Page 74 of On the Edge

Marco comes into the kitchen then, takes in Jackson’s hand on my shoulder and glances at Christian. It’s awkward as shit, then Marco approaches Christian and claps him on the shoulder, leaning in and unleashing a torrent of Italian so fast that I can’t catch a single word, not that I know many Italian words in the first place. Christian just nods, then says, “Dinner is ready.”

Marco and Jackson spring into action, her opening cabinets and drawers to get out the plates and cutlery and glasses, and him taking the plates from her and heading over to the stove. She grabs some cloth napkins out of another drawer and brings them over to the table with the cutlery and glasses, and it takes me a moment to realize why this scene is odd. It’s so domestic, like the three of them have done this before. She knows where everything is.

“You’ve stayed here before?” I ask her quietly while she stands next to me folding napkins and setting them on the four placemats at the table.

“Yeah, we were here for a few days this fall when I visited.” She sets forks and knives on the napkins as she explains, “We went hiking up here once it got too cold to spend our days at Marco’s house on the lake.”

Oh, so she was here during her month-long vacation with Marco. She’s never mentioned it to me, but I saw the highlights on social media.

Christian and Marco bring platters to the table—a whole roasted chicken that looks amazing even if I can’t eat it, a large baking dish full of sliced polenta, and a round cast iron pan with meticulously sliced vegetables arranged like dominos in two circles and cooked in a tomato ragu.

“You like to cook?” I ask Christian as he and Marco take a seat on the bench across from me, and Jackson sinks into the chair next to me. She and Marco lock eyes and she raises her eyebrows, but I keep my focus on Christian, pretending like I don’t notice.

“I love cooking. I wanted to go to culinary school, but my parents were ... not in favor of that.”

“What did you end up doing instead?” I ask.

“I work for the family business.”

“Work?” Marco coughs out a laugh. “Is that what you call it?” Marco turns toward me and says, “I don’t think Christian has ever worked a day in his life.”

“That is where my paycheck comes from,” Christian says, and I can tell this is an old argument. “And really, you are one to talk? With how many days you’ve gone to a real job?”

“I do have toearnmy winnings though,” he teases and Christian’s cheeks pink. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a grown-ass man blush, and it makes me wonder why he’s so embarrassed.

As we dish our food onto our plates, he tells me a bit about the machine parts manufacturing company his great-grandfather started and how it’s evolved over the years. He certainly knows a lot about the inner workings of the company he’s purportedly hardly involved in.

I eat my fair share of the polenta and ratatouille while the three of them chat about people and places I don’t know. It’s oddly comforting to see Jackson in this environment. Even though I hate to think of her spending one second more than necessary with Marco, I can’t help but feel relieved that she’s had people like him to support her after I left her like I did.

I should be jealous thinking of her relationship with Marco, like I’ve always been. But no matter how hard I try, I just don’t see anything more than affection between them. There’s no heat, no obvious attraction. Aside from the look they shared when she first sat down—the one that was more likewhy am I sitting next to Nate?—they haven’t shared any more looks.

My knee bumps Jackson’s under the table as Christian and Marco share a laugh at some sort of an inside joke that neither she nor I get even though they’re speaking English. It’s a soft enough tap that she could think it’s an accident, but she knows it’s not. In the soft light of the kitchen chandelier her skin is glowing and when she tilts her chin toward me she has a wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Your back doing okay?”

“Not really.” My words are soft and low, because I’d prefer Marco not hear them.

“Are you in pain?” she asks, leaning closer.

“Would you think less of me if I said yes?”

“I’d think you’re human.” She rolls her eyes. “We should do some dry needling followed by ice, and see if that gives you some relief.”

“Sure,” I say as I take my napkin off my lap and set it on the table next to my plate.

Next to me, she stands and Marco and Christian’s eyes snap up to her. “Nate needs some PT. I’m going to wash our dishes and then work with him for a bit.”

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” Marco says as she stacks my plate on top of hers, “we’ll get them.”

“I’ll leave them in the sink then.”

“Stop fussing,” Christian says to Jackson, sounding a lot like her old Italian grandmother. We’d visited her a few times in Brooklyn over the years, and she never really liked me. I bet she’s over the moon about Jackson dating Marco, though. “We can clean the plates up. Just help Nate.”

I follow Jackson to my bedroom. She leaves to grab her dry needling kit while I take my shirt off, but I can’t even lie down on my own, so she finds me shirtless and standing next to my bed when she returns. She helps me move from a sitting to a lying position on my bed, then helps me roll over on my stomach.

I let out a guttural sigh, all the air hissing out of my lungs at once, when she pushes on the muscle. “It’s still really inflamed,” she says, as if my pain didn’t prove it. “And it’s seized up again. I want you to take more pain medication”—she glances at her watch—“in half an hour.”

“Okay,” I say, but it comes out as a grunt because she’s still pushing on that muscle. It’s taking everything I’ve got not to clench the muscles in response.

“This is going to hurt more than the last few times we did this,” she warns me, and I nod my acknowledgment. “But it should really help your pain level once the muscle starts releasing.”

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