Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Ridley
Jacks arrives at eight o'clock. When he steps through the door, I'm overwhelmed by his woodsy cologne. His hair is down today, falling past his broad shoulders, and there's a fleck of something red on his cheek. He's holding a casserole dish, which almost prompts me to make a snippy comment. I told him not to bring anything. We decided to not have our discussion over dinner. One, because it's too late. Two, because food creates a social environment. This is not a social event.
"Don't bother with your shoes," I say.
He looks at me with a quizzical expression.
I nod to the backyard. "There's a campfire outside. I've been... I've been sitting out there a lot. Thought we could talk out there, if you're okay with that? It's a clear night."
"Yeah," he replies. "Sure." He pauses, glancing at me with caution, before holding the casserole dish out. "Mom told me to bring you a cherry pie."
I'm taken aback by his statement. My initial response is to sneer. To become defensive. People have done nothing but pity me since the accident. I'm sick of it. But it's wrong of me to assume Jacks' mom's reasoning. Simple kindness could be the reason. Not because she feels bad for little old me.
Forcing a smile, I take the casserole dish. "Thank you. That was really thoughtful. I love cherry pie."
There must be something wrong with my facial expression because Jacks raises his eyebrows. His lips twist to one side. "You don't have to accept it if you don't want to. Mom and Dad own a cherry farm." He holds out his hands. They're stained a reddish-purple. "I picked hundreds today with Nat and Mom, then we pitted and made whatever the hell we could. Cherry jam, cherry pie filling, cherry pie. She told me to bring a pie and get it out of the house." He chuckles, giving his head a subtle shake. "Seriously, Ridley. I would've rather thrown this out. I'm sick of cherries. Not to mention I ate like five slices of cherry pie and ice cream at my mom's. I apologize in advance if I throw up. Though... You owe me some leeway."
There's something funny about his tone of voice and the story itself. As well as the jab in my direction. I can't prevent myself from laughing. It starts off quiet, as I try to keep the dam from breaking. But when Jacks smiles, I laugh to where my stomach aches and there are tears welling in my eyes.
"S-sorry. I don't k-know what's s-so funny," I say through peals of laughter.
He takes the casserole dish back, giving me the opportunity to wrap my arms around my torso. My stomach muscles are crying in pain, despite the joyful adrenaline coursing through my veins. It's been a while since I genuinely laughed like this.
"Never apologize for laughing." Jacks lifts one shoulder. "Most times."
"Noted," I reply.
Once the laughter wears off, I tap my cheek. "You have some cherry juice on your cheek. Not gonna lie, it looked a little like blood."
