Charles
"Hey, Grace," Jackson greeted with a warm smile. His easygoing demeanor felt as fake as it did before to me, but I didn’t speak.
"Hey, Jackson," she replied.
Jackson's sudden entrance into the laundry room caught me off guard. His boisterous energy filled the space like a sickly, putrid smell. The problem was that he also seemed genuinely happy, as if the walls themselves exuded fond memories, even with the undercurrent of something else in his scent.
“James, right?” Jackson asked, looking at me.
I gave him a thin smile. “Charles. Harold, right?”
His eyes narrowed. “Jackson.”
“My apologies,” I replied. “Jackson.”
He walked around me and went to stand beside Grace, setting his basket on top of the third washer.
“Ah, I’ve missed the Wolfe laundry room,” Jackson said.
