Page 87 of Sweet Like Whiskey

He nods in a sharp jerk, staring at the specks of sugar on the bark of the tree.

“Well, then,” I mutter, turning right back around.

“Where are you—”

“Be right back,” I call.

I jog all the way back to the donut vendor, pay for a baker’s dozen, and then return to where Jackson is still standing just outside the festival’s main grounds. He looks less ruffled than he did a minute ago, but his brows still draw together when I thrust the wax bag his way.

“Have at it,” I tell him, catching my breath.

He looks between me and the bag before,slowly, accepting the offering. Turning, he plucks out a donut, weighing it carefully in his hand as one would a baseball, and then he pitches it at the tree. Like the first, it puffs apart, pieces flying in all directions.

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing another. Jackson tosses five donuts, one right after another, before he holds the bag out my way. “You go.”

“Really?” I ask, unable to temper my grin.

He nods.

I pick a donut out of the bag and hurl it at the tree, laughing when it crumbles. “Shit, that’s fun.”

“Right?” Jackson says, tossing another. He huffs what might be a laugh, the tension in his shoulders starting to recede.

Jackson and I alternate, tossing the rest of the donuts until we’re down to just one. Instead of throwing it, Jackson examines that donut for a long minute. Finally, he holds it out toward my mouth.

“Here,” he says a little roughly. “They’re actually pretty good.”

Eyes on Jackson, I take a bite out of the donut. Sugar sticks to my lips as I chew, and his gaze drops, tracking the movement. He lets out a breath before popping a chunk of the fried dough into his own mouth. He offers me the last piece and then dusts off his hands.

When Jackson takes a seat on the grass, I follow suit. The festival is loud behind us, but no one is venturing out into this area, so we’re afforded some privacy. Jackson crumples up the wax bag into a tiny ball.

“Was it a bad idea coming here?” I ask. Marigold mentioned Jackson hadn’t been in years, but I didn’t anticipate Otto being the cause. If I’d known, I would have suggested something else.

Jackson shakes his head slowly. “No. It was time. I don’t…” He pauses, thinking over his words. “I’ve let him take from me for far too long. It’s time for it to stop.”

I nod, understanding that deeply. When I offer my hand, Jackson accepts it, his palm warm and fingertips callused. I have no intention of pushing him to talk about his ex, and certainly not here, but Jackson goes on, as if expecting me to.

“I’ll tell you about him,” he says, expression pinched. “Eventually.”

A few fallen leaves crunch beneath my knee as I shift his way. “You don’t have to, Jack. I don’t need all the details, and you don’t owe them to me in the first place. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. Always. But I don’t need you to lay your past bare forme, okay? Only if it’d helpyou.”

He runs one roughened finger along the side of my hand, stroking up and down. Up and down. “I’m past it.Him. I swear I am, but I guess I’m still just…”

“Processing?” I offer.

He nods, eyes pinging up to mine. “I’m not in love with him anymore,” he says, voice firm. “I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Jack. I believe you.”

He huffs again, the sound begrudgingly amused. A child laughs from somewhere behind us, and I give Jackson’s hand a squeeze.

“Anything else we should smash?” I ask. “I saw some lovely candles back there.”

He snorts, pushing to his feetand pulling me up with him. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

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