Grace And Wilson

by SingleMama

Instead of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, Jackson Grace and Rachel Wilson, two high school students that have never meet before but share a love for solving crimes. Rachel comes from a past of pain and heartbreak. But when she meets Jackson, Jack, her whole world changes but is it for the better or will it be worse than before when Malcolm McCarthy comes in. language, violence

26. Questioning Feelings

Chapter Twenty-Six

I paced my bedroom floor while Jack slept soundly in my bed. I tightened the towel around my hair and fiddled with the locket around my neck, which hung over my blue blouse. I straightened my white mid-thigh ruffle skirt. Josh and Brooke had looked in earlier and told me breakfast would be ready soon. They had seen Jack and me sleeping in my bed. I was on the verge of a panic attack. "He called me babe," I murmured under my breath. I straightened my skirt again and continued pacing. "God, what do I do? Was it a flirt or just being friendly and caring? If I tell him how I feel and he doesn't like me, would he hate me? I don't know what to do."

"You always talk to yourself?" I froze and saw Jack sitting up in my bed. I swallowed hard, hoping he hadn't heard me. He got up and backed me up against the wall. "You got feelings for a fella?" I could sense that he thought I had been talking about another guy. He doesn't know!

"Uh, no. Feelings, what feelings? All guys tend to be an ass," I said quickly, clearly nervous.

"You know, Rach. Come out and tell the guy. If he's an ass about it, then I'll beat his ass for ya." His tone was heartbroken.

I knew it, I thought, he does like me! He went to leave but I touched his hand.

"Do you believe in fate?" I asked him, refusing to look at him.

"I believe people are put together for a reason. That things happen to those people to make them grow. But those people choose whether to grow together or to grow apart." He left the room while I molded over what he said. I opened my locket. Inside was a picture of my mum and dad, holding each other. It was before my father started beating her and drinking. My mum was smiling while my father had his lips pressed firmly against her temple.

On the other half was a picture of me in a man's arms. I was fifteen in the picture. The man was nineteen. He had medium length brown hair and olive skin, like my father. His strong army uniformed arms were wrapped around my waist. He wore his army cap, and his dog tags hung around my neck. "I wish you were here, Hank," I whispered to my older brother's photo.