Page 63 of And Now, Back to You

I slap Mark’s hand away when it gets caught in my hair, pulling. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“I’m trying to have a discreet conversation with you, not that it matters much. Weather boy over there is in full meltdown mode.” He frowns. “And I thought you were a handful,” he mutters under his breath.

We turn in unison to look at Jackson, pacing now, right outside the double doors that lead back into the lobby of the hotel. Both of his hands work a circuit through his hair, the crisp lines of his white button-down clinging to his biceps. I asked him in the room if it was his Saturday shirt, but he ignored me completely, straightening the cuffs and smoothing down his tie.

Jackson stops on a dime when he notices us staring, looking like a bespectacled deer caught in headlights.

I give him a thumbs-up. He grimaces back.

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He better be,” Mark sighs.

There’s something in his tone that sounds like a warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His severe expression falters, eyes darting away to scan the view. He fixates on one of the oak trees closest to the hotel, its long branches reaching out over the roof.

“Nothing.”

“No, no. It was something. What’s going on?”

Mark sniffs, propping both of his hands on his hips. “I just want you to put your best foot forward, is all,” he says slowly and carefully. “You’re a talented broadcaster. I’d hate for someone to . . . find a reason to detract from that.”

My mouth hinges open, my jaw somewhere on the weathered deck we’re standing on.

“Mark,” I say faintly. “How long have we been working together?”

His mouth twitches down into a frown. That, at least, is familiar. “Three years, more or less.”

“And in those three years, you’ve barely remembered my birthday.”

He glances at me, offended. “I’ve gotten you cards.”

“You’ve written It’s your birthday on the back of 7-Eleven receipts.”

“Those receipts had coupons on them,” he mutters, defensive. “Thought you’d like a Slurpee. Sue me.”

“I do like Slurpees!”

“I know!” he shouts back, throwing his hands up. “That’s why I got you one for your birthday!”

On the other side of the deck, Jackson stops his pacing and stares. His blue eyes flick back and forth between Mark and me, growing sharp when he sees whatever my face is doing.

“Everything okay?” he calls.

So he can communicate. That’s good.

I manage a thin smile. “Everything is fine.”

He holds my gaze for another moment, assessing, then resumes his loop around the deck, slower this time. I notice he’s changed his path. Now he’s swinging back around the opposite way, keeping me in clear view.

Mark thrusts my microphone battery pack against my chest, then one of the aux cords. I fumble to grab them both before they drop, matching one of Mark’s scowls with my own.

“I didn’t realize you cared.”

He huffs. “Of course I do, Delilah.”

I think of all the times I’ve wiggled my way into costumes. The absolutely ridiculous shots I’ve had to maintain. One time, specifically, where Keith decided right before our broadcast that it would be better if I was standing in waist-deep harbor water, and I had to wade my way in. I had smelled like old crab pots for days. Mark never said a word about any of it.