Page 26 of Worth the Wait

My chest tightens as I read between the lines, hearing his voice in every carefully chosen word. Rich and deep and so delicious. There's something else, too—a passing reference to documents he delivered to my desk earlier.

That's when I remember the letter. Jackson had placed an envelope on my desk this morning, alongside the coffee. In the rush of the day, I'd tucked it into my bag without opening it.

I scramble to retrieve my work bag, fingers trembling slightly as I pull out the worn envelope. The paper is yellowed with age, creased from being folded and unfolded countless times.My name is written in Jackson's handwriting—younger, less assured, but unmistakably his.

My breath catches as I unfold the letter, the paper worn at the creases. There's a water stain in one corner, as though a tear had fallen there long ago.

Dad's in the ICU. They're not sure if he'll make it through the night. I need your voice, Tar. I need your steady calm when everything's falling apart. Please call me back.

A strangled sound escapes my throat as the meaning sinks in. During our final falling out, when I'd blocked his number in frustration and hurt, his father was fighting for his life. While I was nursing my wounded pride, Jackson was watching his world collapse.

And I wasn't there.

Guilt crashes over me in relentless waves, stealing my breath and stinging my eyes. I'd abandoned him when he needed me most, cutting off all contact in the name of self-preservation.

The rest of the letter blurs as tears fill my eyes. His desperate plea for support, the raw vulnerability of his words—it's all too much to bear. All these years, I'd told myself I was the wronged party, that he'd chosen his father's business over our relationship. I never stopped to consider what that choice had truly cost him.

With shaking hands, I reach for my phone. It's after midnight, but I can't let this revelation sit until morning. I type a message before I can lose my nerve.

Me: I read your letter. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me.

His response comes so quickly I know he must have been awake.

Jackson: I needed you then. But I understand why you weren't there. I pushed you away. It was my fault. We both made choices we can't undo.

The generosity of his forgiveness only deepens my shame. I find myself typing again, words flowing from a place I've kept locked away for years.

Me: I should have been there. I was so hurt and angry that I didn't stop to consider what you were going through. I'm so sorry, Jackson.

His reply takes longer this time, as if he's weighing his words carefully.

Jackson: What I can't figure out is why, after all this time, I still look for you in every crowded room. Why the scent of vanilla and amber still stops me in my tracks. Why, when I close my eyes at night, it's still your face I see.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips as they hover over the screen. The raw honesty of his confession demands equal vulnerability in return.

Me: I still feel it too. And that terrifies me more than anything.

I hold my breath, waiting for his response. When it comes, his words settle into my bones like a promise.

Jackson: I've waited eight years. I can wait a little longer.

Something warm and unfamiliar unfurls in my chest—not quite hope, but its fragile precursor. Before I can respond, my phone rings, my father's name lighting up the screen.

"Dad?" I answer, immediately alert. He never calls this late. “Is everything okay?”

"Hey, pumpkin," he says, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness that instantly sets off warning bells. "Yes, yes, everything’s okay. Your mother just reminded me I was uh… Well, I was supposed to call you and tell you about my doctor visit.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I squeeze my eyes shut in shame. I’ve been so preoccupied with work and Jackson that I completely forgot about his appointment today. “How was it? What’d they say?”

“The doctor adjusted my medication again. Nothing to worry about."

My grip tightens on the phone. "Dad, what did he actually say? And don't sugarcoat it."

He pauses, then sighs, sounding weary even through the connection. "The numbers aren't where they should be. Blood pressure's still too high, kidney function showing some strain. Nothing critical, just… not the progress they'd hoped for."

I press my fingers against my temples, a headache building behind my eyes. "I'll come home this weekend. We can go to the next appointment together."

"Don't be silly," he protests, though I hear the relief beneath the words. "Your mother has it all under control. You've got that big project—Westbrook?"

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