Page 89 of Call It What You Want
His words sink into me, and yeah—this is not the fairy tale bullshit I used to dream about. This is real. Dangerous. The kind of love that doesn't just walk up and introduce itself, but crashes through walls and leaves everything changed.
And fuck me, I am so gone for him.
Completely, recklessly in love.
My heart hammers as I meet his eyes. “Jackson,” I say softly. “I need to show you something.”
We drive to my dad’s place in silence. The kind of silence that presses in from all sides, making every heartbeat, every breath, feel too loud. My hands won’t stop trembling in my lap, so I ball them into fists until my knuckles go white. The entire way, mystomach is twisting—because of what I just witnessed, the blood still fresh in my memory, and because of what I’m about to do.
Never in a million years did I think this was what it’d all come down to.
We park in front of Jackson’s mom’s house, the mansion looming ahead of us. We make our way around the sprawling estate to my dad’s little cottage.
Through the front door, I can hear Jameson's squeal of laughter—pure, joyful—and warmth spreads through my chest.
The door is unlocked, so I walk in without knocking, Jackson right behind me.
Jameson is playing on the living room floor, surrounded by blocks and toy cars, his dark curls catching the lamp light. When he sees me, his whole face lights up—that smile that makes everything worth it—and he scrambles to his feet, toddling over to me on unsteady legs.
I scoop him up before he can fall, crushing my lips to his plump cheek. He smells like baby shampoo and graham crackers, and I breathe him in like he’s oxygen. “Hey, monkey. Did you miss me?”
He babbles something incomprehensible and pats my face with damp hands, and I’ve never felt more relieved in my entire life.
I can feel Jackson’s heavy presence, hovering behind me. Watching. Waiting.
“Olivia, is that you?” My dad peeks around the corner from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, never too far from Jameson. “Ava! You’re here early. You said you wouldn’t be stopping by until tomorrow.”
Then his eyes land on Jackson behind me, and his smile fades. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tight. “What’s he doing here with you?” Dad asks, his voice guarded.
And who can blame him? I’ve spent years telling him how much I hate Jackson McKnight. How dangerous he is. How much I wish I’d never met him. And now here I am, walking in with the devil himself.
“Dad, he should know,” I say, my voice firm, my throat tight.
Before he can argue or stop me, I turn to face Jackson. Jameson squirms in my arms, and I adjust my hold on him, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure Jackson can hear it.
“This is Jameson, ” I start, but the words feel like a rock in my throat. “And he’s…” I swallow hard. “He’s your son.”
The silence that follows rings in my ears.
Jackson stares at Jameson—like, reallylooksat him—but his expression is unreadable. Frozen. I watch his eyes trace every feature: the dark hair, the shape of his face, the green eyes that are exactly like his. There’s no question that Jameson is a McKnight.
My breath snags in my lungs, burning.
Will he hate me for keeping this from him? For stealing the early years with Jameson, he can never get back? Now, knowing what I know about Jackson—knowing what he’s sacrificed, what he’s protected me from—I feel like the worst person alive. The guilt is suffocating.
But at the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought Jackson was dangerous. I thought I was protecting Jameson.
How could I be so certain, and yet so wrong at the same time?
Jameson squirms in my arms, fussing. His chubby little arms reach out—not for my dad, but forJackson.
My heart jolts to a stop.
Jackson reaches out and takes Jameson from me with a practiced ease that makes no sense. Like he’s done this a thousand times before. Like he’s been a father forever.
He settles Jameson against his hip, and Jameson immediately calms, resting his head on Jackson’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jackson presses a kiss to Jameson's dark curls, his eyes closing briefly, and bounces him gently. “Hey, Little Man. Were you good for your grandpa?”
I take a stumbling step back, my mind reeling. “Why does it look like he knows you?”
