Page 69 of Second Chance Vacation

“No one.”

“Bullshit, who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It was Jax, wasn’t it?”

My eyes meet hers, a silent plea,let it go.

“Wes said he’s seemed off since we got back. They’ve hung out, but he just seems off. He doesn’t come out of his room…have you two talked at all?”

Shaking my head, I don’t look up at her before walking back over to the corkboard I had been decorating.

The border is a red crinkled cardstock placed over an expansive landscape of navy blue paper covering the full length of the board. I push a pin into each letter meticulously, spelling out my message as the letters cover the top third of the board.

Welcome to seventh grade.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Savannah’s voice travels out of my periphery.

I desperately don’t want her to bring back up the Jackson stuff. While I realize it matters to her and Wesley, I just can’t broach it yet. It’s too soon.

“Uh—yeah, sure.” I set down my cup of thumbtacks, walking back over to my desk. “What’s up?”

Savannah is perched on the side of my desk with a contemplative expression. She’s picking at her cuticles to the point where they appear raw.

“So—as you know…Wesley and I are getting married.”

“Yes…I was there when he asked, remember?”

“Yes, of course.” She pauses, surprisingly not responding to my snarky response. “Well…you know you’re my best friend in the world.”

I’m not sure I like where this is going. Does she not want me there—because of Jackson? I mean, I realize Wesley and Jackson have been close for a long time, but that seems extreme.

“You’re easily one of the best people I know…”

My stomach turns with every word she strings together. Every second that passes, I come up with a new worst-case scenario in my head. She doesn't want me in the wedding…no, she doesn't want me there.

Period.

“Get to it, Savannah.”

“I want you to be my maid of honor.”

Oh, well, shit. That’s not where my mind was going.

“Yes, of course!” I squeal, squeezing her tightly as she hugs me back. Despite the exciting nature of her question, she still looks bothered by something.

“I’m so glad, but um—just a heads up…Jackson is the best man.”

And with that, my stomach plummets to the floor.

* * *

Jackson

Fore!

I hear it in the distance and instinctively duck, lifting my hands to block my head from the rogue golf ball. It only takes being hit once to be on edge whenever you hear that yelled. The ball crashes to the green thirty feet away, much to my relief. We’re in the middle of the course. A sea of perfectly groomed grass surrounds us, groups of four scattered throughout. An earthy scent permeates the air, the scent of fresh-cut grass coating my senses.

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