Page 26 of Forget Me Knot

Holy Moses. Jack wears glasses. He is gloriously shirtless with sweatpants hanging low on his hipsandhe wears glasses. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the good Lord for making beautiful things, and then try to gain my bearings. When Emory and I were boy-crazed teens, our mama used to teach us to look, appreciate, thank Jesus—with praise hands—and then turn away.

The reasonable side of my brain that knows it's rude—and mildly inappropriate—to stare cannot catch up to the hussie positively drooling over a bare-chested, shockingly ripped Jack with my hand still raised to knock on the door. I turn it into a silent wave, like a complete clown, but it doesn’t ease the tension between us.

His hair is in the most perfect state of disarray I’ve ever witnessed, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes me want to break into his bathroom right now and confiscate all his razors.

No need for you fellas here.We’ve gotCamping Kenon our hands, and he is a vision.

Jack clears his throat in a raspy, growly sort of way that is doing nothing to keep me from riding far off into delu-lu-land on a unicorn of pent-up angst.

“Hi, Jack.” Waving again, I hold out the bag of pretzel bites Owen ordered and asked me to hand-deliver. “Your brother said you were under the weather and would feel better with some Breakfast Bites.” Shaking the bag like it’ll really sell my presence at his door at six a.m., I paste on my most chipper smile. “Bacon, jalapeno, and cheese. He said you’re a fan.”

I think he’s going to slam the door in my face. That he’ll remind me to keep my music down in the shop today or mention the color of my walls and then send me on my merry way. But instead, he grunts in thatJackway—a sound I’m becoming more accustomed to—and stretches out a shaky hand. Actually, upon closer inspection, it looks like what I thought was a sexy lean against the doorframe is more like Jack can’t hold himself upright.

“Hey, are you okay?” I hold out a hand to steady him, slipping my arm around his bare waist before I can think better of it.

“Yes.” He lets his arm hang over my shoulder, still blocking the path to his home. “No… I— I have a headache.”

“A migraine, right?”

He closes his eyes, sighing. “Owen?”

“Yeah, he, um… He swung by last night.”

Actually, Owen came by my place twice yesterday. Once for what he calledemergencysuppliesand again late last night to explain why the supplies were necessary. Apparently, Jack suffers from something called chronic post-traumatic migraines.

A quick Google search and deep dive into the ocean of WebMD informed me that these migraines are a common andoften debilitating issue after suffering from a traumatic brain injury or TBI.

I didn’t know which version of J. Jones I’d get when Owen asked me to check in on him this morning before he’d be able to get here to look after him. But as I look closer and see the exhaustion written across Jack’s face, the dark rings around his eyes, and the sallow pigment of his skin, I’m more than grateful Owen encouraged me to come.

Aside from the thank you card I should pen Owen immediately for the unexpected gift of the welcome I’m receiving this morning, I can’t help but be filled with tenderness towards the man in front of me now. I know Jack and I haven’t had the best of interactions, yet here I am feeling something for this complex person. He looks so unsure, biting his lip and groggily staring back at me like he’s not quite positive I’m real.

I let my gaze travel up the length of his torso, and whoops, we are closer than I thought. Skin-to-skin oxytocin is real, people. I just know I’m glowing. His eyes are hazy and half-lidded, like it's excruciating to have them open. “Why don’t you let me help you to the couch, then I can get out of your hair.”

“You don’t have—”

Before he can argue further, I gently push us through the door and do my best not to investigate every nook and cranny of the room. Jackson seems like such an open book, if you look past the not-telling-me-about-Jack thing. But Jack, grunting and stomping in his well-worn, loose-fitted clothes and grizzly bear attitude, is a mystery I suddenly find I’d like to solve. I want to know how the two pieces of the puzzle fit together.

He falls heavily onto the gray, cloth couch and curls up under the knit blanket hanging over the back.

“Maybe you can eat the bites later when you’re feeling better?” I say hopefully, earning a closed-eyed nod as I place the bag of still-warm pretzels on the table beside the couch. “Do youneed anything else, Jack? I don’t want to leave you here if you need something.”

“Owen will be here soon.”

I give him a once over and have to hold myself back from running a hand across his forehead. He’s so vulnerable. The irony of seeing him like this after he walked in to find me crying is not lost on me. Knowing what I know about him now has me assessing every interaction I’ve had with Jack. And with Jackson.

What would it look like to know them both? How different are they really?

“You’re still here, Polly.” Jack shakes me from my open gawking without ever opening his eyes.

“I am. Sorry. I just— I wish I could do something to help you.”

He peeks one eye open, glasses slightly askew, and I lean down to remove them from his face. It’s odd how strangely comfortable I am touching this man’s face when I was all but yelling at it just days ago.

“I just need sleep. And quiet.”

“I’ll keep my music off today, okay? And I can check in on you later if ya want. Or not. Never mind. I won’t… but if you want me to, it wouldn’t be—”

He grabs my wrist, locking me in place. My palm rests against his bristly, but warm cheek. Since he essentially invited it there, I let myself cup his jaw. Let me tell you, it is comfy.

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