Mariah

The fries were long gone, and my soda was flat, but Jackson hadn’t moved from his side of the car.

He was leaned back, one arm slung casually over the seat, his eyes on the faint glow of the diner’s sign outside.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was carved from stillness — except I could see it, that quiet churn behind his calm.

It was almost funny, this version of him.

Quarterback. Captain. The guy every girl in Ridgeville sighed over.

And here he was, ...