Page 92 of High Velocity

Nothing was added to the box after my mother died. Not a single piece of paper, no photographs, no ribbons or medals or accolades. The box was tucked away on a dusty shelf, like my father’s heart, after Mom passed away. With her gone, our family ceased to exist.

I’ve been walking around with a raw ache in my chest, but I still haven’t cried. Not after burying my father next to her, as per his wishes, or the long days following, sorting through a house holding many mixed memories.

Jackson stayed and helped until we buried my father, but then he had to get back to the ranch. He would’ve stayed longer if I hadn’t told him to go. He seemed to understand I needed to finish this by myself.

It’s been a purging of sorts, trying to get the house ready to put on the market. With every tangible piece of my history passing through my hands—deciding what was worth holding on to and what could be discarded—I felt myself grow lighter. Cleansed and hollowed where the shadowed parts of my soul used to be.

But I still haven’t cried.

Until I catch sight of Jackson, standing by the baggage carousel inside the terminal, waiting for me.

My knees buckle and hit the floor, every single emotion I’ve tucked away these past weeks washing over me at once. I barely notice the concerned looks or kind offers to help. I’m falling apart on the floor in the middle of the damn airport.

Strong hands slip under my arms and hoist me up, and my face is pressed against a clean cotton shirt, smelling of detergent and Jackson.

“Let it out, baby. I’ve got you,” he mumbles with his lips pressed against the shell of my ear.

Somehow, we end up on a row of seats against the wall of the baggage area, with me curled up on Jackson’s lap, my face shoved in the crook of his neck, as I bawl until my eyeballs are raw and my head is pounding.

“Ready to go home?” he asks as I mop my face with the hem of my shirt.

I’m a fucking disaster, but you’d never know, seeing the way Jackson looks at me with love in his eyes.

“So ready.”

He lifts me off his lap, takes my left hand in his, and walks us over to the carousel to collect my bag. I should be mortified at the spectacle I just put on in public, but I don’t care.

I’m too busy filling that hollow feeling in my soul with all the goodness Jackson gives me.

Jackson

Man, I’m glad she’s home.

She was an absolute mess at the airport, but I’m not surprised.

Stephanie bottles shit up, and there was a lot of it, both stuff she carried with her from her childhood, but also this last fresh wave of crap landing on her shoulders.

We both lost a parent at twelve, but the comparison ends there, because I ended up with a mother who focused all her love on me, working her butt off to make sure I had a good life. Stephanie, on the other hand, was mostly ignored by her father in favor of her brother. Then her brother died as well, and now that cowardly piece of shit of a father blew his brains out on his kitchen table and basically left the mess he made of his life for her to clean up.

Yeah, she was a mess, but it’s been a crazy few weeks for her.

We haven’t been sitting around twiddling our thumbs back at the ranch either.

I’m not sure what crawled up my stepfather’s backside, but he’s been cracking the whip on us. Aside from the normal workings of the ranch, and the search-and-rescue callouts, he’s been having us work down some kind of honey-do list. Replacing older sections of fencing, painting the barn and the rest of the outbuildings, fixing the roof and the gutters, and putting in several new windows at the house. It’s been all-hands-on-deck all the damn time.

I’ve asked him a few times if he was planning to sell or something, but he just shakes his head. It’s been frustrating, so when he caught me alone after the welcome-home dinner Ama and my mother put together for Stephanie, and asked if I’d join him on the porch for a chat later, I said yes.

Now, looking down at Stephanie asleep in my bed, where she crashed hard when we got back to the cabin, I regret agreeing to it. I’d much rather strip down, crawl under the covers, and gather her in my arms.

Instead, I press a kiss on the side of her head and exit the bedroom, gently pulling the door shut. Then I grab my phone and make my way over to the main house, where I can already see Jonas rocking in the old man’s chair.

Damn.

When I walk up the steps he pulls the side table out in front of him and grabs what looks like blueprints from the bench beside him.

“What’s that?”

“Pull up a chair,” he orders me instead of answering.

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