing or giving me a hard time, but that’s done in playfulness. That’s not the emotion steadying his face as he stares at me now. And calls me out. Yikes.

Shoving it toward him, I say, “Just take the queso.” What am I doing? Begging for forgiveness for playing by the established rules?

“As a consolation prize? Do you think cheese is going to make everything better?”

I shrug. “It couldn’t hurt, right?” That earns me a smirk. I take advantage of the change in his mood, and ask, “Why are you mad at me?”

Jackson pushes off the doorframe and then swings the door open. “Want to come in and talk about it?”

It’s a pet peeve of mine when people say they hate confrontation like they’re unique that way. They’re not. No one likes it. Some of us have learned to handle the situation. Normally, that’d be me. But right now, instead of strength, I’m feeling insecure, and I hate that more. It’s something I haven’t felt since I left the West Coast nine years ago. “Do I have a choice?”

“You can come in or let the door close. See, Marlow? You always have a choice.” He walks back inside his apartment, letting the door swing toward me. I catch it, shoving it open and trailing in behind him. He looks back and says, “But you already know that.”

“I know that because I chose to leave?”

Turning back, he stands in the middle of his living room, his eyes piercing mine. “So you do want to talk about it?”

Do I?

Although I’m tempted to dash back out the door, I’m here, so his assumption might be right on the money. Sexual benefits aside, I don’t want to lose his friendship. We may be oil and water, but it’s not been so bad in the past few months. As strange as it sounds to admit this even to myself, Jackson St. James has become someone I look forward to seeing. I don’t want to lose that. Or him.

I’m a pro at letting others go, leaving yesterday in the past and moving on to let them live their lives without me. Why do I care so much this time?

I know . . . deep down, I know.

“Yes, I do think we need to talk,” I reply, feeling steadfast that I’m ready to throw it all out on the table.

“Then let’s talk.”

7

Jackson

This is not the Marlow I know.

Shifting from foot to foot with her eyes cast down, she offers me a bag of chips with queso as a consolation prize. I’d almost go as far as saying that she’s barely recognizable. Not because she’s not the epitome of put together. She’s dressed nicely with her hair styled in place. For me, it doesn’t matter what she wears because I always see her beauty. But it’s not her clothes or appearance that are out of character. It’s her expression.

Humility doesn’t suit her fine features.

The fact that Marlow walked out this morning doesn’t surprise me, although it was disappointing. Now, she’s here, and that is completely unexpected. She’s never been one to grovel, even when I asked her to last summer while we were exploring new sexual kinks. She suggested begging, I thought she meant for her to beg me, ready to drop to her knees, but I quickly found out she meant the opposite. I also discovered one of her hard limits. I would have thought this fell under that umbrella.

Scratching the back of my neck, I leave her standing near the door, not sure what to think of this turnabout. She’s either trying to redeem herself or pretend it never happened. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Can’t help but find a little joy in watching this play out. Especially since she doesn’t owe me anything. We crossed lines that she’s not ready for. I don’t feel I need to take away from her admitting she’s wrong, though. It might be the first and last time, so I need to savor it.