Damien, thank goodness, comes to the rescue, asking Dallas about an arson claim in one of his Chicago-based stores. Apparently that arose from a huge drama between the store manager and a street gang, and Dallas is interested enough in the soap opera aspects to stay on point.
As the conversation finally shifts away from Jackson, he eases up on my hand. And when the conversation shifts again, and Nikki mentions that Wyatt called her, Jackson releases me entirely.
I deflate, as if that simple loss of touch is more profound than the distance that has been growing between us all afternoon.
I force myself not to show it, though. Instead, I focus on Nikki. “Oh, good. I’m glad he called. I meant to tell you tonight. I called him this morning. We’re all set for Monday evening.”
“Hot date?” Dallas asks.
“Photography lesson,” I say. “We had to postpone the last one.”
Nikki kisses Damien’s cheek. “It was worth it.”
Since Damien surprised her with New York theater tickets, I’m sure it was, and Nikki tells us all about the trip before we backtrack the conversation to planning the specifics for our Monday photography lesson. “I’ll meet you in Santa Monica,” she says. “Around seven? And then maybe Damien and Jackson can join us after for a drink?” She says the last with such a question in her voice that I am absolutely positive she has noticed the rift between Jackson and me.
I’m about to say that it might not be the best night for socializing, when Jackson responds. “I think that’s a great idea.” He looks at me as he speaks, his eyes soft with apology. And though I cannot say for certain that we will be fine come Monday, I do know that I am done being completely mad at him. It’s time to talk about this.
And so I nod. “Yes,” I say. “It’s a great idea.”
I’m surprised to learn that Dallas knows a bit about photography, and we talk about Wyatt’s work, including his prints that hang on some of the Stark International walls. The conversation meanders from there to Damien’s tennis career and then back full circle to Jackson’s assault.
This time around, however, Dallas isn’t quite as pushy. “I heard you were serving your community service at the Stark Children’s Foundation.”
“I start Sunday,” Jackson says. “There’s a fund-raiser that I’ll be working, and I’m looking forward to it. Not something most of us criminal types say about our community service obligations, but I’m glad to have the chance to work with the kids. And it is a good cause,” he adds, looking at Damien. “I should be volunteering for a place like that even without the gray cloud of incarceration hanging over my head.”
“You should,” Damien says. The foundation, which helps abused and at-risk kids through sports therapy, is a relatively new charity that Damien founded, but one that I know means a lot to him. It means a lot to me, too, though I’ve never told Damien why. But I identify deeply with the kids that he has set out to help.
The waiter comes with a dessert menu, and the meal finishes easily, with the conversation never drifting back to anything too touchy. I skip dessert and opt only for coffee. And when we all finally head back outside, Jackson pauses at the restaurant’s valet stand and hands the college-aged attendant his ticket.
“Dallas? Where are you heading?” Damien asks.
He points generally to the left. “I’ve got a suite at the Biltmore,” he says. “Care for a nightcap?”
“We would,” Damien says, his arm around Nikki’s waist. “Sylvia?”
“She’s with me.” Jackson turns his attention from Damien to me. “We have some things to discuss. About the resort,” he adds, though the addendum is clearly a lie.
Damien nods and both he and Nikki say that they will see us at the fund-raiser on Sunday.
I turn to Jackson. “I’m with you?”
“I damn sure hope so,” he says. “Because having you not be with me is brutal.”
The valet arrives, then parks the Porsche in front of us and gets out, holding the door open for Jackson.
Jackson steps to the passenger side and does the same for me. “Please, Syl. We need to talk. More than that, I think I need to apologize.”
I get in the car. Honestly, there was never any doubt.
And though I don’t know what exactly we are going to say to each other, I do know that there are things that must be said.
eighteen
Traffic is light, and we manage to get from downtown to Jackson’s boat in less than half an hour. During the entire drive, Jackson says nothing, and we both just sit back, lost in the ear-blasting sounds of Dominion Gate, as Jackson continues to play the album we didn’t finish the other night during our drive to Westerfield’s.