Chapter 38 Waiting for Her for Three Years
But that day, he managed to keep his cool and acted like a true gentleman.
Alison's heart was pounding, and the scene unfolding in front of her left her speechless.
She couldn't break free from him and could only hope Jackson would say something to break the awkward silence.
Liam, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, stared impatiently at Jackson and Alison. "Jackson, Miss Bruce is our singer here. If you don't let go, the guys won't be so nice."
Jackson, standing behind Alison, spoke slowly and deliberately, "Liam, you know why I keep coming to Rebel, and you know who I've been waiting for these past three years."
Liam raised an eyebrow, as if he suddenly understood something. "Jackson, the person you've been waiting for isn't Alison Bruce, is it?"
He pointed at Alison, looking incredulous.
"No, it's Alison Fairchild."
"Alison Fairchild? Alison Bruce? Are you sure you haven't got it mixed up? We only have an Alison Bruce here." Liam tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and stomped it out, a flash of menace in his eyes that made Alison's heart skip a beat.
It seemed she couldn't avoid this. "Jackson, I am Alison Bruce. I don't know the person you're talking about, but if you're looking for Alison Bruce, that's me."
Hearing the slight softening in her tone, Jackson gently suggested, "How about we have a cup of tea together?" He loosened his grip on her waist slightly, aware that with Liam and so many Rebel security guards around, if Alison Bruce felt he was overstepping, the consequence could be a beating in the back alley.
That was their rule.
"Hey, count me in too," she suddenly felt scared to be alone with Jackson.
"Sure," Liam agreed readily before Alison had even finished speaking. "Count me in."
Jackson wasn't thrilled, but the fact that Alison agreed was a good start.
He finally let go of her waist completely.
The three of them followed a waiter into a private room. As soon as they sat down, Liam eagerly asked, "Jackson, is Miss Bruce really the woman you've been waiting for these three years?"
"Yes," Jackson confirmed firmly. No matter who mistook her, he wouldn't. Her presence here only confirmed his suspicions.
Alison felt a pang of sadness. She never expected Jackson to have waited and searched for her for three years.
To admit or not to admit, Alison was torn. She seemed to have no reason not to acknowledge him.
But her past, she really didn't know how to tell him.
She took a sip of red wine, her voice calm, "I have work tomorrow, so I can only stay for another fifteen minutes."
"What's the rush? We just sat down," Liam protested, opening a beer and pouring it for himself and Jackson. "Jackson, tell us, what's the story?"
Jackson's eyes were fixed on Alison as he slowly said, "She is my girlfriend."
At that moment, her heart softened.
She had broken up with him without giving any reason, yet he had waited for her for three years.
She remained silent, unsure of what to say or how to explain.
The past was like bitter coffee, no matter how you tasted it, it was always bitter.
Alison drank glass after glass of red wine, as if it were water.
The voices of the two men chatting faded into the background; she couldn't hear them anymore.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day they broke up, the scenes cutting through her heart like knives.
Her eyes gradually welled up with tears.
"Alison, don't drink too much." A hand suddenly grasped her hand holding the glass. Jackson's warm, slightly damp breath enveloped her hand, stopping her from drinking more.
She followed his hand and put down the glass, knowing she couldn't hide anymore and decided to just accept it.
"Jackson, it's late. I want to go home."
"Okay, I'll take you."
"Hey, I haven't had enough to drink yet. Why are you guys in such a hurry to leave?" Liam grumbled. He and Jackson had a long-standing friendship at Rebel, and for men, drinking together was a joy. He didn't want the night to end so soon.
"Liam, I'll drink with you tomorrow night, as long as you want."
Seeing he couldn't keep them, Liam stood up, drunkenly patting Jackson on the shoulder. "Jackson, make sure you get her home safely, no funny business." Realizing his mistake, he quickly corrected himself, "I mean, take care of her." He even slapped his own mouth a few times.
Alison didn't say a word, nor did she explain her identity. She headed straight for Rebel's back door, as she was used to entering and exiting from there.
Jackson followed, grabbing her arm from behind. "Alison Fairchild, wait for me."
She didn't turn around, speaking softly, "Please remember, here I am Alison Bruce, not the Alison Fairchild you speak of."
"Fine, whatever you say." Jackson was just happy she was willing to talk to him.
She walked quickly, her high heels clicking sharply in the night, making his heart race.
"Alison, let me drive you," Jackson offered.
She nodded slightly. Under the streetlight, he looked tall and thin, noticeably slimmer.
If it was because of her, she truly felt guilty.
She wondered if transferring her pain to him made her a bad person.
He drove her in his car, not a luxury vehicle, but clean. "When did you get the car?" she asked casually.
"Last year." He bent down to buckle her seatbelt and his own. "I'm taking you somewhere."
"It's so late," she protested slightly, knowing she had to work at YD tomorrow.
"Just for a bit, it won't take long, maybe twenty minutes."
"Okay..." she reluctantly agreed, not wanting to see him disappointed. She preferred his smile, which reminded her of over three years ago.
As the car drove on, familiar streets and scenes passed by, and she realized where he was taking her.
When the car stopped, he led her into her old apartment. As soon as they entered, she saw a blooming cactus, her favorite plant.
Three years had passed, but everything in the apartment remained the same.
A pair of slippers at the door matched the ones she had taken with her.
Her throat tightened, and three years of heartache surged up. "Jackson, I'm sorry."
The man before her blurred through her tears, and she threw herself into his arms, her tears soaking his shirt.
The wrinkles and wet spots were like the rings of an old tree, recording the past, only to be remembered years later.