Page 82 of Where It All Began
Jax gave her the tiniest of smiles. His handsome face softened for a moment and then tensed again. “Are we going to ever be okay again?”
Phoebe wrapped him in a one-armed hug. “I know we are.”
“How?”
“Your dad promised me we would.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Jax whispered, his voice soft, strained. “I feel like I didn’t get to know him as anything but Dad.”
“Oh, baby.” Phoebe’s heart ached for her son. She’d known John inside and out, admirable traits and annoying quirks. But Jax was right. He’d only known John as the quiet, loving father, a sliver of the whole of the man. “He is so proud of you, Jackson Scott.”
“Was. Maybe,” Jax said bitterly.
“Is. Definitely,” Phoebe argued. “Trust me. If he’s proud of you, then he loves me, and I’m not ready for any of that to be past tense.”
Jax gave a tight nod and let out a breath. “Okay. Yeah. I get that.”
“Good. Now, do me a favor. Go find Beckett and make sure he’s not managing and orchestrating. Piss him off if you have to. But I want him to have a little room to feel tonight, okay?”
Jax gave her another hug. “It will give me great pleasure to piss him off.”
They broke apart, and Phoebe took a step backwards.
“Mom, you gonna tell me why you have two forks in your pocket and a bottle of booze in your hand?”
Guilty, Phoebe chewed on her lip. “Because...”
“Because what?”
“Because I said so?”
“That didn’t work when we were kids.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d cut me a break and let it work just for tonight.”
“What kind of cake did she bring?” Jax asked. Her youngest, with the barbed wit and mischievous nature, always managed to surprise her with his moments of quiet soulfulness. The longing in her son’s eyes had nothing to do with cake and everything to do with the woman who’d made it.
“Pineapple upside down.”
“Make sure she knows she’s welcome here, okay?”
“I will,” Phoebe promised, relieved.
He gave her a wink. “I’m gonna go spill something greasy on Beckett’s shirt.”
“Jax?”
He stopped, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Yeah, Mom?”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
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“Where’d you have to go for booze? Canada? I was getting ready to dig in with my hands,” Joey griped. She was sitting on a hay bale, her long legs swinging in time to the Wild Nigels’ thumping beat outside. The cake was uncovered and ready for consuming. Phoebe slid onto the bale on the other side of the cake plate and handed over a fork.
“I got waylaid by someone.”
