Page 86 of Work with Me

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ALICIA

Jackson: I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. I’m sorry.

I stared at Jackson’s text for longer than I should’ve, all alone with my mug of tea in my mother’s kitchen the next morning, parsing the words and trying to find the meaning behind them. The why.

But the why didn’t matter. Not really.

All that mattered was that he was gone.

He’d said all those perfect things yesterday. About how he was imperfect. How he’d never had a relationship before but was willing to try.

And then he’d left even before the beard burn on my thighs had faded.

I shuddered and stood, tugging my robe more closely around myself. I set my cold tea in the microwave and waited for it to heat.

Mom would tell me I’d given him what he’d wanted, so there was no reason to stay.

Tiannah would put it more bluntly. She’d tell me my coochie and I had fallen right into his trap.

Melissa would tell me she was proud of me for putting myself out there, even though it hadn’t worked out.

I scrubbed a tear off my cheek. Jackson Jones wasn’t worthy of my tears.

“Cariño.” I hadn’t heard Esmy come into the kitchen. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” I sniffed. “Must be allergies.”

“In November?” She clucked her tongue a few times and put the back of her palm against my forehead. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your date last night, does it?”

“Date?” I opened the cabinet and pulled down the bottle of honey.

“I’ve been out of the dating scene for a while, but back in my day, when I came home with wet hair and wrinkled clothes, it meant I’d got some action.” She pressed the button on the microwave. “And that tea’s not going to heat up unless you turn it on.”

I grimaced. “You and Mom are always telling me I should date more.”

“And you should. But you aren’t glowing today the way you were last night.”

Last night, I’d practically floated back inside the house. This morning, since I’d read Jackson’s text, I had lead in my veins.

“I’m fine.” And I would be. People had one-night stands all the time. And that’s all the night before had been. I just had to convince my cracked-open heart.

And, apparently, Esmy. She squinted at me. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” The microwave beeped, and I pulled out my tea. “I’m going to clean out some closets. I’ll see you later.”

The work did me good. I blasted Rihanna through my earbuds while I went through Noah’s closet and drawers and bagged up anything that looked too small. I hosed off his soccer cleats in the back yard and set them on the back patio to dry. I tackled my own room next. Jackson’s sweater, the one he’d told me I could keep the night we sat together on the porch swing, went into the donation bag with Noah’s outgrown SpongeBob pajamas.

That night, to show Esmy I was fine, I cooked King Ranch chicken, Noah’s favorite, in the kitchen I’d scrubbed.

Still, she pursed her lips whenever she looked at me across the table.

Wednesday wasn’t so good. After Noah got on the school bus, I looked at my phone once an hour, hoping to see a text or missed call from Jackson. Something in response to the text I’d sent him.

Me: Are you coming back?

Nothing.

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