Mine Would Be You (59)

“Todavía no.” Not yet.

I ignore her as we walk forward, all convening in the kitchen. Mom works quickly in getting the flowers into a vase. Dad notices them, and his eyes flick right up to mine; the deep brown color holds mine as he sends me a knowing look.

“Okay,” I clap my hands together, trying to rid the nerves coursing through my body. “Who wants a drink? I’m drinking.” I walk straight towards the liquor cabinet.

“Oh, wait,” Jackson mutters quickly. “I forgot something in the car. I’ll be right back. Please excuse me.” My parents wave him off, and he swiftly makes his way out the front door.

Jackson reappears before I can find anything good with two bags in hand and hands one to each of my parents. My mom pulls out a bottle of Pueblo Viejo, and my dad pulls out a bottle of Knobs Creek whiskey.

Dad eyes the bottle with a raise of his brow. “Sucking up to us, Ross?”

A grin grows on Jackson’s face, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Yes sir, I am.”

Mom hits my dad on the chest as his body racks with a chuckle and places their bottles on the counter, pulling out four shot glasses. “Well, since we have fresh tequila, may as well, right?”

“Only one for me. I’m driving,” Jackson says standing next to the dinning chair I took a seat in a few seconds ago.

“¿Donde lo conseguiste, mija? En marte?” Where did you find him? Mars? Mom asks, her eyes twinkling, and I shake my head.

Jackson rests his hand on the back of my chair, curling his fingertips into the ends of my hair and tickling my back, reminding me he’s still here.

“No se todvaía estoy tratando de averiguarlo.” I don’t know yet, I’m trying to figure it out. I shrug, meaning that, causing her to laugh as the boys look on.

My dad is pretty much fluent in Spanish, but Mom and I use it more. Just more our thing since he really only learned for her. I’m grateful that he doesn’t spill to Jackson what we said. Not that he ever would, but I’m still thankful.

I lean back into the chair, into Jackson’s fingertips, as my mom pours the shots, the smell of tequila briefly overpowers the other smells wafting through the kitchen. I stand as we all form a small circle to cheers our glasses. Jackson’s hands never leave my back, and I purposely ignore both my parents’ eyes as we tip our glasses.

“So, I’ll take one more,” I say instantly.

Dad sends me a look, and I roll my eyes. “How’s work?” he asks, setting up the small table in the kitchen. I help him by placing the silverware as Jackson and my mom start mumbling to each other as she dishes out servings.

“It’s good. I got published in the September issue. It’s out, on newsstands everywhere. Assuming they put it in. I actually haven’t looked because I’m terrified.”

He raises his eyebrows, pride flashing in his eyes. “My baby in the September issue? Glad to hear all those Top Model and Project Runway binges paid off.” He comes to stand right next to me, bumping my shoulder gently, eyes flicking to Jackson and back to me. “And this boy over here? You like him?”

“Dad,” I say quietly as he raises an eyebrow, “Obviously I like him. You think I’d bring him here if not?”

He looks over to the blond standing in my kitchen, laughing with my mom. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

He kisses me on my cheek without saying anything else, but he pats Jackson on the back when he passes him to place the steaming plates on the table. I take my seat and motion for Jackson to plop down next to me. Both of his dimples are on full display at the plate of food in front of him, steaming vegetables, tamales, ribs, and rice.

I don’t know what about that moment hits me.

Jackson sitting in my childhood home, in the kitchen, meeting my parents. Maybe it’s the way the muscles under his tan skin flex lightly in the short sleeve button up, or the bright smile he’s had on his face all day, constantly flashing his dimples at me, or maybe it’s the way he’s constantly touching me with a light graze, the pad of his thumb or his palm. Or the way his deep blue eyes flash with warmth every time they land on my face. Like they like whatever they see or that looking at me causes the same exact reaction in him that I get whenever he’s around.

This all-encompassing feeling of the sun warming your skin from the inside out.

Whatever it is, I like it. I don’t want it to stop.

I know this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t taken this step forward. Pride surges through me. Maybe it’s stupid, but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’ve cleared a huge personal hurdle.

I pull my eyes away from his face as we start to dig in, but not quickly enough.

“¿Ves algo que te gusta?” See something you like? My mom has a smug smile. “So, Jackson, what do you do?” she continues, giving me no time to respond.

He’s mid-bite into my dad’s ribs, which makes me chuckle at the tiny splattering of barbeque sauce next to his lip. After a moment he responds, “I work in public relations, down in Tribeca.”

“That’s impressive. Good business to be in, especially here,” my dad says.

Jackson smiles, “It is. Couldn’t imagine a better place. It’s certainly a special industry. What do you do for work, Mr. Scott? Mrs. Scott,” she gives him a look, “Elena, Nina’s told me all about your social work. My mom would adore you.”