Chapter 73 Date night

Chapter 73 Date night
The drive out to the regular commercial plaza in Oakhaven takes almost an hour, long enough for the snow on the windshield to turn into grey drizzle. We chose this theater because it is out of boundary. No familiar families come here for the matinees, and the kids from school can’t afford the gas to clear the county line just for a screen.

When Jackson hands the teenager at the glass box two crumpled twenty-dollar bills, he keeps his hooded sweatshirt pulled forward until the shadow of the brim cuts across his nose.

But the moment the doors of Theater 4 swing shut behind us, the tension leaves his spine.

The room is empty. The screen is already throwing flickering blue squares across the rows of red velvet seats, the sound system thumping with preview of a car-chase film.

"Back row," Jackson mutters, his fingers hooking into the crook of my elbow, guiding me up the carpeted steps in the dark.

We slide into the far corner, right against the fabric-lined wall where the emergency exit sign throws a faint red glow over the floorboards. Jackson drops a plastic tub of popcorn into the center console between us, then hooks his heels over the back of the empty seats in the row below.

"Look at his jacket," Jackson says five minutes into the main feature, his voice a low rattle next to my ear. He points a greasy finger at the screen, where a man is currently jumping out of an exploding helicopter while wearing a bomber jacket. "He just fell thirty feet through a glass roof. Where are the tears? If I clip the ice during a line-drill, my jersey looks like it went through a blender."

I lean back against the velvet cushion, a small laugh bubbling up before I can stop it. "It's movie logic, Jackson. The leather is bulletproof."

"It's ridiculous," he grumbles. He reaches across the armrest, his hand moving blindly until his palm rests against the top of my thigh. His fingers are warm, his thumb rubbing through the denim of my jeans.

I turn my head to look at him in the shifting blue light of the screen. The shadows draw sharp lines down his jaw, highlighting the hard set of his mouth that usually looks so defensive at school.

I reach down, sliding my fingers between his, locking our palms together. He squeezes back, so hard my knuckles click.

"You're going to break my fingers," I whisper.

"Good," he murmurs, his eyes still fixed on the screen as a giant lizard rips through a subway car. "Then you can't write down those college applications tonight. You'll have to stay here."

"I have to write them, Jackson," I say, my voice dropping its playful edge, turning quiet against the backdrop of the movie’s soundtrack. "The early registry for the state grant closes in three weeks. If I don't get the regional packet in before the winter break, the tuition waiver doesn't carry over."

Jackson doesn't reply immediately. He pulls his legs down from the front seats, shifting his weight until he’s leaning toward me.

"Tell me about crestview campus again." He says softly.

"It's small." I say, picturing the brochure I've memorized line by line. "The medical wing is all red brick, right on the edge of the northern woods. They have a specific lab for the second-year students. Real cadaver rotation, Jackson. Not just the rubber dummies we use in the high school biology lab. You get an actual clinical placement at the county hospital by semester three."

"It's three hours away," he repeats. It’s the same number we’ve been counting in our heads for two months.

"Three hours on the interstate," I say. "If the winter storms don't close the pass."

"The pass doesn't stay closed for more than twelve hours," Jackson says. "The state keeps the salt trucks moving. I checked the transit maps last week."

I look at him, surprised. "You checked the routes?"

"I wanted to see what the delay looked like in January," he says simply, his eyes turning away from the screen to fix on mine. The blue light reflects in his pupils, making them look like flint. "The silver sedan won't make it up the ridge line in a blizzard, but the truck has four-wheel drive and tires. If I leave the ridge at 8:00 PM after Thursday night video review, I can be at your dorm gate by midnight."

"You'll miss the Friday morning skate," I remind him, though my heart skips a beat at the sound of the schedule he’s already built in his head.

"Coach doesn't check the roster until 9:00 AM on Fridays," Jackson says, his thumb tracing the small bone on the side of my wrist. "I can sleep in the cab for three hours, see you between your morning lectures, and be back before the bus loads for the away games. It’s nothing, Maya. Three hours is just two tank fills."

"We won't have your there, or Leo, or my mother, " I whisper.

"No Athur. No Raph. No hockey sponsorships. Just the dorms and the highway."

For the next hour, we ignore the movie and talk about the layout of the Crestview library, about the cheap diner three blocks from the anatomy lab that serves coffee until 4:00 AM, and about how many miles his truck can run before the transmission gives out.

When the house lights finally flicker on, the yellow bulbs make the theater look small, dusty, and ordinary. The red velvet seats are stained with old soda, and the floor is covered in crushed kernels.

Jackson pulls his hood back up. He releases my hand, his arms dropping to his sides as he stands up.

"Keep your head down through the lobby," he says, his voice returning to a cautious murmur. "I'll walk three paces ahead. If you see anyone from the our city, turn toward the restrooms."

"Nobody is here, Jackson," I say, but my own stomach tightens as I step out into the aisle.

We walk down the carpeted hallway toward the central lobby. The 7:00 PM crowd has arrived, the space packed with parents dragging small children toward the concession stands and lines of teenagers huddled around the glowing screens of the arcade games by the wall.

Jackson moves quickly, his long strides keeping him just ahead of me, his eyes scanning the crowd. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his black sweatshirt. I keep my eyes on the white logo on his back, my chest tight, counting the feet to the exit doors that lead to the safety of the rainy parking lot.

"Jackson?"

A sharp voice cuts straight through the noise of the arcade.

Jackson stops dead in the middle of the tile floor, his shoulders tensing up.

A ahead of us, her blonde hair straight, falling in smooth, glassy layers over the lapels of a white wool trench coat that looks bright against the dingy grey carpet of the lobby. She’s holding a popcorn bucket in her left hand, her manicured fingers painted in pale, expensive pink, gripping the cardboard rim.

Chloe steps toward us, her eyes locking onto the shape of Jackson's shoulders before sliding down past his arm which is now intertwined with mine.

"Jackson," she says again, stopping in front of us. "What are you doing all the way out in Oakhaven?"