10. Freya

If I hadn't just seen it with my own eyes, I don't think I would have believed that Jackson could be capable of expressing so much joy. And maybe to anyone else, he might have looked polite, standing and clapping, but I heard him cheer. I saw him smile.

That's a big deal for him. And it's a good look on him.

We meet Matt after the game and he gives us both a look. I glare at him to stop him making any stupid comments — because whatever he thinks this is, it definitely isn't.

"Frey, am I allowed to go get ice cream with the boys?" he asks as I sweep him up for a hug, ignoring how sweaty he is. He doesn't bother to resist.

I'm sure it must embarrass him, but I don't hold back. "Of course you can, honey. Do any of your friends need a ride?"

"Would that be okay?" he asks, grinning sheepishly. I usually get extra kids in my car when they go out to celebrate, so this is in no way something new. I'm surprised Matt's still embarrassed by it, honestly.

"Of course. You know you just have to ask, right?"

He nods with relief. "Right."

I reach out to ruffle his hair — it's much more out than down these days because he's almost taller than me. He flinches away, and I back off. I guess the kid can only take so much affection in front of his friends.

Then I glance at Jackson, who's rocking back on his heels by the car, clearly bored. I point at him with my thumb. "He can come too, right?"

Matt's eyes grow wide like a cat's. "Of course. Are you kidding?"

Jackson, hearing that we're talking about him, shoots me a hard look that says I didn't agree to this, but the fact is, I'm his ride home and I think it does him good to get out of the house and socialize with people who aren't me. Not that spending time with teenagers is exactly great social company, but I get the feeling that Jackson hasn't really spoken to anyone who's not me or his staff since his accident.

It makes me wonder about his friends, of whom he seems to have very few, and his family, who he seems to think he's estranged from despite the fact that he sends his mother a big check every month and knows exactly where his brother is and what he's doing. I haven't dared ask for more detail because I get the feeling he'd close up like a clam if I tried to. But it doesn't stop me wondering how much of it is because he refuses to let people in.

Matt waves his friends over and we pile into the car, me and Jackson in the front, and Matt and his friends squeezing into the back. They all mutter a thank-you as they get in, and I pretend not to be bothered by them calling me "Mrs. Odell."

The drive isn't long, but I'm acutely aware of Jackson next to me, and Matt behind, watching like he's waiting to catch us out on something that isn't happening. I keep my eyes firmly on the road, not wanting to look at anything but the traffic ahead of me, even though I can feel Jackson glancing at me too.

It's too much to handle right now.

When we finally get to the ice-cream place, Matt jumps out to open Jackson's door for him. Jackson seems confused, but accepts as graciously as he can, doing an awkward nod as he gets out, and I stick my tongue out at Matt to tease him. He gives me a dirty look, which I ignore. He's not the only one who can play this game, and I know for a fact that Jackson is one of his heroes.

As we head into the place, Jackson turns to Matt and says, "What's your favorite flavor, then?" in a tone that comes across as way more patronizing than he really means it to. It's the voice of a man who never spends any time with anyone under the age of twenty, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself laughing.

To my relief it washes straight over Matt's back. "Mint choc chip," he says decisively. "Do you have one, Mr. Kerr?"

"Oh, call me Jackson," he says, shaking his head like he's just been severely let down. "Please. I can't stand sounding like a schoolteacher."

"Okay. Jackson," says Matt, trying not to giggle nervously. I hardly ever see him like this, so genuinely excited about something that he almost can't speak. It takes a weight off my shoulders to see him happy. I know I can't give him everything he wants, but I at least try to give him everything he needs. I'm just never sure that that's quite enough.

"Anyway." Jackson cuts right through any awkwardness to talk about his favorite subject again: himself. "My favorite flavor has to be dulce de leche. Or in places where they don't have that, I like pistachio."

"Wow," says Matt, like this is the coolest information he's ever heard in his life.

"How about you guys?" Jackson raises his voice to an unnecessary degree to address Matt's friends and shrugs his shoulders in a way that I'm sure he thinks is inclusive and fun but actually just makes him look like a cartoon character from the eighties. Still, it's nice to see them getting along.

I linger at the door of the store, not wanting to seem overbearing. I'm enjoying watching Matt open up to Jackson, as well as Jackson opening up to him. It's a weird kind of friendship they're striking up, but it's kind of cute. I know Jackson's "trying not to smile" face so well by now, and he keeps making it. Classic Matt — he's a kid so sweet, he could break anyone's defenses.

They put in their orders, and I see Jackson flash his card. I'm too far away to tell him not to do that. And though the gesture is appreciated, he doesn't have to do stuff like that for me. I can look after myself and my brother just fine.

Jackson pats Matt on the shoulder before he and his friends scamper off to grab their favorite table by the window. Then he turns to me and beckons me over, inviting me to sit with him while he offers me a chocolate cone. I look at it suspiciously, narrowing my eyes as we sit. "What's this?"

"For you," he says, as if I'm being stupid. I'm pretty sure he believes that everyone around him is a mind reader.

"How did you know this is my favorite?"

"Well, I would never have pegged you as being boring, but Matt said this is what you like. So, here you go."

"Thank you," I say softly. Yet again, Jackson's taking me by surprise, pairing his thoughtful actions with an air of callousness that I doubt most people have the patience for. But I take as good as I get, so I add, "And for the record, the chocolate at this place is my favorite. At the place across town, it's the cookie dough."

Jackson frowns like he disapproves, and I just raise both eyebrows to communicate to him that I don't really care what he thinks. Because I don't. I have every right to be basic with my favorite ice-cream flavors, and I won't let a snob like him shame me for it. I get the sense that he says his is fancy anyway just to sound better, because I can't help but notice what looks like vanilla in his tub.

"It's just you and him, isn't it?" Jackson asks suddenly, glancing over my shoulder to Matt who's leaning into his friends so they can all look at a phone and roll back, laughing like whatever meme they just saw is the funniest thing on earth.

And I can't lie to Jackson, but I can't help but be guarded. "Yeah, it is," I say cautiously, not wanting to give more detail than I need to.

"How come?" Jackson asks.

I pause. This isn't exactly an easy subject, and it's not one I talk about much. But Jackson's eyes are so sensitive, focused on me like he's really listening, like he really cares. Is that just projecting? Do I just want him to care?

Before I can help it, the words start slipping out of my mouth. "Dad was never really around when I was growing up. He was always on and off in my life, sometimes there for birthdays and Christmas and whatever, but we'd go months without seeing him. And then Mom got pregnant with Matt…"

"And you expected your dad would stay?"

I had been staring at a stain on the table, but my eyes snap back up to Jackson at that. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did hope so. But the second Matt was born, he gave Mom a pile of cash and ran off. We never really saw him again. It was like he didn't want to know us at all."

Jackson nods, then quietly says, "That's dads for you."

"Your dad wasn't there for you either?"

He shrugs, suddenly defensive. "Similar to you. Me and my brother never knew him. I don't care."

Unconsciously, I reach out for his hand and stop myself at the last second. "Jackson," I start, but he brushes me off with a wave.

"It's whatever, really. He's gone, so whatever. What about your mom?"

Another loaded question, and one that sticks a lump straight in my throat. Talking about Dad is one thing, because in a way, Jackson's right. He's gone and there would never have been anything I could do to change his mind. But Mom…

"Cancer," I whisper. "Four years ago, she passed."

"I'm sorry," Jackson says, his eyes darting down to the table.

Now that I've started, I can't stop. I swallow back the tears and say, "Matt's lived with me since he was eleven. I just graduated school, just landed my first job, and I thought — well, basically I had to quit that because it was more research-based, and then with Mom and Matt, and caring for them both, I just didn't have the time. So, I started at the hospital, and Matt and I have been getting by on our own. Mom was gone, and he needed someone to be there."

"He's lucky to have you," says Jackson hesitantly, his eyes darting up to meet mine before flicking away again.

I get the sense that he's not entirely sure what to say to me. People never usually are when you tell them your mom's passed. They get this strange look in their eye and an awkward twisting of the mouth, like they want desperately to express their sympathy but aren't quite sure what the right words are.

The truth is, there's no such thing as the right words. It's just a hole that you can't explain or fill.

"We're okay," I add quickly, trying to move past the silent block I sense coming. "We're happy enough. It's not always easy, and I have to work more than I would like, so I don't see him very much sometimes, but we do what we can."

"It must be nice to have a close family." His voice is so strained that I can't hold back anymore, and this time I do reach out for his hand, praying that Matt isn't looking.

"I wouldn't give it up for the world," I say. "What about your Mom, though? Doesn't she live nearby?"

"Yeah," Jackson says, "And my brother."

He doesn't offer any more information, but I'm feeling bold, so I say, "You could visit them, couldn't you?"

All I get is a grunt in moderate agreement, and with that the conversation dies, leaving me burning with questions about the life of Jackson Kerr, which I am sure are never going to get answered.