Page 26 of And Now, Back to You

“Good,” he says. His shoulders curl forward with relief. He props one elbow against the counter and slips his spoon back into his coffee.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what Jackson thinks of me. I’ve gotten very good at ignoring the opinions of others. “I suppose I do have a habit of making your life more difficult,” I concede.

He smiles down at his mug. “More colorful, certainly.”

I snort a laugh. That’s a nice way of looking at it. I think I’ll hold on to that.

Not difficult.

More colorful.

I’ve always loved a little color.

Jackson fixes me with a look. “You going to tell me the truth now?”

Why not? Jackson already has his preconceived notions of me. There’s not much further I can slip. I abandon my sugar packets. “I haven’t been reporting on the weather because Keith is trying to sabotage my job.”

His spoon clinks against his mug, but his face remains impassive. “Why do you think?”

I like that he’s asked Why? and not Are you sure? He didn’t ask me to defend myself, and the knot of pressure that sits heavy over my heart loosens, just a bit. It’s nice to be believed. Right from the very start.

“A couple of months ago, we had this marketing company come in. He wanted to do an analysis of all of the on-air personalities. I think he was hoping—I don’t know. I think he was hoping to embarrass me. There was a roundtable with regular viewers where they shared their opinions. We got to watch the live video feedback.” I trace my finger across a bit of foam on the top of my latte. “Despite some leading questions, everyone had really positive things to say about me. I scored the highest out of the broadcast team.”

“Shouldn’t Keith be happy about that?”

I thought he would be. I remember sitting in the meeting when we discussed the results, not understanding why he was delivering good news with such an ugly look on his face. “I’m not entirely sure what his problem with me is. I just know I’ve been paying for it ever since. He hardly ever lets me report on the weather anymore, even though he knows it’s what I like doing best.”

It’s what I went to school for. It’s why I was hired at the station. It’s what I dreamed of, spread out on the floor of my grandfather’s living room, watching Bob Turk on the boxy television with a static-filled picture.

“That’s why I wanted to meet with you before you agree to this snowstorm coverage,” I say slowly. “I think it’s another setup from Keith.”

“You think he’s sending you to the middle of nowhere to make you look like an idiot?”

“It would certainly fit his recent pattern of behavior, yeah. And it’s the first time he’s given me a weather feature since that dumb marketing meeting. I think he’s hedging his bets that he can put me in at least seven different ridiculous scenarios during this coverage.” I offer him a tight smile. “You don’t need to be a part of it.”

“But you’re going through with it,” Jackson says. “Even though you think Keith has ulterior motives. Why?”

I debate sharing the truth. Can I trust Jackson? Will he understand?

Or will he use this against me later?

“I don’t really care why Keith is giving me this opportunity,” I say. “I want to use it to show him that I’m not the disaster he keeps trying to turn me into. I love this job. I’m good at it. And I think if I go out there and deliver on this coverage without the whole circus act, Keith might actually let me do it.” I sneak a peek at Jackson, but there’s no judgment or amusement there. Just a rapt sort of attention that I’ve rarely felt the glow of. “I want to do my job without becoming a punch line, you know?”

Patty arrives with a tray in her hand, unloading the small plates on the counter in front of us. Two cruffins, and a doughnut roughly the size of my head, covered completely with rainbow sprinkles. Jackson slides the latter in front of me without a word and I’m grateful for the distraction. It feels like I just opened up my chest and showed him some of my stickiest parts.

“What about you?” I ask, picking the sprinkles off one by one and popping them into my mouth. “What do you want out of this assignment?”

He rubs his thumb over the handwriting across the handle of his mug. His name is written in bubbly letters, a heart instead of an O at the end of JACKSON. I’m familiar enough with his notes to know what his handwriting looks like. Someone else doodled his name across the ceramic.

“I have guardianship over my sisters,” he says quietly. My eyes snap up to his. “They’re fifteen and they’re—” He huffs out a short laugh. “They’re really excited about this. About the idea of me trying something different. Apparently”—he drags out the word—“I’m more boring than I thought. Or maybe, I guess, I’m just as boring as I thought. I don’t want to disappoint them. And—”

He stops and swallows, the long line of his throat tensing and relaxing.

“And?” I prompt.

“And I think I need to try something different. Something new. I think I need to step out of my comfort zone. I think I need to know that I can.”

Neat and orderly Jackson. Breaking his mold.