BEFORE THE STARS, I Knew Jackson Maine

Homecoming

I'm sitting at the edge of the dock, as I do most days. Day dreaming, saying prayers for Brady and cooling off with my feet in the water.

I can still see Jackson Maine splashing around in the water right in front of me. It's in my mind clear as day. It always makes me shake deep inside when I remember him.

I've sat here like this a thousand times but today is different. I rush back home. I can see the lights going up on the big barn at Stallman Farms from here. The whole town's ready to welcome him home.

I don't care what all the other girls have been saying about how much they missed him or how they're going to get him, he's mine. I saw it in his eyes the night he left.

***

I arrive at the party on the back of Buddy's truck (that's how me and Duke arrive most places). I've chosen a light blue dress that fits my waist snugly. It's strapless, a strip of lace on the trim across my bosom. Another layer of white lace peeks out around the bottom below my knee. I think men like Jackson Maine are the reason we call these little purses a clutch. That's how we hold onto it as we're anxiously waiting for them.

A big black bus is making its way toward us. Is that him? It must be. Who else? There are SUVs in front and behind.

They all roll into the property and stop when they're close enough. That's how we park out here. There are no rows of cars or painted lines between cars. You just kinda drive up til you stop.

The door opens like an accordion. A young man with a large camera in his hand hops down, dirt puffs around his feet. He constantly shakes the hair out of his face. Why don't he just cut it? I wonder.

He's perched the camera on his shoulder. Jackson himself appears in the doorway, his arms open wide as he steps down. People are cheering. Everyone rushes closer to him.

"Stop!" A woman exists after him. "Let's get that again." She spins her pointer finger in the air. Jackson steps back onto the bus. "Do we have family here? A mother or something?"

I gasp. How dare she? Of course his parents aren't here. That was cruel. The crowd is silent.

"A cousin? His childhood milkman? I don't care!" Oh, she's a vile woman.

"Me!" I step up.

"You are?"

"I'm Savannah." My tone is hurt and insulted.

"Relationship?"

"I'm...I'm...I'm Jackson's friend."

"Closest thing he has to a kid sister." Someone calls out. I grimace. Kid sister, my lace panties! The woman nods, we're filming.

Jackson steps off the bus again. He's wearing black slacks and a black button down. His boots look good. His hair is long, a greasy tint to the tips hanging out below his hat.

"Savannah!" He runs to me, arms open. I wrap around his neck and hang on as my feet leave the ground and we spin in circles. Our bodies pressed together is the best thing I've felt since his last night here. The waves between us are electric. My heart is racing. My "touch me" buttons are blinking.

As he sets me down, his hand palms the back of my neck. He's strong and assertive, he might take me right here, right now. This crowd and the cameras be damned (pardon my French). He's leaning to my ear. Yes, Jackson I'm yours. "Thanks," he whispers. He's walking by before I can respond.

Everyone follows him. I'm standing alone, clutching my little bag. I'm searching for someone to explain what just happened but no one seems to notice. They're all clamoring for his attention.