Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

I yawn suddenly, huge and wide. I have no idea how I’m getting back to the hotel. I left my Jeep parked there – somehow, I knew driving myself would be a bad idea today. One of Sandra-May’s neighbours picked us up, a huge man in a white T-shirt who bumped trap music all the way over, but I haven’t seen him in hours. Christ, what time is it? I dig in pocket for my phone.

Onscreen is that text message. The one I ignored.

The one from Nic.

I let out a long, slow breath. Stare at the notification. Hey just checking in. Are you doing OK?? I still feel like…

Without really wanting to, I flick open the message, read the rest… We left things on a bad note… would love to chat if you around…

He knows I’m still in LA. I didn’t just leave him hanging. When cell service came back a few days ago, the first thing to arrive was a deluge of texts from him. I let him know where I was, and what was happening, although for obvious reasons I didn’t tell him about Washington. He knows about Paul, too… although I haven’t told him how he died.

My texts were brief, to the point. I didn’t trust myself to write anything longer.

He’s still in LA. He’s had no word about when the District Attorney’s office will reopen, but he says it’s a when, not an if. He’s been helping out with quake clean-up, because of course he has. Amazingly, his apartment made it through. The place has spotty power, but is apparently liveable.

Without wanting to, I scroll up past the chain of messages.

Hey do you want to meet up? There’s a cafe in Sawtelle that’s open…

Just checking in to see how you doing :)…

It’d be really good to see you sometime…

I wasn’t really thinking straight at Dodger, just wanted to let you know where my head is at…

It’s been a while since I messaged him. A couple days, at least. I should probably check in with him – I might not know where we stand, exactly, but I don’t want to just ghost him.

I’m probably too drunk to be messaging him, but I start tapping anyway. I’m OK. Just at Annie’s place for Paul’s party

I send the message, still staring at the screen. Should I say more? Not that it matters – he’s probably asleep by now, so I’ll only get the reply in the—

Nope. There are those three little dots. Then: Oh shit forgot that was tonight :( sorry

No worries, we good

You still there? How you getting home tonight?

Ha. Interesting question. Before I can write a response, he sends another message: You welcome to stay at my place if you want lmk

Oh, Nic.

You know what surprised me the most, after I got back from Washington? When I finally had time to think about Nic, I discovered I wasn’t mad. I thought I would be. What he said after the first quake, and then again at Dodger Stadium, cut deep.

But I found myself thinking about how he must have seen it. In the past few months, he’d discovered that superpowers exist – and that someone he was close to, a person he wanted to be with, had a piece of it. Finding out shit like that will do a number on you, and the mind has a way of forcing the world to reorder itself so it all makes sense.

Nic’s generous. He helps people. And I guess on some level, he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just use my ability after the quakes hit. I thought he was being an asshole… but it’s not quite that simple. Took me more than a few sleepless nights staring at the ceiling of my hotel room to figure it out, but I got there. And it’s pretty clear that he doesn’t feel so good about how he acted, either, hence the attempts to try and patch things up.

A month ago, I would have jumped at the chance to stay at his place. It was everything I wanted. Now…

There’s a chunk of soil a few feet away – maybe one Rocko kicked up from stampeding around the yard. I focus in on it, pushing past the drunken haze, sending out my PK. There’s the very faintest hint of contact, like soft lips brushing a shoulder…

Then nothing.

I’m changing. In more ways than one. I’m not just stronger. I’m better. I’m… evolving, I guess is the word. And doing it in ways that no one – not Tanner, not Reggie, not my parents or anybody else – could have predicted.

I’m OK for tonight :) I type. Thx though

The three dots of his reply stay on my screen for a good two minutes.

No worries… get home safe OK? Maybe chat tomorrow?

Sure. Will msg .

I rest my chin in my palm, staring at nothing. My eyes flicker shut, and for a second, sleep nearly gets its hooks into me. Not quite yet, though. I straighten up, roll my shoulders, wincing as my neck bones creak.

My thumb moves before I can stop it, calling up Instagram on my phone. Data in LA is still kind of glitchy, but it’s been getting better, and the app boots up fine. I started a burner account recently – @PaellaBitch . I’ve made sure it has every appearance of a fake. No posts, no profile pic, and a random list of follows, everything from porn accounts to motivational speakers to anime memes. There’s only one other account I’m interested in though, and I don’t think he’ll notice I’ve followed him. When you have 1.2 million followers, you don’t tend to pay much attention to them.

@JonasSchmidtCEO spent quite a bit of time in LA. Not a lot of shots of him specifically – just his crew, doling out food and bottles of water, plus plenty of Stories showing videos of his plane, sharing its location at Van Nuys Airport. Eventually, though, FEMA took over. I don’t know how he got back to Germany, but there was a gap of a few days, and then normal service resumed. Gym videos. Photos taken at conferences. Shots of his staff, the description always talking about what they do, and why they’re awesome at it.

My finger hovers over the latest one – a selfie of him with one of his employees. His CFO, the description reads. A thirty-something woman rocking spiky red hair and a huge grin, her arm around Jonas. He’s wearing aviator shades, a tight black T-shirt.

I pause, then double-tap to like. A little red heart appears below the pic.

It already has 1,871 of them, so there’s no danger of him noticing one more.

I kill the app before I do something stupid. Like start scrolling. Again.

I don’t need another person in my life to be complete. I have my friends, and my job, and my ability. My city. Food I haven’t tried yet, music I haven’t listened to, awful Reddit threads I still need to read. I don’t need Jonas.

But just because you don’t need something, doesn’t mean you don’t still want it.

The door behind me opens, and the familiar sound of Sandra-May’s laboured breath reaches me. “Well, hey,” she says. “Didn’t realise you were still with us.” Under the porch light, she looks small and tired.

“Yeah.” It takes me a second to clear my head. “No, I think I’m gonna run in a minute. It was a great party though.“

“Run?” She cocks an eye at me. “You ain’t going anywhere. You’re bunking right here. Couch is pretty comfy.”

“But—”

“No buts. Dell can drive you home in the morning.”

I’m on the verge of protesting, but then I think how sweet it would be to collapse on a couch. Close my eyes. Drift off.

“Is there anything else to clean up inside?” I say.

“I think we’re good.”

“You got it. And thanks, then. For letting me crash. I’ll cook breakfast, OK?”

She starts to protest, but this time, it’s me who cuts her off. “Nope. That’s my condition. Otherwise I’ll walk back to Pomona.”

“Deal.”