Under My Skin

Page 43

Or is this about anger? At the paparazzi. At me.
Or is it simply the ignition of the sparks that are ever-present between us?
I truly don’t know, and I think this is the first time that I have been unable to read him.
I want to ask, and yet I say nothing. Part of me is afraid of the answer, but another part of me is simply melting under the long, firm strokes of his fingers and the pressure of his mouth against mine, his tongue taking and teasing.
And it is only when my phone rings sharply—a series of chimes that indicate that the caller is my brother—that my senses return, and Jackson backs away, breathing hard.
“You should answer it,” he says.
“Right. Yeah. I should.” I scramble away and grab my phone from where I’d left it on the kitchen counter. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Any chance we can have drinks tonight instead of tomorrow? I talked with Cass, and she’s good if you are.”
“Oh.” I glance over at Jackson. “I’m not sure tonight’s the best idea. Why the change?”
“I had to get away from the house,” he says. Considering he’s living temporarily with our parents, that’s a sentiment I completely understand. “I got in the car and ended up here. And I’d just really like to see you.”
“And you don’t want to drive up again tomorrow?” I tease.
“That, too.”
I sigh. “Listen, I don’t think I should. It’s just not—”
“Go.” Jackson’s voice is firm and clear.
I blink. “What?”
“It’s Ethan, right? And he wants you to go tonight instead of tomorrow.”
I nod, acknowledging that he got it right.
“You should go.”
I want to protest—to tell him I don’t want to go, because now going feels like I’m being pushed away. But at the same time I don’t want to argue or play games. And I really do want to see my brother.
With my eyes on Jackson, I speak into the phone. “Okay,” I say. “When and where?”
As soon as the details are worked out, I end the call and look back at Jackson. “Do you want to meet us later?”
His mouth curves up. “I thought this was the no-significant-others gathering. Cass without Siobhan. You without me.”
“Maybe I don’t like you without me.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. “Maybe that’s good to know.”
“Jackson,” I blurt. “Are we okay?”
He steps forward so that he can press his hands to my shoulders, then kisses me tenderly. I close my eyes, relishing the connection, the heat that inevitably comes merely from his proximity. I have come to depend on this sizzle. This spark of awareness. But today, when it all feels slightly off, I cannot help but fear what will happen if that flame is ever extinguished.
“Of course we are,” he says, and I wait for relief to flood me.
It doesn’t, though. Because the truth is, I’m not quite sure that I believe him.
twelve
I hesitate on the sidewalk outside Gemini Rising, one of the trendy bars that are forever opening and then usually folding in and around Santa Monica. This one is owned by twins, one of whom Cass dated almost a decade ago, and she assures me that the atmosphere is great—as in you can actually have a conversation—and that both the food and the drinks border on orgasmic.
Which, of course, is why she chose this place.
The thing is, even though I’ve been looking forward to drinks with my best friend and my brother, now I’m not so sure I’m in the mood for conversation. I’m too busy pretending like my entire world isn’t teetering on the brink of complete and total disaster.
In other words, I’m a mess. And while an evening out is probably a great idea, I really don’t want to dump all my problems on Ethan and Cass. But I have a feeling that once I’ve gotten some wine into me, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
With a sigh, I grab hold of the door handle and give it a tug, the motion fueled by a mental shrug. After all, that’s what friends are for, right?
The lighting inside is dim, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I finally find them at a table all the way in the back, and as I head over there, I have to agree with Cass’s assessment—the place is funky and fun, but not so loud you can’t come to catch up with friends.
A circular bar is the centerpiece of the room, and as I walk past it, I hear the familiar sounds of flirting, pickups, and the hum of new relationships. The sound is bittersweet, because a week ago, I would have walked smugly past the bar, secure in the knowledge that I was with the only man I ever truly wanted—and certain that he wanted me right back.