Page 24 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Jackson was already there. My cat found him before I did, her attention snapping toward him like a needle finding north. He was stretching with Jason and a few of the other guys, back partially turned. Naomi was positioned nearby, close enough to be in his orbit without being obvious about it.

Jason spotted me first and lifted a hand. “Morning, Harper.”

I nodded and dropped my bag by the bleachers.

When I looked up, Jackson had stopped moving. He was watching me, not subtle at all.

I held his gaze for a second longer than I should have, then looked away and pulled my hair into a ponytail. Even then, I could still feel him watching me.

The coaches gathered us in.

“Same setup as last week,” Coach Miller said. “Mixed pairs. Rotations. Thirty minutes per station. You stay with your partner.”

They read through the list. When they reached me, Miller barely glanced up from his clipboard. “Black and James. Same as last week.”

A ripple moved through the girls, heads turning, a few words exchanged behind hands.

Jackson walked over. “Morning.”

“Mm.”

“One day I’ll get a full sentence out of you.”

“Unlikely.”

Something in his expression warmed. “You’re consistent. I’ll give you that.”

We moved to our starting point. He stayed close, matching my stride without effort.

That ease irritated me most. The way we slipped back into the rhythm we'd found last week, like it hadn't been an accident then and wasn't one now. I lengthened my stride. A heartbeat later, he matched it, our breathing falling back into sync on its own.

Halfway through the next sprint, a shout cut across the field. Will, one of the guys on Jackson’s team, lost his footing and went down hard, his ankle twisting at an angle that made a few people nearby flinch.

Before the coaches reacted, Jackson was already moving. He reached Will first, crouched, and assessed the situation in seconds while low words passed between them. Will grimaced but still laughed at something Jackson said, then Jackson helped him up and let the injured man climb onto his back. He carried him across the field, set him down gently on the bench, and stayed until the coaches arrived.

I watched the whole thing. My cat flicked her tail, pleased by the quiet strength, and I hated that I felt the same. I had spent two weeks telling myself Jackson was nothing but trouble, a branch from a rotten tree, dangerous and persistent, but I had also seen him pick up a stranger’s scattered things without being asked, hold doors, push chairs back under tables. Small things done without audience or expectation.

The apple might have fallen farther than I had wanted to admit.

Cassidy appeared beside me, following my gaze. She fanned herself. “God, he’s hot. Did you see how easily he lifted Will? Must be some cult ritual strength training behind those gates.”

I made a noncommittal sound.

“So…” She bumped my shoulder. “What time should I pick you up?”

I looked at her.

“For the party,” she clarified. “You said you’d think about it.”

I thought about the week, the dreams, the exhaustion of constant resistance. Maybe a few hours surrounded by loud music and people would finally exhaust my brain into behaving. “Fine. Eight?”

Her entire face lit up. “Wait, seriously?”

“One condition. We leave when I say we leave.”

“Absolutely. Total veto power.”

Coach Miller blew the whistle, signaling the end of the session.