Page 141 of Always Love You More

I’ve been to their parties with Jameson and Billy before, but I mostly know them through Johnny. Him and Jackson grew up together.

I stare up at the house, my eyes catching on the people milling around out front. Most of them, I don’t recognize, which is exactly what I want.

This place reminds me of Johnny, having tagged along with him countless times when he came to play gin or hang out. But on nights like this, when there’s so many people that the party is spilling out from the house onto the lawn, I can get lost in the crowd.

I can escape.

Moving forward, I weave my way through couples pressed against each other and overly loud conversations, trying to make my way to the kitchen.

The house is packed, the air inside stale. Music pulses through the room, the sound of deep bass filling my head and chasing away my thoughts. Bodies brush up against mine as I shoulder my way through the space with one goal in mind.

Finding a drink.

Well, more like a bottle.

Finally, I slip into the kitchen, going right for the counter. I reach for a red Solo cup when I hear a familiar voice.

“Little Barlowe.”

Shit.

So much for getting lost in the crowd.

I turn and see Jackson leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a drink in hand. I’ve seen him a couple of times since the funeral, but he still eyes me wearily, his attention moving from me to the bottle in my hand.

“You here alone?” he asks.

I wave a hand toward him. “Not alone.”

He sighs. “You know what I mean, kid.”

I fill my cup with vodka—or is it tequila? I never actually looked—and shoot it back before pouring another.

“Aw …” I say, peering up at him. “You looking out for me, Jackson?”

Instead of answering, he asks, “Where’s Jameson tonight?”

I down my drink. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

He brings his hand out to stop me as I reach for the bottle again. “Slow down, huh?”

I bat his hand away, grabbing the bottle. “What’s up with you? You used to be fun.”

His expression turns hard, reminding me so much of the one Johnny used to give me. “You’re not here to have fun,” he states. “He would have wanted me—”

“Well”—I tip the bottle—“he’s not here, so you’re off the hook.”

“Sam …”

I slam the cup down harder than I intended, the contents sloshing around inside. “Can you just give me a break? A fucking second to …” I sigh, and he takes a tentative step toward me. “I just need a night, okay?”

He watches me for a second before he nods. “Yeah, okay. But you come find me if you need anything, all right?”

I let out a breath. “Thank you,” I whisper, my eyes on the table. “You know, for caring.”

He sets his hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. “Anytime, kid.”

“Jackson,” someone calls from the other room, pulling his attention.