“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his voice so low and hot against my ear that I think maybe I misheard him.
I pull away from him. I always thought Jackson was tall, but I’ve spent so long looking up at Oliver that it’s strange to have to look a little lower, into Jackson’s pale green eyes. “What?”
“Amy.” When he says my name, my eyes drift down to his mouth, his perfect lips, the tiny cleft in his chin. “I’m still in love with you.”
My hands drop to my sides. “Jackson—”
“I know you’re with that guy, but this is killing me.” He takes a step back and scrubs his hands down his face. He looks beautiful doing it. I hate that he looks so beautiful.
I squeeze my hands into fists. I lose my train of thought when his eyes focus on me again. He’s standing too close to me, and I have to remember how to get words from my brain to my mouth. “We broke up. You broke up with me.”
He throws his hands up and they fall to his sides again with a smack against the fabric of his tuxedo pants. “I fucked up. I know that. I get that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just feeling … I don’t know … wrong. But this feels right. I want you back, Amy.”
He’s there in my space, and I don’t know how to do anything but look at him and remember everything, the way he held me when I was freaking out about applying to Stanford, the way he would bring me my favorite ice cream when he knew I was studying, the way he’d kiss me so gently, just a flutter against my lips.
“Amy,” he breathes. “We keep coming back to each other. It was always supposed to be us. I know you know that.” His eyes drop down to my mouth, and I see it coming, but I let it happen anyway. He leans in and kisses me.
My relationship with Jackson was never perfect. He may not have always said the right things, and he may not have been there for me every time I needed someone, but when Jackson kissed me, the world always disappeared.
So even though it makes my chest hurt, I kiss him back. Because it’s Jackson.
“Amy,” he breathes again, this time against my mouth, and it’s enough to pull me back to reality. We’re at prom, and Jackson is kissing me, and even though it feels good, and even though I miss everything Jackson and I had, I don’t want to kiss Jackson anymore. I don’t want to be Jackson’s girlfriend.
“No,” I say, pushing against him. He pulls away, his eyes confused, and I wipe at my mouth. “I don’t want to get back together, Jackson.” If I got back together with him now, I would always know it was because I didn’t want to be alone. But it’s not Jackson I want.
Jackson’s face shifts, going from confused to disbelieving in seconds. “Why not? We belong together.”
I take a step back from him and sigh. “We don’t belong together, Jackson. I don’t … I don’t love you anymore.” It takes everything in me to finally make myself say it, but as soon as I do, I know it’s the truth. I haven’t loved Jackson in a long time.
People are starting to look at us, probably because we’re dissecting our relationship in the middle of the dance floor, but I don’t care, and it doesn’t seem like Jackson does, either.
“You weren’t happy with me,” I say. “And nothing is going to change. If we get back together, you’ll still wish we hung out more, and I still won’t be able to give you as much time as you want, and then we’ll just break up again. And—”
I can’t bring myself to say it, but I don’t have to. Jackson knows.
“And you’re in love with him.”
I shrug, looking down at my feet. At his shiny shoes and my silver heels. “It’s not really about him.” This is only partially a lie. Maybe if I had never met Oliver, if I’d never kissed him and had sex with him and fallen in love with him, then getting back together with Jackson would seem like the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t. But now that I know what it’s like to feel what I feel when I’m with Oliver, I can never go back.
“Isn’t it?” Jackson asks, coming closer to me.
“That’s not all of it, but you’re right, I do love him,” I say, still not looking at Jackson. Because it’s so strange for him to be the first one to hear it. I couldn’t say it to Oliver, but I can say it to Jackson. I can admit it to him, and maybe that’s because it doesn’t matter if Jackson knows the truth or not. It doesn’t change anything.
“Can I just ask you a question?”
I finally look up at Jackson, and it stings, the hurt in his eyes. I guess I thought it would be easy for him to move on since he was the one who did the breaking up. But apparently I was wrong.
“Yeah.”
“Why is it easier for you to be with him than to be with me?” It takes me a second to understand what he means, but when I do, I almost feel sad. When I was with Jackson, Stanford was always my number one priority, but when I was with Oliver, he became as important to me as college and scholarships and class rank. Jackson was never quite enough to make me lose focus.
“I guess because he doesn’t ask me to change.” I don’t want to start a fight, and I don’t know if my answer will hurt Jackson’s feelings, but it’s the truth.
Jackson puts his hands in his pockets and nods down at the floor. “That’s a good reason.”
It is. It’s a good reason. And being too busy is a terrible reason to break up with someone. Just like Jackson wasn’t right to dump me because I was too busy, I wasn’t right to dump Oliver for the same reason. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault that I slipped. It was my own. Oliver believed in me, always, and he liked me when nobody else did, and he made me feel like I could be myself, no matter what.
I love Oliver, and I suddenly need him to know it. I need to tell him he’s all I think about, and he’s all I want.
I push up on my toes and kiss Jackson on the cheek. “Thanks, Jackson,” I say, even though I’m not sure he knows why I’m thanking him. But it doesn’t matter. I rush off the dance floor and up to Petra, who, somehow, is still standing beside the refreshments table, watching me.
“What the hell just happened?” she asks.
“Do you think you could give me a ride to Independence?”
AMY
I ALMOST COULDN’T remember how to get to Oliver’s dad’s place, but I’m finally standing on his front porch. It feels like the whole world is made of water, and I can’t take in a full breath without the threat of suffocation, but I can do this. I know I can. I can do anything.
I reach out and knock.
For a lingering second, I think maybe nothing is going to happen. I don’t see Oliver’s truck in the driveway, but I know there’s a garage in the back, and I’m hoping it’s parked there.
But it isn’t Oliver that opens the door. It’s his father, dressed for work in a pair of coveralls, with a bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from his first two fingers. I stare down at it because I can’t quite bring myself to look him in the eye. Other than the red hair, Oliver doesn’t look anything like his dad, who’s large-framed and beefy, a red beard covering most of his face. But the eyes. The eyes are the same.