Page 79 of Playing With Matches
“Wait a minute!” I call out. “You’re all just going to leave me? Don’t you want to stick around for Jackson?”
But they aren’t listening to me. They’re out the door so fast I think I see a vapor trail in their wake.
Marco and Paula? Owen and Alexis? Lacey, Darwin,andRyker?
Most of our mis-matched group has already departed the bar. Only Chloe and the dive instructor are still here - looking chummy at a table over in the corner. They don’t look like they’d appreciate my company.
I sit alone through one more set, listening to a woman from upstate New York belting out show tunes from Annie. There’s no sign of Jackson. I wait for Little Orphan Annie to finish her song before collecting my things to leave.
“Jackson Porter?” The MC calls out his name. “You’re up.”
There’s a hush as everyone looks around expectantly. “Jackson? Has anyone seen that dude? Did he get stage fright?” the MC jokes.
“Nope,” a familiar voice booms through the mic as Jackson steps onto the stage and takes it from the MC. “I’m right here.” Jackson pulls a chair to the middle of the stage. “But I can’t do this alone. I need you to come over here, Ms. Fairfax.” He points at the chair, “Would you please sit your exquisite British bum down here so I can serenade you?”
“Jackson,” my heart is thumping like it’s trying to get out of my chest.“You don’t have to–”
“I know,” he says, pointing at the seat again.
“Sit!”
“Sit down!”
“Sit down in the chair already, Honey!”
People are starting to chant for me to sit. But I can’t move. My legs are frozen, glued to the spot where I’m standing.
“Shhhh!” Jackson holds up a finger. “Don’t pressure her. Give her a second.” He walks to my side and takes my hand, leading me gently to the center of the stage. “You don’t have to say or do anything. All you have to do is take a seat. Let me sing to you.”
I look down at the chair.
“Please?” Jackson says.
There’s a lump in my throat. Why is there such a big lump in my throat?
I bend my knees and sink into the seat as the music starts. A few people clap and whistle as the drum taps out a steady rhythm with Jackson’s foot tapping along, keeping perfect time. It’s the same impatient tapping I’ve noticed him doing again and again, ever since the first time I met him. At times, I’ve thought it was aimed at me.
But as soon as I see his foot tapping out the beat to Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire,” I recognize that beat for the quiet frustration it really is.
And then his foot stops tapping, and he sings.
From the moment he opens his mouth and the first low, growly note comes pouring out, the entire bar is struck silent. The longing in his voice. The rawness. The pain. The desire.
He sings to me like a man whose rib cage has been split open. He reaches out to touch me like I’m a butterfly he’s afraid to bleed out on. His touch ignites me. It lights me up from the inside like a buzzing string of lanterns made entirely out of fireflies.
I’m pretty sure if he doesn’t touch me again, I’ll dissolve. The fireflies will fly away. There will be nothing left of me.
Why is Jackson Porter a data guy? Why is anyone with a voice like this not a singer?
The whole world disappears. It’s just the two of us, floating in a candlelit hollow. He howls the last note. Such a short song. Or maybe it was long. I’m not sure. I just know I’m not ready for the shock of it ending.
When the song ends and the lights come up, the world comes crashing in with a landslide of gaping jaws and wolf-whistles. It invades my space with camera lenses and furry microphones scurrying around me like mechanical rats.
Jackson is still holding the mic. The music has stopped, but the earth hasn’t stopped shaking. He’s still bleeding emotion. And I’m still buzzing like a power line.
And I’m crying. I realize I’m crying. Fat tears are rolling down my face. I’m holding my breath because I don’t know what will happen when I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I may explode.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
