Page 53 of Love Set Free

It’s not something we’ve said the words to before—that Jackson is essentially living with me now. We’ve danced all around the words—tossing phrases around aboutmine, andforever, andyours. And we’ve certainly acted as though his living with me, on a permanent basis, is afait accompli.

“I have thought about it,” Jackson says quietly. His fingers pluck at a loose thread, near a small hole forming in the knee of his jeans. How the man has managed to wear an emergent hole in a pair of pants less than a week old, I have no idea. “I’m just not sure what sort of work I can expect to find. It’s not as though my resume was ever all that impressive.” Light streaming in through my office windows turns the blue of Jackson’s eyes nearly translucent as he glances at me through the artfully choppy fringe of his hair. “And now, on top of that, I’ve got a gap in my resume. A gap that I really don’t want to have to go over with a prospective employer.”

Jackson’s time with our kidnappers, both before and during my own captivity, is a topic we tend to avoid. He usually doesn’t bring it up and I can tell it makes him uncomfortable when I do, which is why I haven’t very often. It’s probably another aspect of our relationship that isn’t all that healthy and that we should work on fixing.

“Well, if not a job…maybe you could look online and see if there are any college courses that might interest you that you could take.” With the elephant in the room, of Jackson’s current inability to be separated from me, honestly, signing up for some online courses is probably a better avenue for him to explore than trying to find a job. Expecting another possible round of self-belittlement from him, I tell him, point-blank, “If that’s the route you want to take, don’t worry about the cost. Don’t worry about admissions. I can get you into any college or university you want. It’s all a matter of who you know or how much money you’ve got. And between my parents and I…we have plenty on both fronts.”

Jackson doesn’t react to my suggestion of him trying out some college courses. Although he does say, “It would be nice to have my own money, though,” which I suppose is a reaction, in a way.

“But you don’t need to have your own money. Or I could…give you…” My voice trails off, withering under the flat, unimpressed look Jackson gives me. Which, I suppose I deserve. Just because any expenses that Jackson has had since we met, I or my parents have paid for, doesn’t mean that he’s looking for that to continue. I don’t think Jackson wants to go through life sponging off my money.

“It would be nice toearnmy own money," Jackson says, amending his last statement. “Maybe even, someday, have more than two dimes to rub together. Fuck, right now, I’d be happy with having even one dime to my name.”

“Alright. We’ll look into finding you a job then.” As far as I’m concerned, if that’s what he wants to do, then that’s what I’ll help him accomplish.

There’s still the not inconsiderable issue of his panic attacks and separation anxiety, though.

Jackson watches me think, trust in me clear in every line of his body and face. I can read in his expression that he believes I’ll come up with a solution for him. And, indeed, with a brain trained by years and years of finding expedient solutions to tricky problems, it doesn’t take me long to think of something that I think will address Jackson’s current needs.

“I’m fairly certain The Wilding Corporation has data entry work of some sort that you could do,” I say. “It’ll be busy work,” I warn him. “And, frankly, it’ll be busy work you’d be taking away from some low-level intern, but it would be a job. We’d pay you, of course, and…” My voice rises a bit as I add in the detail that I really think will sell Jackson on this idea. “You can do the work from anywhere. Say…in my office, even. We can spend all day together—at home and at work.”

A relieved smile breaks across his face, and lines that I didn’t even notice were tense in his body relax. But Jackson tries to downplay how much worry must have been riding him, lightly teasing, “Better make sure I negotiate for a good salary. I’m sure you’ll make it hard on me.” His smile shifts to a smirk at the slyly uttered innuendo. “But I’m pretty sure I can bring you around. I’m gonna need to be bringing in some decent money if I want to help pay my fair share of the mortgage on Little Squall,” he says, mentioning the name he gave to my previously unnamed house. A playful riff off the name of my parents’ house, reflecting his amusement over the fact that I purchased a house with many similar characteristics as theirs, only on a slightly smaller scale.

I scoff, telling him, “I paid cash. There’s no mortgage for you to help pay for.”

“Oh, of course. Why would there be?” Jackson rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Then I can help with some of the other bills.” Before I can point out the complete lack of necessity for him to do so, Jackson adds, “Once I’m bringing in some money, I can pay for my own things. Be more independent. Surprise you with a present, every now and then. Take you out to lunch. Although, you’ll have to do with McDonald’s or the like, since that’s about all my budget’ll probably run me toward.”

There’s a stubborn tilt to his chin, a side of Jackson I’ve yet to really encounter. Normally, he’s more than happy to do what I want. Eager, in fact, to do whatever it is I want. But I get the sense that attempting to argue with him about this matter won’t get me anywhere. And, in fact, I don’t even want to.

I can see his point. Being able to earn his own money should make Jackson feel more independent. It would probably also bolster his, occasionally faltering, sense of self-worth.

Selfishly, those things would also probably make me feel more secure in our relationship. Right now, Jackson is very dependent on me, financially and emotionally. Which, there is some part of me that enjoys. However, there’s a little niggling voice that likes to rear its head every now and again, telling me that Jackson is only with me because he has no other viable choice. It would be nice to know that Jackson stays because he wants to, not because he has to.

“And some of it…” Jackson’s voice drops to a near whisper. “I should probably think about seeing someone, shouldn’t I? A head doctor? I don’t mind the need to always be with you, to always have you in my sight, but it does make things more complicated, doesn’t it?” Then proving just how deep the connection between us runs, Jackson speaks to the very thought that was just running through my mind. “And I really do want you to know that I’m with you because I want to be. I want to be able to live without you. And then choose not to do so.”

“I think it would be a good idea. For both of us,” I agree. “Fuck knows I’ve got my own issues stemming from the whole kidnapping, and the things I had to do to get us out of there. Plus, I’m sure a psychologist would unearth some latent childhood traumas I could probably stand to work on. Make myself a better person, or whatever.”

“Not sure how you’d manage to do that.” Jackson’s nose crinkles in that way I adore. The one that only serves to emphasize the perfectly imperfect ratios of his features. “You’re already perfect. Can’t improve upon that.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I tell him. “I think you’re pretty darn perfect, too. That’s why I love you.”

Jackson’s voice is shocked as he says, “You think I’m perfect.” Then, it edges into outright stunned. “Wait… You love me?”

“I do. I love you.”

“Because I’m perfect?”

“Because you think I am,” is my reply. “And…maybe a little because I think you’re perfect. Just a little. Or maybe…it’s because I love you that I think you’re perfect?” I muse. “It might be a chicken or an egg sort of thing—not sure which came about first.” I shrug, unconcerned. Does it really matter why I love him? What matters is that I do.

Jackson is troubled as he says, “I don’t…I don’t know if I feel the same. I’m sorry.”

I only get a fleeting glimpse of pale blue, as he murmurs his apology; his eyes darting a quick glance at me and then studiously looking away at anything but. And that just won’t do. That’s not nearly enough. I need to drown myself in the blue of his eyes, that silent communion of his soul to mine as necessary as the air I need to breathe.

“Hey… Hey, sweetheart. Come on, look at me,” I tell him, sliding off my chair and joining him on my office floor. My fingers might be gentle, but they’re insistent, as I rest them alongJackson’s jaw and turn his head so he’s forced to look at me. “Look at me, love.”

The new endearment, something I’ve never called him before, has Jackson’s eyes snapping up to meet mine. The blue shimmers, like a pristine, crystalline waterfall. In them, I can see surprise, awe, joy. And fear. It’s faint, but it can’t hide from me.

“Just because I said it, doesn’t mean you need to—"

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