Page 122 of Beneath the Hood

One. Two. Three.

And then I nod.

53

Jackson

It took me two days to drive back home from California, only stopping for sleep and gas, desperate to be as far away from there as possible. There were paparazzi lined up outside of my house, and they watched, their cameras flashing like strobe lights as I packed up my essentials and tried not to run them over as I left.

I pray they don’t follow me back home.

As the miles tick up on the speedometer, the memory of Blakely haunts my thoughts, reminding me of all the ways I had her, and how easily she tossed me to the side. She caved and let others dictate her life.

I don’t buy for one second that she’s really with that prick DJ. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that Blakely just couldn’t find it in her to stand up for us when it counted. After all the ways I stood for her, holding her up, she let me fall at the first sign of trouble.

Her letting me go was a blessing. But that doesn’t make the sharp ache in my chest dull.

Pulling into my mom’s driveway, I’m hit with nostalgia, remembering all the times I worked on this very car over on the shady patch of grass off the gravel drive. I was determined to make this beauty purr, finish the job that my father and I started—before he got too sick to turn a wrench.

I didn’t tell my mom I was coming home. I didn’t tell anybody. Didn’t want to have to explain things before I had a chance to let them settle within myself.

Sucking down a deep breath and forcing the sadness down, I leave my car, spinning as I hear the screen door creak open.

My mom’s hands are over her heart, her wavy blonde hair blowing in the breeze, a beaming smile on her beautiful face.

“Jackson!” she yells, racing off the front porch and hurtling herself in my arms. I wrap my hands around her, breathing in her scent. She smells likehomeand I sink into her embrace, suddenly feeling like a little kid lost in his grief, desperate to have her take away the pain.

She leans back in my arms, her hands coming up to rest on both sides of my face, gazing into my eyes.

My chest throbs, a lead weight heavy in the bottom of my gut.

“What did I do to deserve this?” She smiles, her eyes crinkling in the corners.

I force a grin. “Surprise.I’m home.”

Her brows furrow. “What do you mean you’re ‘home?’”

“I mean, I’m home.” I shrug.

She backs away and I reach into the back seat, grabbing my duffel bag and following her in the house. I throw it next to the coat rack, following her into the kitchen.

She grabs two mugs from the counter and starts the kettle before spinning to face me. “For good?” Her brow quirks.

“Yep.” I snap the hairband on my wrist, pulling out a chair to sit at the round kitchen table.

She sighs, her gaze looking right through my tough exterior. “What the hell for?”

I bark out a laugh, not surprised at all by her line of questioning. My mom’s never been one to mince words, especially when she’s trying to drag out information. The carpool moms loved to gossip whenever we moved to a new state, calling her crass, but she paid them no mind. Growing up with a military man as a husband forces a thick skin. So does fighting cancer.

Sighing, I run my hand through my hair. “California wasn’t everything I dreamed of, I guess.”

“But what aboutyourdream, baby?”

The teakettle whistles, and she pours us both a cup, walking over and placing one in front of me before she takes a seat at the table.

“Dreams change.” My stomach churns.

She hums. “Don’t give me that nonsense. You’ve been working toward this your whole life. Back when you were sixteen andbeggingme to let you get your hands dirty at the shop.”

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