Page 60 of Bloom

Flushed cheeks plumping as she grins, Lux doesn’t deny it, and not for the first time, I’m envious. Not for the first time, Iwish I was different—normal. I wish the idea of letting loose and having enough drinks to wipe away my bad mood and replace it with giddy, floaty, drunken emptiness, didn't paralyze me with fear. I wish I could do that without the risk of it becoming something more, without playing Russian Roulette with my genetics.

I wish I wasn’t destined to a life of sidelines, watching everyone be drunk and merry when I’m anything but.

Which, after assuring Lux I’m fine and she should go have fun, is exactly what I do.

At some point, I find my way to the barn.

Far from the festivities. Hiding in the loft that’s little more than rotting wood and loose nails. Counting the cobwebs decorating the rafters and listening to the soft snorts of the equine inhabitants rather than the drunken merriment I quickly got tired of.

I don’t know how long passes before the rickety ladder creaks and a body brushes my legs where they hang over the edge of the loft, but I know it’s not nearly long enough. Sighing a silent goodbye to the peace and quiet, I prop myself up on my elbows, ready for Lux to drag me from her favorite hiding spot.

I’m not even a little bit prepared for who actually pulls themselves over the ledge.

Wincing, I breathe through the sudden assault of a particularly embarrassing memory. When, two years ago at the annual summer blow-out, I was the one to follow Jackson up here. When I was lonely and sad and desperate, and I projected that onto him, asked him out even though I knew what theanswer would be, and acted like a kicked puppy when he understandably rejected me.

“Thought I’d find you here,” my ex-boyfriend muses as he settles besides me.

“Lux sent you, didn’t she?”

“Luna,” Jackson corrects—admits, honest to a fault, as always. “She heard some people… talking.”

Gossiping, he means. “Ah.”

“You okay?”

I hum in lieu of really answering—I’m not sure‘I’m used to it’is an excuse he’ll like. Or understand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I start to brush him off, to assure him it’s not his fault, when he adds, “About the thing with Eliza. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.”

Lowering myself onto my back again, I sigh at the ceiling. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Jackson blows out a breath, and out of the corner of my eye, I watch him rub the ends of his hair between his fingers, a nervous habit that’s so familiar. “This is weird for me. You being around again.”

“You think it’s not for me?” I hesitate, swallowing hard before quietly adding, “You think it wasn’t weird tonotbe here?”

I don't care what anyone thinks or says or assumes, Jackson and I were friends. Before we ever dated, we werefriends. I was a silly, shy pre-teen with a crush on the new kid who seemed just as shy, who only offered his attention to his little sisters—until he offered his attention to me.

Or, technically, he offered me half of his turkey-mustard sandwich when he noticed me skulking around the outskirts of the cafeteria, stomach growling because this was post-Mom, and Dad barely remembered Iexisted, let alone had the foresight to pack me a lunch.

Jackson was the first person to show me kindness, to make me feel special, to give mesafety, in so,solong. How could I not fall in love?

How could I not be crushed when it was all taken from me?

“I’m not pining for you,” I whisper into the darkness, and I mean it. My love for Jackson died a long time ago, even if I only managed to admit it to myself once a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty waltzed into his life. “I’m not hanging around so much because I’m hoping you’ll fall in love with me again. I don’t want that. I’m happy for you, I really am. I only ever wanted you to be happy. I’m just trying to be happy too, and being here makes me happy, but if it makes you uncomfortable…”

What? I’ll stop coming here? I don’t think I could. I think that wouldhurt.

I remember what Hunter said the other day. About mypeople pleasin’ problem.What he implied, more accurately, about encouraging the happiness of others at the expense of my own. I don’t like that I do that—I don’t want to do it, especially if it’s the ranch I’m costing myself.

“I really, really love this place,” I say, still whispering. “Please don’t make me stay away.”

As a heavy silence settles around us, I try not to panic. I try not to hear words that haven’t been spoken yet, to assume the worst. I try not to prematurely wonder how I’m going to spend my days if I can’t spend them here, who I’m going to talk to if I can’t talk to Lux, how I’m going to freaking survive if I can’t—

“I wouldn’t do that.”

My whole body goes slack as I suck in a breath.

“Line,” Jackson says, and I can’t remember when he last called me that. “I would never do that.

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