Page 8 of Second Chance Vacation

The weirdest combination of discomfort and nostalgia overtakes me, teetering between wanting to vomit and being lost in memory. It has been years, but I know that shaggy brown hair anywhere. The build is different but still garners familiarity. He has always been athletic, so it is no surprise he would continue from being fit in his own right to being built like a Greek god. I freeze in place as his familiar piercing blue gaze meets mine. I choke on the inhale of air I take in as if I have never spent a day breathing outside the womb.

Jackson?!

There is no way it is Jackson. Fuck. Fuck.

FUCK. Heat crawls up my neck, leaving my face flushed. The rapid thudding of my heart bounces around in my ears, making it nearly impossible to hear anything over the sound of my entire world falling off its axis. A metallic taste consumes my mouth as I attempt to swallow it away, leaving my mouth parched, a scratchy sensation crawling down my throat.

My eyes dart around, looking for somewhere to run to. Unfortunately, I am surrounded by tarmac, with the building at least a football field away at this point. I imagine myself running full sprint away, but as I tell myself to run, my feet are planted firmly on the concrete.

Oh no—he’s approaching me.

Warmth crawls up my neck to settle in my cheeks, and I’m feeling faint. The hot August air combined with my anxious flush has me genuinely thinking I may pass out. Based on the look currently painted across his face, there isn’t a single way that this is, by some grace of God, just a really, really great accurate doppelgänger. I have seenThe Vampire Diaries; I am well-versed in those sorts of things. The familiar crease above his brow draws upward, his eyes fixed in a wide expression.

Jackson doesn’t seem to harbor the same level of irate I am sporting, but based on his expression, I doubt he knew about it until this moment, either. His eyes rake over me as his gaze takes its time taking me in. I feel under scrutiny as I hold my arm over my stomach.

He looks disappointed.

The lump that catches in my throat at the thought of seeing Jackson after all these years has me on the verge of tears, a mixture of anger and discomfort. I instantly venture into vengeful territory as my gaze shifts rapidly toward Savannah.

“Is this a joke?” I choke out with little concern for how rude that may come across. If it was any other person standing in front of me, I would feign civility—Jackson Thatcher-Miles is not that person.

“Great to see you too, Vivi,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes.

His ocean-blue eyes flick to mine. I expect to find the same irritation mirrored back at me, but I am met with something unexpected—amusement.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Genevieve.” His indignation leaves me wanting to scream. My stomach jumps involuntarily at the grin on his face, but I stifle the reaction he pulls from me.

“Gen.”

“Fine,Gen.”

I huff, the summer heat crawling up my neck.

Jackson places his hands on his hips as he looks away, but I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on me, this time with much less entertainment in his demeanor.

Savannah’s face pales, her previous excitement dampening down to barely a simmer. Her eyes dart from side to side as she looks like she just saw a ghost. She will meet them soon enough if she doesn’t come up with an explanation fast. That or she suddenly realizes what just happened.

“H—how do you two know each other?”

“Name Jackson ring a bell, Sav?”

My blood is boiling. The combination of the Georgia sun and the current situation has me ready to pull my water bottle from my bag and dump it over my head. It is confirmed I am going to kill him, or her, or everyone.

Chill, Gen, don’t make those kinds of jokes in an airport.

“Well, duh—this is Jax. He’s Wesley’s frat brother; they were roommates in college.” The significance of the name doesn’t ring a bell for Savannah for a solid five seconds. Her perplexed expression leaves me with a desire to scream.

C’mon, Savannah, get there faster.

“—Oh.”

There she is.

“Someone want to explain what’s going on?” Wesley’s look of confusion makes me almost feel bad for the guy. He didn’t ask for this chaos—he simply signed up for a trip to France. Whether I objectively know it isn’t his fault, I can’t stop myself from feeling a shred of animosity.

“Remember the girl I told you about—uh, Hannah’s friend?” Jackson’s head nods in my direction as he scratches the hair at the nape of his neck.

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