“If you’re planning to murder me, you left two witnesses back at the apartment who know I’m with you.”
Jackson laughs but rumbling down a dark dirt road in the middle of nowhere doesn’t seem all that funny to me.
Nice, quiet boy murders the pretty, loud, loose blonde. Sounds like a true-crime podcast.
The hand resting on my thigh squeezes. “We’re almost there.”
I open my mouth to ask where, exactly, there is but I’m interrupted by the truck slowing. Jackson’s intent gaze heats the side of my face as my lips part in surprise, eyes wide as they take in the field lit up by strings of twinkling lights casting a dim glow, just bright enough to make out the neat rows of cars stretching towards a giant screen lit up with an old-fashioned film reel countdown.
To be honest, I didn’t know drive-in movies were still a thing.
But I like it.
I really like it, and as I lace my fingers through Jackson’s and turn to face him, I pray my huge grin conveys just how much. He hides his relieved smile by bringing our clasped hands to his lips, leaving them for a long moment as he steers the truck towards an empty spot. He parks in reverse and gestures for me to get out, leading me around to the back.
Undoing the tailgate, he clambers up, movements jerky and nervous. “I got your cushions,” he says, wearing a silly, nervous grin as he holds a hand out to me. “And blankets.”
The lump in my throat stings as I swallow, my hand shaking as I take Jackson’s hand and let him hoist me up. “I can see that.”
I wish I couldn’t. I might close my eyes to block the sight because who knew the sight of a truck bed could make a girl so emotional? It’s not just pillows and blankets. There’s a bag tucked in the corner, Sour Patch Kids and Warheads spilling over the top the same way they frequently spill out of the bottom drawer of my bedside table. A cooler sits beside it and when I crack the top, I find my favorite drinks lurking inside. The warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest officially turns to suspicion when my gaze snags on a brochure advertising tonight’s movie and, surprise, surprise, it’s my favorite.
I side-eye Jackson. “Who’s the rat?”
“I don’t reveal my sources.”
“So secretive,” I tut teasingly, but there’s an edge to my voice even I recognize.
Clearing my throat, I adopt a smile that’s probably just as awkwardly nervous as Jackson’s and sit. He’s quick to follow my lead, quicker to pull me closer, sharing his warmth. Always so damn warm.
Our closeness is jarring. Weird because we’ve certainly been a hell of a lot closer than this before but it’s different. More… I don’t know. Just more, and it gives me this weird plummeting feeling. Like I’ve been pushed out of a plane and I’m free falling. Like I’m completely out of my depth. I don’t like it, not one bit, but I think that where Jackson’s concerned, that feeling is never going to be far behind.
Nerves have me fiddling with the hem of my dress. When Jackson lays a blanket over my bare legs, I fiddle with that instead. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know what to say. God, who would’ve thought that the best way to get Luna Evans to shut up would be to bring her on a damn date?
I jolt when Jackson slips his hand under the blanket to grip my thigh. “Luna?”
“Hm?”
Warm breath brushes my temple. “I’m nervous too.”
“I’m not nervous.”
I feel his smirk against my skin. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Reeling back, I narrow my eyes at him. “I think I liked you better when you didn’t speak.”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“Wow.” I draw back, feigning offense. “You’re supposed to be nice on dates.”
Lips lifted in a smile too cheek and endearing for me to handle, Jackson leans in until his forehead nudges mine. “How would you know?”
Screeching indignantly to drown out my bark of laughter, I shove at Jackson’s chest. My attempt to push him away fails before it actually begins; catching me by the wrists, he lifts them to his mouth, his stifled laugh brushing the base of my thumbs as his lips do. “I’m sorry.”
I wrench my hands away but I don’t get very far, two of mine trapped between one of us and held hostage, clasped to his chest. “I feel like I’ve been duped,” I huff, resigning to my fate and slumping against his side. “You were so sweet before. Is that your ploy? Put on the nice guy act long enough to get the girl?”
“Maybe I am just nice.”
“Sounds fake.”
“Didn’t peg you for a cynic, Luna.”
“I don’t think a general distrust of men makes me cynical, Jackson.”
I regret the words—no matter how true they may be—the minute they leave my mouth and something sad twists Jackson’s features. “When I figure out how to earn your trust,” he says, kissing my hands again, “I hope you’ll let me.”
No promises, I say internally, hating myself for it.
On the outside, even though I’m positive he sees right through it, I smile. “You can start by getting me a drink.”
Jackson obliges, if a little hesitantly, as though he wants to say something else but thinks better of it. He drags the cooler over, digging inside to retrieve a peach-flavored Crush, and it’s ridiculous, how gooey and warm I feel over a man knowing my favorite drink and going out of his way to get it.
The gooey warmness, though, takes a backseat to disgust when I catch sight of the flavor Jackson brandishes.
“Grapefruit?” I hiss, grimacing when he actually swallows the foul liquid. “The worst flavor? Seriously?”
The man has the nerve to look indignant. “It’s my favorite.”
I tut at him as I cradle my much more respectable peach beverage. “This might be a dealbreaker.”
The raise of Jackson’s brows is nothing short of a challenge. “Oh really?”
“Yup.”
A scoffed breath caresses my cheek as he leans in close, his nose brushing mine, his lips hot against the corner of my mouth. My breath catches at the sudden proximity, my stomach fucking somersaulting as he smoothes a hand up my thigh, settling dangerously close to the crook of my hip. “Are you sure about that?”
“Ye-”
I don’t get to finish my retort.
Lips capture mine, and I manage to hold off for all of ten pathetic seconds before I kiss him back, not even caring that he tastes like the cursed grapefruit Crush.
I’m barely watching the movie.
I’m way too focused on the man nestled beside me.
At some point, we shifted. Huddled closer together. Me slouched between his legs with his chest warming my back, his big hands rubbing my bare arms and chasing away the cold of the night. His arms crossed over my chest and his chin resting on my shoulder, I’m completely surrounded by the man, and it’s an odd yet wonderful thing.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a lover of physical touch. I’m all about skin-to-skin contact. I’m no stranger to casual affection.
Just not like this.
I can’t recall a time in my life when I was held like this.
Gentle yet firm.
Comforting yet alarming.
Safe yet so very dangerous.
I can’t tell if it makes it better or worse, how very aware he is of my… strife? Confusion? Complete and utter dating ineptitude?
Better, maybe, because whatever it is, he counters it all with nothing but comfort. A tight grip and murmured words of assurance, regular reminders that he feels just as out of his depth as I do. That he doesn’t expect anything from me; he just wants me.
And it does help.
If distracting can be considered helping.
When wrapped up in arms like Jackson’s, how’s a girl supposed to focus on anything else?
The movie all but background noise, I shift to the side, tilting my head back to gaze up at him. “I have a question.”
Not at all perturbed by the interruption, Jackson crooks a brow.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“That’s a disappointingly vague answer for an artist.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wanted an exact paint shade?”
I sigh, my eyes briefly closing in a feign moment of disappointment. “You’re supposed to say something romantic. You know,” I attempt a sorry imitation of his voice, “light blue, like your eyes.”
Jackson’s chuckle brushes my forehead a second before his lips do. “I use a color called Spun Sugar a lot,” he says quietly. “It’s pale cyan. That’s my favorite.”
Oh, do I hate just how well that line works.
Blinking in the hopes that’ll dispel the fucking hearts swirling in my eyes, I fire another question at him. “Favorite song?”
“Hm.” His head hits the cab window he’s slumped against, his face scrunching up as he thinks. “I don’t know.”
I tut. “Another cop-out answer.”
Fingers pinch my arm before slipping between us, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Here.” Unlocking it, he opens Spotify and drops it on my lap. “Check for yourself.”
One scroll through the only playlist on there–probably the first and only red flag this boy has displayed–shows an eclectic music taste. A little bit of everything. Laughter bubbles up in my throat because when I say everything, I mean everything. “Big One Direction fan?”
Face deadpan, he says, “I have four younger sisters. I had no choice.”
Four.
Jesus Christ. That’s the whole gentleman thing explained. “Your mom must love having so many girls.”
In an instant, I know I’ve fucked up somehow. Something heavy darkens the mood as Jackson tenses, his grip on me loosening just a bit, because I’ve done what I do best; put my big foot in my bigger mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“It’s okay.” Jackson offers me a weak smile before clearing his throat. “She’s not in the picture. Neither is my dad.”
My mouth opens to comfort him, closing just as swiftly because comfort is not among my specialities and I don’t actually know what to say. ‘Sorry your parents left you. Hey, my dad left too?’
Eloquent.
“Favorite food?” I meant to break the tension but God, I think I actually managed to make it a little worse.
Jackson’s smile is sad. His eyes are sad. The slump of his fucking shoulders is sad.
“We lived in Boston for a little while and there was this really good Japanese restaurant near our house. My dad took me there when he visited once and I remember being so excited. He didn’t get why. When he asked, I said because I’m Japanese, and he just kind of said… Oh. Like he’d forgotten. I thought he chose the place on purpose but apparently not.”
“Is your favorite food the rat poison you feed to him or something?”
“No,” he laughs, a decidedly unhappy noise. “It’s the two hundred dollar ramen he let me order because he felt bad.”
Never in my life have I wished to be someone well-versed in comfort yet here I am, twice in one night, pleading for just that. All I can think to offer is a brush of my lips against the bottom of his jaw, my hands sliding along his arms so I’m holding him instead of the opposite.
“One more question.” I whisper. “How does a first date end?”
Jackson softens, eyes regaining that signature softness. “I bring you home.”
“Do you come home with me?“
“Not tonight.” Two words kill any inkling of hope. “I walk you to your door, kiss you goodnight, and leave.”
“Like a gentleman?” I sigh when he nods, his laugh kickstarting my heart a beat. “But you’re at least gonna go home and jack off thinking about me, right?”
He glances at me briefly, just long enough for me to see the wicked smile lighting up his face. “Oh, fuck yeah.”
