Chapter Text
"I thought my house was haunted
I used to live with ghosts"
The first time Delilah met, or rather, heard Jackson, was a few days after moving her grandfather into his new permanent residency: Timber Oaks retirement home. She knew it was the best decision for both her and her grandfather, but doing so hadn’t made it any easier. There was a part of her that carried guilt for not being able to take care of him when he needed her most. But after the last episode he had, where, in a fit of anger from not being able to find his mug, she found him standing in the middle of the kitchen with shards of sharp, sparkling crystal shattered at his feet, she knew he needed more than she could provide.
It was on a particularly tiring day, after spending the bulk of the morning and afternoon with her grandfather, drinking coffee and listening to him forget the details of his favourite fishing story, that she sat in her car, too exhausted to get out and have to enter her too quiet, empty house. She had been idly flipping through the stations, looking for anything to drown out the silence, when she heard a voice, Jackson’s, she’d come to find out, and he was talking about the weather, rambling more like it. He seemed to be explaining how lightning and thunder worked on a scientific level. Had she been anyone else, she was sure he would have lost her in the technical jargon, but, being a meteorologist herself, she found his fast-paced, clearly nervous word-vomit explanation soothing. It reminded her of being in class and her own excitement when it came to specific weather phenomena.
It couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes, but Delilah was already feeling a calmness settle around her. It had been a while since she had felt any sense of peace. Between juggling her additional responsibilities at the station and her grandfather’s condition, she found it nearly impossible sometimes to quiet the part of her brain that continued to remind her that she wasn’t doing enough. But listening to that voice, which seemed to go on forever, Delilah found herself listening, despite already knowing every word of what he was going on about.
She found herself smiling when the voice was interrupted by someone else, apologising for the delay in broadcasting. “Well, folks, that was Jackson. He’ll be back with your regularly scheduled weather updates at the start of the hour. Thanks for covering.” She heard what sounded like a muffled groan, presumably from Jackson, and finally found the energy to get out of her car and head in to scrounge up dinner from whatever ingredients she had left in the fridge. The rest of the night, in between worrying about her grandfather, she found her mind drifting back to that gravelly voice.
The first time Jackson saw Delilah, she was in an orange vest standing next to a garbage truck. There was some kind of strike going on, causing the city to go without pickup for nearly two weeks. The girls were about to graduate from middle school, and the only thing on Jackson’s mind, aside from the overflowing waste receptacle along the side of their home, was the response from their mother he had finally received two nights before, asking him to apologise for her. She wouldn’t be able to make the graduation after all, she was simply too busy selling cars or makeup products or tupperware or whatever the hell she was doing that Jackson frankly couldn’t give less than a damn about. All he heard was that she would not be coming, and his heart squeezed. Not for himself, he had given up on Camille long ago, but for the girls who had already planned the visit with their mother down to the unnecessary reservation at the Olive Garden that was rarely busy, and for good reason, Jackson was convinced he got food poisoning from them on at least two occasions.
Nevertheless, he let the girls call and make the reservation, which is why, despite a small part of him being relieved he would not have to face Camille, he was still sad and a bit anxious to tell the girls that all their mother had to say was that she would hopefully make it to the next one. He might even leave that out. Camille never made it to the “next one”. Not the next dance recital, or the Mother’s Day brunch, or birthday. Not that she remembered, and not that Jackson actively invited her to any of it anymore. But Addie had been so hopeful when she brought home two tickets and Jackson felt obligated to ask Camille.
He decided to rip the band-aid off and tell them that night after dinner. He couldn’t put it off any longer; they were graduating in a week, and he wanted to give them time to feel their disappointment now and not when they should be celebrating their accomplishments. They were two very clever, hardworking girls who took after him more than he liked to admit. But that did mean at least one thing: they deserved this accomplishment and were not going to let Camille’s absence dim their day.
As he was cleaning up the plates from their taco night, the girls flipped on the TV, searching for the news station. Unusual for a pair of 13-year-olds to be sure, but not unusual for the twins who had been co-heads of their student-run paper.
“Hey girls, we have to talk when I’m done with this,” Jackson called from the kitchen before rinsing the plates off and setting the dishes into the washer.
“Yeah, sure,” Penelope called back absentmindedly, “Delilah’s talking about the strike.” Delilah? He had never heard the twins mention that name before. Granted, he wasn’t too familiar with the news himself; working for 101.6 meant most of his knowledge came from his own offices.
Jackson walked into the living room, drying his hands on a dishtowel, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose now that his hands weren’t covered in suds. On the screen, a girl with wavy brown hair and a bright smile was standing near what appeared to be a dumpsite. He could see a divot on her lower lip and a smattering of freckles across her soft features. A line of garbage trucks was parked off in the distance behind her. It must be a segment filmed earlier that day, the sun seemed to be beating down on her. She was in an orange neon vest, matching two of the workers she was interviewing. There was something about her that made Jackson’s heart trip. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable it probably was to be out there in the heat next to all the garbage. He had driven by the site probably only twice in his life, and even from the car, he could recall the terrible smell, and yet somehow, here Delilah was, standing, smiling even, and chatting away with the workers. They were striking because they felt they were being overworked and underpaid, and in trucks with broken ACs to boot. Jackson couldn’t help but stare at the tv screen, wondering how he’d never come across Delilah before.
Penelope noticed Jackson’s interest and smirked, poking Addie to take notice as well. “Aww Jackie,” Addie squealed. “Do I sense a cruuush?” Jackson coughed and nervously reached for his glasses again.
“No, I’ve just never seen her before. Who is she?” Jackson sputtered.
“That’s Delilah Stewart, the new weather woman,” Penelope said, with something that could only be described as glee glinting in the corner of her eyes.
“If she’s the weather woman, why is she reporting on the strike?” Jackson asked, attention turning back to the screen, catching her friendly wave to the men. “And now, back to you.” The screen cut back to the two regular anchors reporting on the rest of the day’s news.
“Oh, I don’t know, but she’s good at it. Jamie, who normally does features, is on vacation or something.” Jackson hummed, curious how the station’s meteorologist got roped into features.
“Anyways,” Addie began, cutting into Jackson’s wandering thoughts. “You said you had something to tell us?”
That night, Jackson found himself up late, per usual. He could hear crying from the twins’ room. Addie. While Penelope remained silent, pretending like she wasn’t surprised or hurt by her mother’s reliable unreliability, Addie asked Jackson to relay exactly what Camille had told him. She asked at least three different ways for Jackson to tell her the reason she wouldn’t be attending, finding the answer lacking each time until finally, red-faced and trying not to cry, she asked to be alone. She made it halfway up the stairs before Jackson and Penelope heard her sob.
“What about you, Pen? How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Pen, I know you were looking forward to this. I’m sorry.”
“No, I get it. I didn’t really expect her to come. Of course I didn’t.” Jackson’s heart squeezed again. He wasn’t sure which was more painful to bear witness to: Addie’s tears of disappointment or Penelope’s stoic response, already learning to guard herself from the world.
The first time the pair came face to face was a few weeks following their mutual discovery of each other. After a particularly long night spent with her grandfather, Delilah’s pink bug flew into the first parking space she could find, running late, needing to be in the studio and ready for the camera 15 minutes ago. She threw open her door before she even had her belt off and found herself briefly tangled in it in her rush to grab her coffee and make it into the station.
After what she deemed to be a successful broadcast despite being late, Delilah waltzed back to her car, already planning on a trip to the grocery store. It was while deciding if she was going to get a rotisserie chicken or sub-making materials that she stopped in her tracks, watching as a tall blonde with curly hair seemed to be twisting himself out of his driver's side window. A messenger bag was sitting on the roof while he pulled himself out and dropped onto his feet between the two cars, body wedged between the pink bug and the gray four-door.
“Hello?” She ventured a step closer, noticing her parking job. She knew she was in a rush that morning but didn’t realize how badly she had parked. Her bug was practically straddling the yellow line dividing the spaces. She bit back an apologetic wince as she watched the man adjust his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose after having been knocked crooked from his climb.
Jackson hadn’t noticed Delilah standing there until he had squeezed himself out from between the cars, arms raised, one hand with a coffee cup and the other holding his bag. When he finally noticed her, the tips of his ears tinged a delicious pink color, thinking about her witnessing him shimmying out of his car.
“Hey?” Jackson replied, adjusting his messenger bag and looking up to finally meet her eyes. That was when recognition hit. Delilah Stewart. The girl from the news station. She was in a light blue shirt, wrinkles down the front, her sleeves rolled up, tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans, hugging the curve of her waist. Jackson couldn’t help but stare, adding to the red climbing his face.
Delilah met his eyes. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t seem to place it. He didn’t work for the news station so he must be from the station across the street.
“Sorry, hi, I’m Jackson,” The man replied, maneuvering the coffee into the hand holding the strap of his bag so he could extend his hand towards her. She grasped his hand firmly, it encompassed hers and caused her stomach to swoop at the contact. The name flashed somewhere in Delilah’s mind, but before she could sort out the memory, Jackson continued. “I was just trying to get out of my car. Clearly they shouldn’t be driving, there are lines for a reason.” He almost grumbled the last part, his tone clear that he was hoping she too could relate to the frustration of a terrible parking job. He realized his mistake a second too late when she lifted her bright key chain, a lucky rabbit hanging off, and unlocked the bright pink, crooked car.
Rather than feel apologetic, though, she scowled instead. Jackson watched in real time as her once cheerfully open expression turned sour.
“There’s plenty of other places to park,” Delilah finally replied, gesturing to the rest of the lot. The morning crew at the news station was already headed out, leaving the lot nearly half empty.
“But this is my spot.”
“And your name is where?” She gestured to the ground.
“It’s the principle.”
“No, it’s a parking spot.” Delilah wasn’t sure why she was so annoyed; to some extent, she agreed that her parking could’ve been better, but it was the way Jackson said it. No room for mistakes or excuses, automatically assuming the car’s owner was, by default, a terrible driver, which Delilah was not. She was just having a bad day, and Jackson was clearly trying to make it worse.
“Who are you? Do you work for the station?” Delilah asked, pondering her disappointment that such curly hair and boyish features were wasted on the human version of a wet piece of cardboard.
“I’m the meteorologist at the station,” he replied stiffly. “And you’re Delilah Stewart,” he added, before realizing she never said her name, and he didn’t want her thinking he was some weird fan or something. That did give Delilah pause; however, she didn’t expect him, much less anyone else to know who she was. She had only been on air for the better part of a month now; up until then, she had been working behind the scenes as a production assistant.
She had also finally caught up to the fact that this was the voice she had heard a few weeks ago, and if she were being honest, a few times since. She had started leaving her radio tuned to 101.6, just in case the voice came on again. The peace she felt when Jackson was describing the weather was something that had stuck in the back of her mind. It seemed to prod and poke at her brain at random intervals throughout the day, particularly when she found herself stressed out or worrying.
“Yes, and you’re the meteorologist who likes to ramble,” Delilah replied, realizing an awkward silence seemed to settle around them. At that comment, Jackson frowned, wanting to be done with this conversation. Whatever spark of attraction he initially felt towards this odd woman with her sunshine smile died when he saw her atrocious parking and lack of common decency.
“I don’t ramble. I just… like to explain.” Jackson replied before making a move towards the radio station. He was the standard 20 minutes early to his shift, as always. There was no fear of being late, but he knew if he stayed outside any longer, he wouldn’t have time to review his notecards for the weather broadcast.
“Hey,” Delilah held up her hands, “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.” Jackson rolled his eyes.
“Okay, well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Delilah scoffed; she could hear it in the way Jackson said the word that this meeting had been anything but. That was one thing they would have found to agree upon. Delilah just harumphed before moving towards her door, tossing her bag on the passenger seat before hopping in.
Jackson walked off towards the station, refusing to look back. He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the thoughts of Delilah’s hair, which up close seemed to reflect golden streaks, and of the freckles he had seen all those weeks ago on a TV screen now so close he could have counted them. He did not need Delilah Stewart’s sort of chaos in his life, and the rational part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to see her again. Too bad the irrational part gripped around the memory of her cherry perfume.