Page 22 of Body Check

“We missed you, Hard-Ass!”

“It’s beenmonths, man! You been laid yet?”

“Matt, what’ll I have to pay to exchange the shitty crackers you’re about to give me for a big, juicy steak?”

There’s a strangled chuckle, and then, “Mr. Harrison, I’ve missed you too. Mr. Hartwell, that answer is between me and my nonexistent partner, thank you very much. And, Mr. Cain, you’ll eat the crackers and you’ll like it.” The sounds of masculine groaning at the back of the plane makes me grin. This back-and-forth ribbing has run rampant for years now. Luckily, Matt knows how to hold his own. Something he proves when he adds, “You all know that I won’t be repeating myself when I say, if I catch any of you watching porn on this flight, I’ll kick you off while flying thirty-thousand feet in the air. No parachute. Your fans will be disappointed—don’t test me. Our travel time is a few minutes shy of three hours, and we’ll have you ready for the Predators by 8 a.m. Sit back and enjoy, gents. It’s good to see you again for another season.”

The speaker clicks off and chatter resumes. Quieter now, due to the lack of light and the gentle classical music Matt enjoys playing just to get under the team’s skin.

If he weren’t beloved by every player, he’d probably have been fired by now.

As Debussy drowns out male voices, I’m acutely aware of the fact that I’m not alone. To my left, Carmen reads on her phone, earphones plugged in to avoid the classical music. I know Jackson isn’t her favorite person—since I brought her on as an additional camera on my team, she’s always been fiercely loyal to me. She had little credentials when she applied to the job listing but I took a chance on her anyway. And when her ex-husband turned out to be a cheating schmuck, I found myself blurring the lines between boss and friend.

As far as the latter goes, Carmen is as close to a bestie that I have, and I know that watching me fall apart with Jackson over the last year has been just another bullet point in her long list about why men are assholes.

Jackson isn’t an asshole.

We just couldn’t find a way to meet in the middle.

The gift bag sits heavy in my lap, the expensive headphones he purchased resting on my stomach. They feel like a brand against the fabric of my shirt—a brand of failed dreams and bitter hopes and nonexistent reconciliations. Stupid, I know, to want something back that didn’t work in the first place, but emotions are rarely logical.

“Open it, Holls.”

His deep Texan drawl curls around me like wisps of heavy smoke, warming me up from my toes to that forever-tingly spot behind my ear. The spot that Jackson once loved to kiss, knowing that it made my fingers twitch and my skin leap and my heart thud a little faster.

I switch on the light above my head just as the jet’s engine begins to hum and the aircraft jerks forward. “You should sit with the guys,” I mutter, desperate to draw the line back in the sand between us.

“I will—after you see what else is in there.”

Forget the line—there’s a damn aisle dividing us, and yet Istillfeel like he’s right there, pressed against me, surrounding me.

There’s no more tissue paper to remove, so I tilt the bag and shove my fingers inside, grasping around for whatever else he purchased. Plastic meets my fingertips, and I draw the yellow package out and tilt it under the light to better read the font scrolled across.

My heart squeezes. “Jackson—”

“Sour Patch Watermelon candies,” he murmurs, “your favorite.”

Beside me, Carmen slumps farther down in her seat. I get the feeling she’s listening to us and not whatever playlist she selected. Part of me—the young girl who once loved a boy more than anything else in the world—wishes that Jackson and I could be alone. But that wouldn’t be smart—it wouldn’t belogical—and so the thirty-two-year-old divorcee takes center stage and tries to not read between the lines when thereareno lines to be read.

“Stress and candy go hand-in-hand for me. Thanks for saving me a trip to a corner store at midnight when Carmen and I are editing film till we can’t see.”

I finally cave and glance his way. Sparse light dances across his features, splicing over his crooked nose and giving way to shadows for the lower part of his face. His dark eyes, however, remain visible—and they’re locked on me.

“I figured that’d be the case,” he says, the smoky tendrils of his voice skipping along my spine as though it’s a physical touch, “so I’ve got a supply loaded and ready in my suitcase for you.”

Carmen turns her body, shifting in the seat beside mine to give me her back.

Some privacy.

Slick sweat licks at my palms. Space, I need space. To breathe, to remember the downward spiral of our marriage, to remind myself that I’m allowed to regret what could have been but shouldn’t uncap the bottle ofwhat-ifs.

What-ifsare dangerous.

Jackson’s long leg enters my periphery as he changes positions. The armrest goes up so he can face me as much as possible with the seat belt locking him in place. “There’s one more thing in the bag for you, Holls. One last peace offering and then I’ll go back to my seat.”

Because the noise-cancelling headphones and my stress-eating candies aren’t enough?

Carefully, I dig into the bag, feeling around. Nothing. Emptiness. I use the overhead light to glance inside, only to note a small card lying flat against the bottom.What are you doing to me, Jackson?With shaky fingers, which I’ll deny to my dying day, I slip the card out from the bottom of the bag and peel open the red envelope.

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