8. Freya

CHAPTER 8

FREYA

ONE WEEK LATER

I kiss Matt on top of the head as I grab my bag and sling it onto my back. He glares up at me from his corner of the sofa. "Where are you going, Freya? You've been out every day this week. Have you got a secret boyfriend or something?"

"Matt," I say with a disapproving shake of my head. "No. I've just taken on some extra responsibility at work. It keeps me busy."

"It sure does," he says, folding his arms and sinking into the cushion with a pout. "I never see you anymore."

"Honey," I reply, an ice shot of guilt burrowing into my heart as I brush my hand over his head.

He huffs defensively. "I just like it when you're home, that's all. And you're always at stupid work lately."

"I know. I wish I didn't have to go to stupid work either, but I don't have a choice." I kiss him on top of the head again and he mumbles a protest. "You'll be asleep by the time I get back, so you'll barely have time to miss me."

It's a wrench to leave him, but I promised Jackson that I'd swing by. I've gone to see him before my shift every day this week. I know I should probably let it drop, but he needs somebody. He might be rich and a superstar and all that stuff, but it's also clear that he's lonely. This is a guy who has everything in the world that he could possibly want, except any meaningful human connection.

We've been watching TV lately, nothing serious, but still fun. Friends hanging out and laughing. I have to say it's good for me too. My whole life for years has just been work and caring for other people. It's good to have some "me time" where I can just relax.

I'm sure his connection to me won't last very long anyway. After all, I'm just a nurse. I'm nothing nearly special enough to catch his attention. But if I can make him feel even just a little bit better, just for a couple of weeks, then I'll feel happy that I've done my job.

I jump in the car and start the engine, trying not to glance back at the window because Matt more often than not watches me leave. It turns out that Jackson only lives twenty minutes away from us, and the route I take lets me avoid the worst of the traffic, so it's not a strain to get there.

Just like Matt, Jackson must have been watching from a window, because he opens his front door before I can even knock on it. "What have you brought today?" he asks instead of saying hello, looking at me expectantly.

I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and shake my head. "Nothing much. Just some leftovers."

"Right. Come in." Though his face doesn't look remotely like he's enjoying himself or wants me here, I've begun to learn that his harsh words aren't at all reflective of who he is on the inside. He might look grumpy, but the way he takes my coat and offers me anything I want prove that the face is just a mask for the kindness.

I don't know how he manages to live his life like this, but I am certain that there's a genuine person underneath all this grump. He's softening every day too, actually talking to me like we're friends now rather than me showing up being an irritation. At least, I hope that's what this is, anyway. It's what it feels like to me, so I'll take what I can get.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" he asks as we wander into the kitchen.

As I put my tub into the fridge, I squint dubiously at him. "Haven't you watched every baseball movie that could ever exist by now?"

He shrugs. "Nearly. I haven't got round to the romcoms yet because I think they're stupid, but I guess I'll have to if I'm going to be a completionist about it."

I don't know why hearing him say this crushes me. But it does.

"We don't have to watch anything if you don't want to," I say mildly, trying not to show my disappointment. "I've got a couple of hours before work, so I guess it's not really enough time to watch a movie anyway."

"I guess. There's just not a lot else to do, is there?"

"Sure there is. What — don't you have any hobbies?"

He shrugs again. "None that I can do here. And seeing as I can't leave my house under strict command, I'm down to napping and movies."

I fold my arms and fix him with a stern look. "You're not forbidden from leaving."

"Really? Then why are you telling me not to push myself?"

"With your arms , dummy. We should go out."

"A, why? And B, where?"

I should find his constant need to argue annoying, but somehow I find the challenge stimulating. "Fresh air will do you some good. We should go for a walk."

"What about my arm?"

"Your arm won't stop you going for a walk."

"It's four p.m."

"And the park's open all day, every day."

He glares hard at me, clearly racking his brain to find some more lame excuses to try and blow me off, and when he can't find one, he just sighs. "Fine. Whatever. We can walk."

It's hard not to be really smug. I try not to smile too much, anyway. "Get your coat, then."

"I don't need a coat — it's June."

"All right, don't get your coat then. I'm not going to baby you. But the fresh air will do us both some good instead of just sitting here again."

He sputters some more, but that does seem to be the end of his arguments because he wanders back out into the hall, slumping like this is the worst thing I could ever make him do. I just roll my eyes. He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to, but I get the feeling that this act is the only way he can confess to the fact he actually does want to.

We put our shoes on in silence and step out into the afternoon sun. It's warm, but not as hot as it can be at this time of year. "It's nice weather," I say blandly, trying to get more conversation out of him.

Jackson responds with a grunt.

All this silence is giving me too much time to think, because it's making me think about looping my arm through his, leaning into him like we're more than just friends. It's alarming, the way the thoughts pop into my head unbidden. I do my best to shake them away, and as we approach the park, I say, "Do you come here often?"

"No." He doesn't even look at me as he offers his single syllable.

We turn along the tree-lined path, the sun filtering through the leaves and dancing over his face, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and pouting lips. "Why're you so grumpy?"

"My arm hurts!" he snaps back like that's all that's going on with him.

"Sure, but I get the feeling you're probably like this all the time. I've seen what they say about you on sports TV — a great player, but with a face like you've been slapped."

Jackson mutters something I can't quite make out, and I decide it's best not to try and push that one any further. I'm certain he's being contrary on purpose, but I'm not going to let it deter me from talking to him.

"You love baseball, right?" I ask.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just wondering why you got into it, that's all."

He shrugs. "All I was any good at. Couldn't see the point of doing anything else."

"You don't make it to the Major Leagues because you only like it — it's because you're good at it. There's a dedication there that most people don't have."

"I guess." He stares decidedly at the path as we walk, like he's inspecting the dirt for worms or the path for cracks. Anything but looking at me and opening up.

He's the kind of guy who I don't think would ever be satisfied with anything. It's a shame because he's got more than enough to be satisfied about. I know life's not always easy, but having the kind of money that professional sport players have would definitely help me, injured elbow or not.

"I guess you must have played at school, like my brother."

"He wants to be a player too?"

Finally, that gets Jackson's attention, his eyes snapping back up to look at me. I frown, realizing this is slightly more personal than I really wanted to get into with him. But it's too late to back out of it now.

Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I say, "I don't know. He's at that age where it's really hard to read what he's thinking. Sometimes I think he would love to go to college and play baseball. Other times he's talking about mechanical engineering or poetry or not going to college at all. I find it so hard to tell what it is he actually wants."

"What about you?" Jackson asks, his eyes still hard on me.

"Me?"

"Yeah. What do you want?"

How have the tables turned on me like this? Somehow I've given him the upper hand again, and he's taken it with both hands. I can feel myself blushing too, which doesn't help. Damn him for having this effect on me. "Well, I guess I always wanted to be a nurse — and now I am. I've got what I want."

"You must be happy," says Jackson in the unhappiest tone I've ever had the displeasure to hear. And the worst bit is, the unhappy tone is actually appropriate. I don't have everything I want at all.

"Yeah, I am," I say quietly, then add, "Why, aren't you?"

"Me? My elbow hurts."

And with that, the conversation dies again. It's such a flippant excuse, because clearly there's more going on with him than that. This guy has a depth somewhere, and I want to believe that if I keep digging, I'll find it.

Or maybe it's just a mystery I'm seeking to solve to make my own life feel more interesting.