Page 115 of The Coach

I take a slow breath, overwhelmed in the best way possible. I’m alone in one of my favorite places, with Jackson.

"You know," I whisper, "this is, like…unbelievably romantic."

Jackson smirks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That was the point."

We stroll past the Impressionists first. Monet, Renoir, Degas.

"Do you have a favorite?" Jackson asks.

I bite my lip, glancing at him. "You actually care?"

His gaze flicks to mine, his expression unreadable. "Of course."

I exhale, turning back to the paintings. "Monet. The way he plays with light—it always feels like you’re looking at a memory. Like something just out of reach, you know?"

Jackson nods. "I get that."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do you actually get that?"

He chuckles. "Hey, I know art."

"Oh yeah?" I cross my arms. "What’s your favorite painting?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "That one." He nods toward George Seurat’s 'A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.'

I blink. "The pointillism one?"

He grins. "Yeah. Look at it. From far away, it’s all put together. But up close? It’s just dots. A million tiny, imperfect dots. It’s kinda like life, right?"

“That was unexpectedly deep.”

He chuckles, shrugging it off. “Honestly I just think dots are cool.”

I smile as we move through the museum, the air between us shifting.

In one of the quieter halls, we pause in front of a massive oil painting—romantic, dramatic, swirling colors.

I don’t even realize Jackson is watching me until he speaks.

"You always loved art growing up?"

I nod. "Yeah. I used to take photographs all the time. I thought maybe I’d be a professional. But life happens, and… you know how it goes."

He’s quiet for a beat.

“You ever think about picking it back up?"

I blink up at him.

No one’s ever asked me that before.

"I don’t know," I admit. "I take a few photos here and there. I just figured I’d left it behind."

Jackson’s voice is low. “It’s not too late, you know.”

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