Page 34 of Playing With Matches
“Chemistry is overrated. Think about what ends up getting released in a toxic dumpster fire. Chemicals.”
~Jackson Porter, Playing With Matches Confessionals.
Jackson Porter issuch a study in contrasts. A hipster and a nerd. Grumpy and silly. Overconfident and scared of tiny lizards. What else? Every time I’m with him, I feel like I’m doing one of those seek and find puzzles where you have to find all the pictures hidden in plain sight.
Also, somehow this incongruous and infuriating man has managed to pull off my oversized sleep tee and an improvised pair of sweat shorts like they’re haute couture.
On him, my tee is on the small side, and the shorts are a little tight, but he’s got one of those lean yet sculpted surfer bodies, where there’s nothing that you need to hide. The close fit seems intentional. Every time he gets ahead of me on the path - which is often due to his ridiculously long legs and brisk stride - I can’t help but admire his bum. So round. Looks firm. It’s surprising given the fact that most tech dudes spend so much time sitting.
What on earth is the matter with me? Are they putting something in the water here? It’s not like me to ogle. And yet I cannot seem to stop looking. Is it because he practically dared me to?
He wants me to look at him.
Knowing this makes it harder to stop.
I’ve never seen anyone look quite as bedraggled as Jackson when he showed up on my doorstep. There was mud in his light brown hair and in his ear. His shirt was torn and his knuckles scraped. His shoes were entirely done for. And he had no bags. Nothing. Just a pair of borrowed flip flops. He’d looked so vulnerable. And when he saw that lizard? Oh my.
He hadn’t been humbled for long though. Five minutes later the swagger was back, volume up.
“So when did you get in?” Jackson asks, slowing his stride to match mine.
“Around noon.”
“So you missed the storm.”
“I did. I actually slept through most of it. I had such a lovely nap,” I admit.
Jackson rolls his eyes. “I am going to sleep like a log tonight. I’ve been up for forty-eight hours. I call top bunk.”
“Very funny,” I shake my head at him.
“Have you turned in your phone yet?” He asks.
“No,” I open my purse to show my phone to him.
“Good,” he says. “Let me see it a second.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m not going to read your messages, I promise,” he says. “Just give it here.”
I hand him my phone and he turns it over in his hands. “Can I borrow one of your earrings?”
“Seriously?” I ask, but I still remove one.
Jackson looks around and then pulls me close, holding the phone between us. He smells like coconut shampoo and sandalwood soap. It’s even better than whatever scent he was wearing last week at the production company. He smells like himself.
Quickly he pops my earring wire into the hole to eject my sim card and removes it. He hands me the phone back. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a smashed phone, and ejects the card on that one, too. He hands both sim cards to me.
“Just in case. Can you hold onto mine for me too? I get why they want to hold onto our phones, but I still feel a lot better keeping my own SIM card on me.”
“Would it even work with the phones they’re giving us?” I ask.
“There are ways,” Jackson nods solemnly and slips his phone back into his pocket. He hands me back my earring and waits while I put it back on. We walk along the boardwalk beside the white sandy beach towards the area at the far end of the resort where the reception is being held.
“My mom would love it here,” he muses, looking out at the water as it changes colors along with the sky.
“What’s your mom like?” I ask.
