Page 59 of I Just Want to be Yours

My smile warms. “New York pizza.”

There’s a huff of what might be considered laughter as he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He unlocks it and types something before handing it to me. “Take your pick.”

On the small screen is a list of all the nearby pizza places, and my stomach growls just looking at some of the pictures on Google. One picture in particular stands out to me, and I quickly swipe through some of the raving reviews before pulling it up on the map. Turning the phone back to Jackson, I say, “This one.”

Jackson takes his phone back from me and zooms in on the map before glancing up at the street name closest to us. “All right. Let’s get you your pizza.”

Taking my hand, he leads us down the sidewalk. I love the feeling of his hand in mine. I’ve missed the rough feel of his fingers, callused from playing. There’s always been a familiarity with Jackson. I’ve always been able to be myself with him more than anyone—even if that wasn’t always a good thing. I’ve never had to filter the things I say, or water down my emotions. I’ve always just been able to lean into whatever I’m feeling, good or bad.

There’s an ease to being around him, but I don’t think I’veever been able to pinpoint the feeling until now. Because as I walk these busy New York streets with him, I’m struck with the sudden realization that Jackson feels like home.

It’s one thing to feel at home with a person when your literal bed is in the next room and you’re surrounded by your friends. But I feel at home with himnow.More than I do at my apartment in Tampa, and a lot more than I do at my parents’ house in Indiana.

My thumb runs along the back of his hand as we walk, and I get the sudden urge to stop him and kiss him. The alarming rush of emotion that comes over me feels like it needs an outlet. It feels like it’s about to burst out of me. I don’t know how I got to this point of needing him the way I do, but it’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. It makes me feel desperate and totally at ease. Secure and completely out of control.

Unable to resist, I lightly squeeze his hand, and Jackson looks at me with a slight lift to his lips. His eyes search mine the way they always do, but he won’t find anything worth hiding. Lifting our clasped hands to his lips, he kisses the back of mine.

It’s a small gesture—probably something he’s done a million times before, but my heart swells like it’s the first, and I hope that this overwhelming, borderline uncomfortable, wonderful feeling lasts.

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The small pizzashop is busy the same way everything still open in this city is busy. The sign on the door says they’re open until two, so we have plenty of time to get Margot as much pizza as she wants. Holding the door for her, she smiles sweetly and says a soft “Thanks” as she walks past.

I follow, and my hand finds the small of her back. Her eyes are fixed on the menu board on the far wall, and I love how seriously she takes her ordering decision. There’s a slight crease to her brow as she mutters the different options with total concentration.

Giving me a sideways glance, she says, “I’m not on the menu, Jackson.”

My eyebrow kicks up. “Aren’t you, though?”

She dismisses with a shake of her head. “Nothere.Figure out what pizza you want and stop staring at me.”

My amusement grows. “I thought you liked it when I stare at you.”

A huff of disbelief leaves her lips, but it doesn’t hide the slight upturn of her mouth. “Pick your pizza.”

I shrug. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

This makes her look at me. “What if you don’t like it?”

“I like everything.”

Her eyebrows crease. “You don’t like onions.”

“That’s not true.”

She balks at me. “Jackson, you pick them out of everything.”

“Margot, I eat onions all the time.”

“Should we order something to find out?” There’s a knowing glint in her eye, and I don’t trust it.

“Give me your best shot,” I say with a nod toward the register at the front.

Margot, looking far too pleased with herself, heads to the counter and orders one of their specialty pizzas with a mess of toppings—one of them being onions. Reaching from behind her, I hand the guy my card. We each get a drink and find a small table in the corner of the dimly lit shop.

Margot secures our order number into the thin metal stand on the table. “So, should we bet on this? Because I like my odds.”

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