I Want You Back (Want You #1)(16)

At the door, Jaxson handed over cash. The woman said, “Due to the nature of the exhibit, there are rooms where no talking is allowed so visitors can concentrate on the written words. But in the main performing area where the exhibition ends, feel free to discuss what you’ve seen. The music you’ll hear, written and performed by Angelique exclusively for this exhibit, is a joyful celebration of life-sustaining relationships. Please, take as much time as you need to fully enjoy the exhibit.”

“Thank you. We will.” Then Jaxson ushered me around the corner.

Before we entered the “no talking” room, I crowded him against the wall and tried to look intimidating as best I could, given the fact he topped me by nearly a foot. “Is this some Holocaust exhibit guaranteed to wreck me?”

“No.” He shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. “Just keep an open mind, okay?”

“No promises,” I shot back.

A large chalkboard by the door explained the purpose of the exhibit.

As I read through the explanation, a hard lump formed in my throat and my eyes burned. The exhibit was comprised of stories from cancer survivors, from age five to age one hundred and five. The stories weren’t about the survivors themselves, but the people, the family members and friends who supported them during diagnosis and through treatment. Cared for them. Cheered them on with every tiny medical victory. Cried with them over setbacks.

Even if speaking had been allowed, I couldn’t have forced out a single sound as I strolled through the first room. Some of the survivors had drawn pictures. Some had created a collage of photographs. One had made a mobile out of IV tubes and attached pictures of her caregivers on the ends so she could see their faces last thing at night and first thing in the morning.

Jaxson squeezed my hand and it startled me.

How had I forgotten we were still holding hands? I glanced up at him and he dabbed the corners of my eyes with a tissue, which made me want to cry harder. Between the flirting and clever one-liners, he’d actually listened to me . . . he’d heard me. He understood that dealing with my mother’s cancer had been a defining moment in my life.

I started to speak, but he placed his fingers across my lips and shook his head.

Two hours later when we finished the exhibit, I was drained, but in a happy way. My mother could’ve written a piece like any of these. At one point she’d even said that she wished she had the skills to articulate what it’d meant to her to have both of her daughters there without question when she needed them the most.

I didn’t speak at all until we were in Jaxson’s car.

“Luce? You okay?”

“Yes. And no.” I managed a smile. “Thank you. And while the obvious reason you took me there instead of the current textile exhibit showing at the Walker is because of my mom’s cancer, that wasn’t the only reason you chose that gallery.”

He shifted smoothly as we accelerated onto the freeway. “What’s the other reason?”

“If I were an optimist I’d say to remind me that every cloud has a silver lining.”

“What’s pessimistic Lucy say?”

“It’s not necessarily pessimistic to see that pain and loss is universal and constant. While we think we’re alone in our experiences, we’re not. There can be a sliver of happiness even in sorrow.” I paused. “How’d I do?”

“My thought processes don’t run that deep, sorry to say.”

I considered that response as I considered him. “Is there someone in your life who died that you wish you could’ve been there for like I was for my mom?”

“Nope. I’ve not had to deal with family death—or the possibility of it. When my grandfather died everyone was relieved because he was a nasty guy.”

“Jaxson. That’s horrible.”

“Yes, he was. What really sucks is I was named after him.” He shot me a dark look. “I never want to live up to his name or his reputation.”

“I can’t blame you.” I studied his beautifully masculine profile. “But that’s not the reason you haven’t told me your full name.”

“True.”

After he parked alongside my car, he reached for my hand and kissed my knuckles. “You all right, Lucy Q?”

I shrugged. “Surprised . . . maybe a tiny bit confused.”

“Confused because I proved that we’re not mismatched?”

“Yes.”

That earned me his wolfish grin.

“But I’m still curious.”

“About?”

“Why I’m willing to agree to another date with you even when we’re still playing the no-last-name game.”

“Have dinner with me tonight—right now—and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“I can’t.” Such a lie. I could, but he had me so twisted up I needed to regroup.

“When can I see you again?” he demanded softly.

“Monday night is open for me.”

He nodded. “That’ll work. But I can’t be out late since it’s—”

“A school night?” I supplied. “So that makes you a teacher, Mr. Jaxson?”

“Funny girl, but no.”

I studied him closely.

“What?”