Page 85 of Second Chance Vacation

“Genevieve, I said leave.”

“No.” I sit up on the bed, pulling my panties up my legs, leaving the tattered remains of my leggings in a ball by his dresser.

I have known Jackson for as long as I can remember, and I’ve never seen him this on edge. Immediately, I tense in anticipation of what he’ll say next.

His glare meets mine, his nostrils flaring.

“Why did you come up here?” he asks, the same question as before, yet this time there is no escaping it.

“I already told you—you.”

“Ah—yes, you wantme.” Jackson pins me with a disgusted expression before grabbing my leggings and tossing them in the waste bin.

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about me, Viv?” Somehow, an inkling of vulnerability seeps through his tone.

“Jackson, don’t do this, don’t start this.”

He lets out a pained laugh.

“Me? You wantmenot to start this? I hate to break it to you, but you‘started this,’” he holds up his hands, drawing quotations around his words. “You want me in France. You ghost me when we get home. You show up at my house after weeks of ignoring me, then you follow me up to my room, talking about how you want me again. It’swhiplash. That’s what it is.”

“I’m sorry I ignored you when we got back. It’s just…France was a lot.”

“Fuck—” Jackson rakes his fingers through his hair, yanking it at the root. “You think I don’t know that?”

Tears begin to form on my waterline, but I look up to the ceiling in a quiet plea to keep them at bay.

Don’t break, don’t break,don’t break.

“I’m here now. This—” I motion to my body, then to the bed, “—is all I can give you. Isn’t that enough?”

“No—it’s not. I thought maybe it could be. I’m not an idiot, Viv. I know you. I’ve known you for almost my entire life. I could’ve seen this coming from a mile away. But I didn’t say anything. Once again, I was just expected to be cool with whatever decisionyoumake because it’s only aboutyou. And I can’t even expect it to be any different.”

A breath catches in my throat at the mixture of his words and the tears pooling around his eyes. He’s pacing the floor in front of the bed, looking for every opportunity to look away from me, holding tightly to his self-control. He diverts his eyes intentionally—until he doesn’t. His eyes meet mine with a pointed stare, and I gulp instinctively, terrified of what comes next.

“Viv—I have been in love with you since I was fourteen. Do you realize how hard it is to know that at fourteen? Only for the person you’re in love with to barely look at you, let alone just see you as a brother. Then you finally,finallygave two shits about me, and it lasted, what was it…all of two months?”

The tears welling in my eyes fall, crashing to the exposed skin on my chest. I am no longer trying to keep them at bay, and the moment allows it, the dam breaks. He’s right, and I don’t have a thought, a prayer, a word to argue that he’s not. The ache in my chest from this realization is enough to debilitate me.

“Then, by some grace of God, I see you again. I get conned into this stupid setup, only to find it’syouwaiting at the airport. I’ll be honest here, Viv. The moment I saw you again, I knew with certainty that you were the love of my life, and I would be damned if I let you go again without a fight. So please—please.” Jackson’s voice cracks as he kneels down on the floor next to the bed, resting his hands on my knees as he gazes up at me. “Please—”

His plea has no specificity, but I know with certainty what he’s begging for. He’s begging for something I can’t give him. Jackson has only ever wanted to be loved back, to be cherished, and he deserves that. If there was ever a man—a human being worthy of being loved for exactly who they are, it’s Jackson.

What a stroke of terrible luck that the woman his heart chose is me.

His eyes are fixed on mine, leaving me paralyzed in place. We stay this way, transfixed by each other’s gaze for what feels like forever. With every passing second, I watch the fight in his eyes sour into pain. The last twinkle of optimism, the last shred of hope, dies on contact.

I did that—I destroyed that.

Shaking myself free of his gaze, pinning me in place, I look to the window as I wrap his hands in my own. My fingers, cold and lifeless, hold on to his, warm and filled with color.

If there ever was a metaphor.

Gently, I shove his hands off my legs, squeezing them as I let them go. I scramble to ready myself, pulling a pair of boxers from his top drawer to attempt even a semblance of decency. I turn to leave but steal a glance over my shoulder as I move toward the door.

Jackson is still there, on his knees, facing his bed. He kneels there, grasping for the single thing that can make it all worth the pain. Stuck in the very place he desperately begged a girl to love him back.

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