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His parents growing up were very private in their love. A kiss on the cheek before work in the morning, again in the evening after work. Tender smiles and warm hugs. Theirs was a quiet love; ordinary. It wasn’t the love of great novels, nor of overly emotional films. Poems wouldn’t be written about them. They didn’t cry it from the rooftops or kiss in public. High school sweethearts; grew up together, went to church together, got married and had a child together. Roses on valentine’s day. That, Jackson believed, was how adults loved. Sensibly and quietly, with everyone having their own chair in the living room and the constant presence of gold bands on ring fingers. In his more cynical moments, adults loved boringly.
And then he met them.
He bought her calla lilies – her favourite – home just because. Post-its littered the house, sometimes with a smiley face or a heart along with a message to have a good day or take the bins out; other times with filthy little notes about what she would do to him if he remembered to pick up strawberries and ice cream from the store.
They were touchy, never within arm’s reach of one another without being in physical contact with one another, and he learned early on that in the aftermath of any fight, no matter how big or small, he should disappear to his room with his headphones blasting at top volume, else he hear things he really wished not to.
Date night was Monday, because apparently their first date had been a Monday, and consisted of anything from star-gazing to mini-golf: never sushi, though.
He opened every single door for her, placed his hand on her back as they walked. Kissed the back of her neck and fleck of silver as it started to show amongst the autumn gold, made jokes about fine wines and cheeses. Occasionally she’d parry back with a joke about sleeping bags.
She always put sunflower seeds at the top of the shopping list whilst he always bought the real cream cheese and not the lite cream cheese, even though she’d ostensibly complain. Before dinner every night they walked around the property, hand in hand, and after dinner they’d curl up together in the armchair that used to be her father’s and read or watch a film. They’d work together when cooking because she always burnt the food and he always made a chaotic mess of the kitchen. And when the right song came on the radio they’d drop whatever they were doing to dance around the living room, dopey looks on their faces as they gazed into one another’s eyes and laughter filling the air as he whispered in her ear and squeezed her ass.
He’d make a joke about how old they were and in perfect synchronicity, they’d stick their middle fingers up at him without even looking or he'd get two couch cushions thrown at his head with perfect aim.
On rainy Sundays, they’d play board games and she’d let him win chess whilst he let her win Scrabble, and on sunny weekends they’d drive out to the coast or into the mountains, sleep in the tent or the car or under the stars. They teased and ribbed each other with jokes thirty years old that he had no hope of understanding.
He’d watched as she’d caught her reflection with a displeased frown and a tilt of her head, watched as he’d noticed and told her how hot she was, told her she still had some ‘scoot in her boot,’ murmured sweet nothings into her ear until she laughed and kissed him and jumped up into his arms to cling onto him like a koala.
He watched as they taught his little sister just how loud love could be, just how much she should be treasured by whatever partner she had in the future. He watched as she grew into someone who loved so freely he was constantly terrified she would get hurt. And when he voiced those fears, asked them how they managed to avoid the pain, they smiled at him softly and held one another close, told him how the pain was unavoidable, but that love – real, true love – was worth every ounce of it.