If I Tell

drunk,” he said. “You’re shoeless and freezing, so come on. Let’s go.” He guided me toward the passenger door. The warmth in the car tempted me. He opened the door for me and I scooted inside, wisely keeping my mouth shut, and stayed put.
    He went around and slid inside the driver’s door. When he got in, he pulled off his hoodie and handed it to me.
    “Here,” he said as he started the engine. “You look frozen.”
    I took the hoodie, hugging it close for warmth but not putting it on. It smelled clean. Not like Nathan and his cheap cologne. I hugged it tighter.
    “I’m not drunk,” I told Jackson and sneaked a look sideways at him. “Well, not anymore.” My foggy brain felt sluggish but coherent.
    He twirled his earring. “Your boyfriend is an idiot for letting you run around in the cold like this. And you must be drunk. I haven’t heard you talk this much since I’ve known you.”
    I lowered my head, not bothering to inform him that Nathan was so not my boyfriend.
    “You two have a fight?” he asked.
    I shrugged, my teeth shivering from the cold. He reached down and blasted the heat, and I fought the urge to spill my guts. Babble to him about what I’d done. And why.
    “How’d you find me?” I asked instead of answering.
    Jackson shoulder-checked, but the road was empty, so he pulled the car out onto the road and drove on. “I saw you sneaking out the back door in your bare feet. And stumbling a little. So I followed you.”
    I leaned my head back and snuggled with his hoodie. I wanted to cry, but I knew that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I pushed my teeth into my bottom lip and blinked quickly. “I didn’t even know you were there,” I mumbled.
    “I just got off work and heard about the party so thought I’d pop by before I went home.” He pointed to the floor in front of me.
    I looked down. My black-and-white-checked running shoes were tucked at the back of the floor mat.
    “How’d you know they were mine?”
    “Lacey saw me searching the shoes and told me the sneakers were yours. I’m not Sherlock.”
    “Thanks,” I mumbled and slid on the shoes, grateful he’d at least spared me the wrath of my grandma for losing my “ridiculously priced running shoes.”
    “So. Where do you live?”
    I gave him my address and sank back against the seat, wishing I could disappear inside it.
    “You shouldn’t drink so much,” Jackson said.
    “I don’t.” I hiccuped, and a semi-hysterical laugh slipped out. “Well, not usually.” I chewed my bottom lip.
    He made a sound in his throat like he was clearing it. After a minute he spoke. “You’re a little young, aren’t you? For a party like Marnie’s?”
    “I go there all the time. I have friends.” I swallowed tears again. Some friends. “How did you even know about Marnie’s? You’re young too.” Anger raised my voice an octave.
    “Me?” He grinned. “I have ways of finding things out. Besides, I’m eighteen, almost nineteen. That’s the legal drinking age in Canada.”
    “We’re not in Canada.” I glared at him. “Did you go to Marnie’s to deal?” I sucked in my breath. Way to play it cool, Jaz . My inhibitions about speaking my mind had apparently vanished. Luckily, instead of pulling over and pushing me out the door, he laughed. The high-pitched sound hooted from his lungs like an off-key horn.
    “Ouch,” he said. “You heard about my illustrious past. Afraid it’s true, though. I have a record and everything.”
    I frowned. Was it still true? Did he mean he was there to deal drugs? “Is Marnie your girlfriend or something?” My brain was putting words in my mouth. And spitting them out loud.
    I shuddered at a flash of her bedroom. Her bed. I closed my eyes, hating myself, and projected my disgust at Jackson. “She’s old. And she seems slutty. But I guess that appeals to a boy like you.”
    He grabbed at his heart. “Whoa. What’s that supposed to mean? A boy like me?”
    I stared out at the darkness in front of us. The liquor swirling through my blood made me an ass. Marnie had never done anything to me. Neither had he.
    “Nothing,” I said. “Sorry,” I mumbled as an afterthought. He didn’t deserve my anger. It wasn’t him I was mad at.
    He chuckled, though. “She’s not my type.”
    Yeah. True enough. I’d seen his type at the coffee shop. Blond. Giggly.
    “Anyhow,” he said. “You should talk. Nathan’s not your type.”
    “Nathan is not my boyfriend,” I