Page 57 of The Two of Us

The beautiful man boasts an easy smirk and his loose stance tells me he’s had a few drinks himself. The way he says my name insinuates familiarity, though I can’t place his face. He raises an amused brow. “Jackson. Jackson Healy.”

Only now do I see the same Jackson Healy who charmed his way through school when we were kids. His boyish charm has been replaced with something more manly and assertive, but that smirk. That smirk confirms that Jackson could still stare a girl into whatever whim he conjures up.

I offer him a small smile. “Hi, Jackson.”

He pulls out the stool next to me and sits down with such ease, you wouldn’t know we haven’t had an actual conversation since I had braces. “What brings you back to Speck Lake, girl?”

I suck on my lemon wedge. “I have family affairs to see to. I’m not staying long.”

The ever-present playful expression on Jackson’s face becomes subdued as he says, “I heard about that. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Sitting here with Jackson feels weird. We aren’t friends. And while he never made my life a living hell directly, he never defended me either.

The following silence would have made me uncomfortable if I were sober, but the social awkwardness melts off my shoulders like the ice in my lowball glass. Jackson surprises me by shrugging off his jacket and asking the bartender for a round of shots.

I raise my eyebrows in question.

“What?” he says. “You know what they say: those who speak, do; those who can’t, drink.”

I laugh at his asinine adjustment to the famous quote, accepting the shot in front of me. I clink it with his. “Salute.”

If I thought I was drunk before Jackson Healy arrived, I’m sadly mistaken. The brute with the easy smile has the ability to get you to toss back spirits like they’re water. I’ve officially reached the point where I’m no longer drunken sad, but drunken glad, and the giggles escaping my throat would be humiliating in any other situation.

We talk about a whole lot of nothing, and yet we’re content. Being around Jackson is easy and casual. Nothing like being around Ambrose.

As if thinking about him acts as a beacon, my phone buzzes against my thigh.

Ambrose.

He gave me his number a few weeks ago when we needed to coordinate a supplies drop-off for the house, but we haven’t used the method of contact since. Until now.

Hey, I need to grab a toolbox I left in your dad’s garage. Can I stop by?

Not wanting to appear like I have nothing better to do than keep my eyes glued to my phone all day, I let the message sit for a few minutes. Finally, I type back:

I’m not home

I’m sweating.

Why am I fucking sweating?

I’m afraid to see how long it takes him to message back, so I motion to Jackson to pass me another shot, to which he responds with an enthusiastic clap. My phone pings.

Where are you?

Ambrose’s forwardness isn’t out of the ordinary. He’s not one to beat around the bush. If he wants to know something, he’ll ask. I glance at the clock on the wall that says it’s eleven thirty. Everything in town besides the bar is closed by this time and I can’t risk getting caught in a lie, so I type:

At Duffy’s with an old friend

His response is immediate.

You don’t have friends

If I wasn’t so drunk, I might be offended but I can’t help the giggle fit my body falls victim to. He’s right. I have no friends in Speck Lake, not anymore. And I blame no one except myself for that truth. Just when I think the conversation may be over, Ambrose shoots off another message.

How are you planning on getting home?

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