Page 92 of Body Check

Glass to his mouth, he drains the rest of the soda in a single swallow. “It’s been three-hundred-and-fifty-something days, Holls.” Glancing at me over the rim of the glass, he murmurs, “That’s a long time for nothing to happen.”

I lean back in my chair.

No doubt he’s expecting me to take the easy route. Maybe mention the time that I accidentally tumbled off the ladder when I changed a light bulb in my fourteen-foot-tall room. Or maybe that one time I ate so much pizza by myself that I didn’t move from my couch for twenty-four hours except to pee and drink water.

I could go the easy way.

But the point of this weekend is to open up and let down our walls, and giving him BS anecdotes doesn’t help either of us.

Clasping the wineglass between my hands, I opt to tell him the one time that I nearly did break down and reach out. I’d needed to hear his voice. I’d needed his comfort. It’s been months since, but the ache hasn’t left my heart.

I rip the proverbial bandage off with six little words: “I found out about my parents.”

Jackson’s easygoing smile flatlines, concern lining his features. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

A breeze lifts my curled hair, and I wrap my fist around the chaotic strands to keep them under control. All around, diners laugh and drink and make merry. At our table, my information drop has thrown everything out of whack.

Too late to turn back now, though.

Swallowing roughly, I rub my hand along the underside of my jaw. “When my grandma died, she . . . uh—I should say thank you, first, for coming to her funeral. I’m not sure if I have before, but seeing you there, even though we didn’t speak, it meant the world to me.”

Jackson’s hand reaches out to clasp mine. He gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “We’re family, Holls. I told you that.”

That’s right, he did. A screwed-up family, I believe he’d written in that envelope last month, but a family nonetheless. It feels like ages ago that he sat down in the row opposite mine with all of his crazy gifts.

I squeeze his hand back, and then I don’t let go.

“It’s not like she had a lot to give away for an inheritance, you know? Maybe a few furniture pieces? Some clothes that she’d had for decades?” I can’t help but laugh. My grandmother was nothing if not tidy and organized. If she didn’t use something, it went in the trash—a life motto that could also be used to describe her personal relationships with friends and family.

Funny how I miss her so much at the most random times.

“Anyway, it wasn’t like Sam or I were concerned about any of that. He hated her taste and I did, too, but we figured we’d split it all down the middle. Then we found out that she’d left us a letter.”

“A letter?”

I nod. Turning over Jackson’s hand, I run my fingers over the veins, tracing them until I hit his wrist. “A letter,” I confirm. “Sam didn’t care to read it because let’s face it, that’s how Sam is. But I was in a rut . . . everything with us and then her passing away . . . I guess I wanted something of the familiar, even if she was reprimanding me in that way of hers.”

Jackson’s gaze flicks from my face down to his hand and then back again. I can tell he’s anxious to have me spill it all. Still, he waits in silence for me to go at my own pace.

I wait as the server brings me more wine—this time, I gladly say yes—and then down a sip for liquid encouragement. “Turns out, she’d lied. For years, she let us believe that my parents took off and chose to live a different life somewhere else.” Another sip of wine that goes down as smoothly as the first. “I knew they were coke addicts. Grandpa used to mutter all sorts of crap whenever Sam or I brought them up. I may have not known what any of it meant until I was much older, but I still caught the general feeling: Momma and Daddy were not good people.”

Jackson’s silence breaks with the sound of his chair scraping back over the stone floor. He drags the damn thing to my side of the table, turning it toward me so that when he sits down, he’s effectively straddling my chair.

He’s shielding me from anyone who might be watching.

The thought alone makes me want to hug him.

“Keep goin’,” he rasps, one hand coming to meet mine on the table again. He twines our fingers together. It feels so wrong to look at our clasped hands and see that our ring fingers are bare. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

My throat pinches with a hard swallow. “In the letter, my grandmother wrote about how she’d kept tabs on them after they left me and Sam with her and Grandpa. She didn’t trust them, she said, but she’d never thought her daughter would fall into the hell that she did.” When tears prick at my eyes, I dot at them with the heel of my free hand. I’ve hadmonthsto come to terms with the news, but somehow, relaying them to someone other than Sam makes it all feel more real.

More depressing.

“Momma overdosed,” comes my ragged whisper. “I think I was around thirteen, my grandmother noted. I don’t know if anyone attended her funeral. I don’t know if shehada funeral. Given what little I know about her, I’m guessing probably not. I might remember her smiles and hugs, but those are child’s memories. Reality paints a much darker portrait.”

With his hand still clasped to mine, Jackson asks, “And your dad?”

“He’s in jail.”

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