Page 4 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I look up at him. My brother’s best friend. A man I haven’t seen in ten years. And in this moment, the only steady thing in my world.
I nod again, because my voice still won’t work.
Jackson rises, offers me his hand, and I take it.
And for the first time in the last fifteen minutes, I feel like I might not fall apart.
Chapter Two
JACKSON
And to think I almost didn’t come.
Even now, as Ava and I walk further from the chapel, the sound of muffled wedding music still drifting through the trees, I can’t believe I showed up.
I’d stared at the invitation on my kitchen counter for two weeks before finally RSVPing. Then I almost bailed twice. Once when I saw the suit hanging in my closet, and again this morning when the sky looked like it might rain.
Weddings are hard for me. Still.
Since losing Claire two years ago, I haven’t been to a single wedding. She used to cry at every one we went to. Even commercials with proposals got to her.
Now, just the sight of white flowers or the sound of a string quartet makes my chest tighten.
But when Greg mentioned that Ava had invited me, I felt like I couldn’t say no. She was always the quiet one, the girl with big glasses and even bigger books, always trailing behind her brother and me.
So in the end, I decided to come. Her wedding fell on a rest day so I figured that was a sign. I thought I’d just sit in the audience and silently support my best friend’s little sister on her wedding day.
But instead, here she is, a runaway bride trembling in my jacket, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Her breath comes in ragged little gasps as I guide her around the far side of the church property. She hasn’t said anything since we sat on that bench—just clutched my jacket and stared at the ground like it might disappear from under her if she didn’t.
I don’t ask questions. I just move beside her, steady and quiet, letting her set the pace.
I know what it feels like to be blown open.
And I know what it feels like not to want anyone touching the pieces.
We walk in silence toward the parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. Her hands have disappeared into the oversized pockets of my jacket, shoulders hunched forward as if she’s trying to disappear inside it.
When we reach my truck, she hesitates.
“This okay?” I ask gently.
She nods once, almost imperceptibly. I open the passenger door, and she climbs in slowly, gathering what’s left of her dress as she settles into the seat.
When I slide in, she’s staring straight ahead, her phone now in her lap. It starts buzzing before I can even buckle my seatbelt. Once, twice, again and again. Her screen lights up with notifications: texts, calls.
“Do you want to shut that thing off?” I ask softly.
She looks at it like it might bite her, then presses the side button to power it down. The buzzing stops, and the quiet that follows is almost startling.
“I can’t face anyone right now,” she mutters, her voice barely audible. “And I definitely can’t go home—”
A sob escapes before she can finish.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to.”
Her shoulders shake once, but she presses her lips together, trying to hold it in.
