History Is All You Left Me(59)

“That’s not happening. I’m flying out there and—”

“Fine. Fly out here. But I’m still not leaving until Wednesday. Tomorrow Jackson and I are celebrating Theo’s life,” I say. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ll send you Jackson’s mom’s phone number along with my flight info. You can call her.”

Jackson texts me his mom’s number.

“How will I know I’m talking to Jackson’s mom?” she cries. “It could be some woman on the streets you paid twenty dollars. How can I possibly trust you anymore? Have you called your father yet? Wait. He didn’t know, did he?”

“No, I called you first.”

“You lied to us.” She sounds so disappointed. “You tricked us.”

“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, but I had to—”

“I’m at work right now,” she interrupts. “Send me Jackson’s mom’s number and pick up when I call you.” Finally her voice softens. “Are you okay? How was the flight?”

“I’m okay. I didn’t freak out. Jackson took care of me.”

Mom breathes into the phone. “Pick up when I call you next.”

“Okay. I love you, Mom.”

There’s an excruciating pause. “I love you, too.” She hangs up.

“Yikes.” I avoid Jackson’s eyes as I send in a flurry all of the relevant information to both my parents. My dad texts me a minute later, asking for both of Jackson’s parents’ addresses, which Jackson types out for him.

Jackson hands me back my phone. He offers a tentative grin. “Well, how are you liking California?”

I laugh. “Not the best twenty minutes of my life, but not the worst, either,” I say.

“Let’s improve that. What do you want to do today?”

I look out the window and hope I don’t get sent home. Jackson’s parents could tip the scale in that direction. “I don’t know. Your call.”

When I imagined myself moving to California, I always thought the first thing you and I would do together would be hitting up the beach. It’s an obvious thing to do, but it’s such a one-eighty from what we’re used to back in New York. But that was in an alternate universe. I don’t have any direction of my own out here in this one.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi drops us off on a street corner. The air feels different, buoyant, like I can float on a breeze that smells like ocean and seaweed. I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. I missed the sun, but I’m already wishing I had sunglasses. Instead I shield my eyes with your bunched up hoodie.

Jackson pays the cab driver and points down the block at a light orange one-story house between two sand-colored houses. Considering it’s the only house with a ramp and railings leading to the front door, it’s what I would’ve guessed it was. The house looks worn and a little battered, like it’s weathered a fierce storm, but I love it. I can sense history pulsating from it.

“Is this your childhood home?” I ask.

Jackson shakes his head. “When my parents split, everything else did too. My dad got his apartment in Culver City, and Mom stayed here in Santa Monica. Mom’s feels like the closest to home, but I really miss where I grew up. It would’ve been cool to show you and Theo that house, but this one’s not so bad.”

Yeah, having a house is definitely not so bad. Not to mention the free flights he gets from a father who could probably easily afford every trip if he had to. I’m not about to call him out on any of that, of course—especially since you told me you did already. You were around him so much that bursts of Jackson’s privilege never bothered you. You cracked a couple of jokes Jackson never found too much truth in, but it reached a boiling point when he wanted you to skip work to hang out with him. “Some of us need jobs to afford the museum,” you told him, and a fight broke out. The fight wasn’t enough to break you up, though.

Jackson finds his keys inside his backpack and unlocks the front door.

“Mom, we’re here!” He looks around, crouching over expectantly, and fast little footsteps come charging our way. With a name like Chloe, I expected her to be a really beautiful golden retriever, but she’s a black collie. Her tail wags as she gets her ass scratched by Jackson.

“I’m in the kitchen!” comes his mom’s voice.

I step toward Chloe and she runs out from underneath Jackson’s hand and backs away from us.

“You’re too tall to walk up on her like that. Get down here with me,” Jackson says.

I crouch beside Jackson. He makes kissing sounds and says Chloe’s name in this funny voice that sounds like a stoned Mickey Mouse. I guess Chloe trusts Mickey Mouse on pot, because she comes over and lets us both pet her. In addition to the ass scratch, Chloe likes being pet roughly on her head.

Jackson throws his stuff on the couch and I do the same. The place feels very spare, not as elaborate as I was expecting. Maybe there isn’t so much history, after all. Or maybe it’s history that they don’t want to show off. I understand that now. They’ve been living here long enough that they should have more furniture, shouldn’t they?

I follow Jackson into the kitchen, where his mother is sitting at the dining-room table in her wheelchair. Ms. Lane is typing one-handed while she holds up a piece of mail. I’ve never seen pictures of his father, but Jackson is a younger version of his mother, no doubt. He bends over and kisses her on the cheek, then hugs her.