7. Jackson

CHAPTER 7

JACKSON

T he worst part about all of this is that my arm really does hurt. Doctor Brown sent me home with painkillers, but I try not to take too much medication because I'm terrified that I'll fail a drug test some time. I don't even eat poppy-seed bagels. It would be so embarrassing to get suspended for something like that.

Fortunately, I have one of the best chefs that money can buy, so I plan to eat the best food I can get my hands on for the next few weeks — and right now that means a load of carbs. It's not something I usually do, but seeing as I'm not going to be able to use my arm for the next few days, I figure what's one or two days of bad habits?

I wake up at my usual time, grab breakfast, take a pill and get mad about how much my arm hurts. Then I get mad at Freya for doing this to me, and then I get mad at myself for thinking about her at all. Once I finish my breakfast bowl, I decide to put all thoughts about her far from my mind forever. And to do that, I need a distraction.

At least it's just my arm that's injured. It's still slinged up, so there's not a lot I can do with it, but I can kind of figure out a workout plan. I end up basically doing a shit-ton of squats in my gym, and by the time I'm done, my legs are burning and all I want is a hot shower and a lie-down.

So, that's what I do.

Sure, I miss playing, but it's kind of nice to have some time to myself.

The downside is, by the time I've showered and gotten dressed and flopped down on the sofa in my comfiest track bottoms and sweatshirt, it's only eleven a.m. How the hell do people fill time when they have nothing to do?

I decide I have no choice but to lie here all day, maybe with the help of my old friend ice cream, and watch movies. You might think that playing baseball is enough for me, that I don't need any more of it in my life than I get. And you'd be wrong. I love baseball movies.

Lazily, I fire up the TV and access my huge library of movies. I feel like something classic today, something heartwarming. Aimlessly, I scroll until I hit it — The Philadelphia Diamond. It's a movie I must have seen a hundred times, about a kid and his dad after the mom dies, but I could watch it every day.

I'm just getting to the good bit where the son finally hits his first home run when someone starts hammering on the door.

"Can someone get that?" I holler, but there's no movement in the house. Damn . I forgot that today is Maria's day off. I should have asked her to come in to help me out. Not that I need it desperately, but it would have been nice to speak to another human being. One who wasn't bothering me, anyway.

"Go away!" I yell, but the knocker doesn't give up. With a groan, I roll off the sofa and drag myself to my feet. "Fine, fine. I'm coming!"

If this is some marketing consultant trying to sell me something, I'm going to be pissed.

In an attempt not to be a total asshole, I sigh and take a deep breath before unchaining the latch and slowly swinging the door open, trying to script something vaguely polite to say to reject the sales pitch before I have to listen to it.

I don't know exactly who I was expecting to find knocking on my door in the middle of the day, but Freya would have been my last guess. She stands there, beaming, clutching a little box in her hand. She waves when she sees me, her smile unfading. "Hey, Jackson!"

"What do you want?" I say, but before she can say anything else, I change my mind. "Actually, you know what? Never mind. Leave me alone."

I don't wait to see her reaction, and can't anyway because I push the door shut right in her face and walk away. She hammers on it again, but I just return to my movie, sinking into the couch and turning up the volume so I can't hear her knocking anymore.

It's petty and rude, I know that. But I just can't deal with her chipper attitude and belief that everything can be good in the world. I vaguely hear her shout through the door that she's leaving a package on the step, and I ignore it. I don't care. I don't want to look. I'm not going to. I don't need her package. She'll go away, and I don't have to think about her ever again.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I climb off the sofa to sneak back to the door to retrieve it.

I'm almost a hundred percent certain that there's no way she'll have lingered at the door for an hour or so, but I open the door slowly and suspiciously anyway. I do not want to have an awkward conversation about any of this, and I think the sight of her being smug would kill me.

To my relief, the driveway is devoid of life, but when I look down, there is a cardboard box on the step. It's on the small side, wrapped neatly in brown paper, my name carefully inscribed on it. Frowning, I take it inside.

As soon as I sit down, I rip the paper off and open the box. Inside is a takeout box filled with home-cooked pasta, some snacks, and a pair of fuzzy socks. I'm not exactly a fuzzy socks kind of person, which she would know if she'd spoken to me. But they're team-name-branded and my size. It's not like I really need dinner or snacks either, but I guess that's not really the point of any of this.

The point is that she thought about me. She thought about me, and she cared enough to bring a whole box of stuff just for me because she thought I'd like it or might need it. The guilt of ignoring her twists my stomach into a tight knot.

Movies. That's what I need now. That's what will stop me thinking about her.

I wake up a few hours later, still on the sofa, my feet sweltering in my new socks, my hands clutching a bag of the pretzels Freya brought for me.

That's pretty much how all of the next twenty-four hours go — alternating napping and snacking and wandering about until the next afternoon, when I'm interrupted again by a knock on the door.

"What are you doing here?" I demand when I open the door to see Freya standing there grinning. I'm possibly harsher than I mean to be, but really, can't she leave me alone for five minutes? It's like she thinks I'm going to drop dead.

"I see you got my package yesterday," she says with a wry smile.

Yes," I say, then add begrudgingly, "Thank you."

"So, can I come in?"

A confused and slightly grumpy look is all I can muster. "Why?"

"You don't have anyone here to look after you, do you?"

I purse my lips tightly then confess through gritted teeth, "No. Not other than the cleaner, anyway."

That makes her smile too, and I find myself noticing the way it makes her eyes scrunch into little pools of joy. Doing that's going to give her wrinkles. Not that wrinkles would stop her being pretty, but still.

"At least let me in to have a look at your arm," she says, persistent.

"Don't you have, like, anything else better to do?" I frown.

She shrugs. "I do. But unfortunately for you, I've decided to care. So, this is what I'm doing right now." Yet again, she flashes me that frustratingly genuine smile, and I find myself staring at the constellation of freckles over her nose. They're like a scattering of cinnamon over whipped cream. I bet she has them on her shoulders too. Not that I'm going to spend any more time thinking about her skin at all.

That would just be a waste of brainpower.

"Fine. You can come in."

I step aside to let her in, and as I shut the door, say, "Won't your brother be missing you?"

"He's fifteen. He can fend for himself just fine. Plus, I don't have to pick him up for another hour yet. There's plenty of time for me to make sure that you're doing okay first."

"You're very annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Oh, frequently," she grins. "I take it as a compliment."

I grunt. How can anyone be this cheerful? Everyone has something wrong in their lives — which means the way I see it, nobody has a reason to be smiling like this all the time. But Freya clearly thinks she does. I don't believe it for a second, but from the look of her, you'd think nothing ever went wrong with her in her life.

And she's clearly attached herself to me like a clam, which is infuriating. And it looks like the grumpier I am to her, the harder she wants to try.

We go through to the living room, and I sit on the couch, scrambling for the remote to pause my movie. She doesn't comment on it, just asks to sit next to me and gently takes my arm in her hands, sending goose bumps over my skin. "How's it feeling?"

"Hurts."

"It's looking fine, just a little bruising." She examines it, and I have to look away to stop myself leaning in toward her, to get closer.

"Want to watch TV?" I ask, trying to break some of the tension.

"What?"

"TV. Want to watch it? I don't care what."

She glances up at me, her mouth ever so slightly open as she processes the information. "Not today. Sorry. I can't really stay that late today."

"But tomorrow?"

It's pushing my luck, but the reaction is exactly what I'm hoping for.

"Okay," she says, almost uncertainly. "I'm still on nights, but I could come by in the morning after I drop Matt off."

"Okay," I say, letting myself smile for the first time in days.

Even after she leaves, I find myself hoping for tomorrow to come quickly.