Chapter 21: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

I don’t know how long it takes me to stop calling Jade’s name, even after she disappears from my line of sight and fades into the dark. But I can’t go inside. I stand at the gate, just within the property line, for hours. Thinking she might change her mind, come to her senses, turn around. And when she does, I want to be here, waiting.

To show her I’m in this—prove it, like she needed—with everything that I am.

But she doesn’t come back.

Not when the tide goes out and the waves shrink from crashing behemoths to curved rippling swells. Not when the air becomes sodden and the morning fog rolls in, hovering over the sand, or when the sky lightens from inky black, to charcoal, to steel-gray, then powder blue.

Eventually, my feet drag me back in, but even then, I don’t leave the foyer. I sit on the steps and stare at the door, every muscle in my body tense with agitation.

Because I can’t stop seeing the look on Jade’s face—her heartbroken, shattered expression as she turned away. That’s the pressure point, and it stabs at my brain like a toothpick under my fingernails. That she was hurting so much, and she still is right now, out there somewhere where I can’t get to her.

I shove a hand through my hair, yanking—and walk out to the gate a dozen times—right on the edge of saying screw it and going after her. But each time, I manage to pull myself back, feeling like a crazy person jumping out of my skin. I end up pacing in the parlor, my extremities so numb, I don’t register the heat that suffuses them, radiating from the dying embers in the fireplace. At some point I collapse on the sofa, exhausted, staring up at Clara’s portrait—talking to her or God, or maybe both.

“Don’t let her think it wasn’t . . .” My pleading words come out thin and raspy, my voice box scraped raw. “Let her know it was real, please, let her feel it. And that I’ll . . . mend us. I’ll fix all of it. I won’t make it here if some part of her doesn’t feel that.”

* * *

During the first week without Jade, I bring brooding to a whole new level. I linger in the music room, gazing at the trim she never got to finish restoring, running my hand over it because it was one of the last things she touched. I put the vinyls we danced to on the record player, and stare as they go around and around—but I don’t move the needle, because I can’t fucking bear to hear them play. On another day, I take a sledgehammer to the hall bathroom—until the porcelain tub and wooden studs lay in pulverized shrapnel at my feet. For a second, I consider smashing the piano too, but hold back.

It doesn’t belong to me—it’s not mine to break.

Going into the second week, alcoholism enters the scene, and I’m a rock star at it. I deplete my stash of whiskey and Jade’s stockpile of wine. I pass out on the sofa, day and night, ignoring the mattress completely because it’s too hard, too cold, and too damn empty without her. The whole house seems hollow and silent, every creak and rattle amplified—like it’s haunted, but the ghost is me.

At the end of the week, I pick up Clara’s journal and read next to the firelight. They’re entries from her final days with Harvey and after his funeral. And Jade was right. Clara really should’ve been an author.

“The agony of being without him is breathtaking. But pain is the price we pay for deep love, true love. And it is worth the cost. Life’s moments are fleeting, like water through our fingertips. But love’s memories endure, for they are what we hold onto through the pain, and cherish for all of our days.”

I put the book down and look into the fire, and I let myself think of Jade. Remember every sweet look and heated touch, every argument and smile, every laugh and precious whispered word. And for the first time since she left I feel . . . settled. More resolute than ever that those will not be the last memories we make together.

When Ian comes the next day, I’m in the parlor, adding a few logs to the fire. The supplies are lighter this time, just two shopping bags of non-perishables to get me through the last fourteen days.

“Hey.” Ian lifts his chin at me. “Word on the streets is you’re flying solo around here.”

It should be good news—to the guys, for the office—but his shoulders are slumped and there’s a kicked-puppy dimness in his eyes.

“Yeah.” I sit down on the sofa, bracing my elbows on my knees. “Have you talked to Piper? Did she say how Jade is doing?”

“Piper won’t see me. And she’s not screwing around about it.” Ian puts the bags on the floor and sits down. “I staked out her car in the parking lot at the office, but when she walked out and I tried to talk to her . . . she fucking tazed me.”

I choke on a laugh. “What?”

He tugs the collar of his shirt aside, exposing two parallel, round burn marks on his neck. “I dropped like a stone, dude. No joke.”

Piper’s got a vicious streak—who knew?

“Jesus,” I laugh for another second, before going somber. “I’m sorry, Ian.”

“I’m thinking I’m the one who should be sorry,” he says quietly. “It was what I said about Riley’s idea, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t—”

“No—this is my screw-up. If I had talked to Jade like I should have, she wouldn’t have been caught off guard. She would’ve had faith in me. In us.”

Ian nods. “So there’s an ‘us’ with you and Jade?”

I gaze at the dancing flames. “There was. And when I get out of here, I’m going to do anything to make sure there still is.”

He releases a breath. “That’s a pretty major development.”

I nod. “You can tell Riley and Gage. It’s just . . .” and still, I have trouble finding words that do it justice. “Everything changed while we were here. And she’s . . . permanent.”

I don’t know what he sees on my face, but it makes him put his hand on my shoulder and squeeze.

“I’m sorry she left.”

Jade’s last look flashes before my eyes, and my chest tightens with missing her.

“Me too.”

“Why did you tell me not to bring oil for the boiler? It’s January.”

I shrug. “Keeping the fire going gives me something to focus on. Something I have to do every day.”

Ian nods, but he watches me closely for a few moments.

“Listen, Dame . . . maybe you should just come with me now. There’ll be other deals; it’s not the end of the world. You don’t look so good.”

I scrub a hand over my tired features, rubbing at the unkept overgrowth on my jaw, because grooming hasn’t been high on my to-do list—what with all the drinking and brooding.

“You kind of look like a psycho, man,” Ian adds gently. “A lumberjack psycho.”

I laugh, and he does too.

“You’re a good guy, Ian. A good friend. I’m lucky you’re my best friend.”

It’s not something I’d normally say, though it’s always been true. But there’s a need now, to make sure the people who matter most to me in the world absolutely know that they do.

“And it’s not about the deal. It hasn’t been about the deal for a long time. I’m staying for her. It’s all for her now.”

* * *

JADE

I walk for about a mile and a half before the cold really penetrates. The wind blows against me, drying my tears, making my bones feel frozen and my fingers useless. And I realize I have no money, no phone—and nowhere to go. It’s too cold to wait outside Stymie’s office until morning. I end up flagging down a Shore Haven squad car when it crawls down the dimly lit street.

Officer Keira Taylor is behind the wheel. She was my sophomore year lab partner in high school. Like the rest of the town, she knows about the will and the battle for Clara’s property. She gives me her coat and lets me into the passenger side, asking me gently if I want to go to my father’s house. I shake my head and give her the address of my condo building instead.

The super lets me into my apartment. I close the door behind me and lean my back against it, too drained to walk another step. I slide down to the floor and stay there, with Precious on my lap, all night.

Damon’s voice reverberates in my head, calling to me, but I choke down the lump in my throat and focus on the feel of my heartbeat and the sound of blood rushing in my ears. The moments of us—his entrancing touch and captivating smile, and the heavy safety of his arms around me—play out in my head. But I make them all go dark too, locking them away and tossing the key.

And I bury myself in a grave at the center of the earth, letting the soil cover me until I’m cold and then . . . numb. Damon was right, numb is better.

At dawn, I stand up.

I throw on a hat and sunglasses like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi, and let the dog out. I feed him, take the hottest, shortest shower of my life, and get dressed for work. An hour later, just before seven, wearing a long-sleeved silk blouse and a navy skirt, I bring Precious to my office at Buchanan Industries and close the door.

Then I knock on my father’s office door, the same way I’d face a firing squad—with my shoulders back and my head high—feeling nothing at all.

“The deal’s off,” I tell him, standing across from where he sits behind his desk. “I couldn’t stay. I did my best, but it became . . . untenable.”

“Well, if nothing else, it’s helpful to have confirmation that your best isn’t good enough. I’ll be sure to factor that into my future plans.” His eyes lift from the papers in front of him—raking me up and down and over the coals. “Go home, Jade. You look like hell. Don’t come back until you’ve slept and cleaned yourself up.”

* * *

The first twenty-four hours are not easy. I try to sleep, but I’m plagued by black swirly dreams that disappear like mist when my eyes open. And it’s almost worse that I can’t remember them.

On the second day, Piper comes over and brings Chinese food. She says she made me a welcome-home playlist and “Eye of the Tiger” is the very first song. We drink a bottle of wine and I end up telling her about the night I left. When I finish, I say that I never want to talk about it again.

My sweet friend opens her mouth to argue. But then she looks deep in my eyes . . . and hugs me for a long time instead.

For the next week, everything seems too bright and too noisy. The cars in the street grate on my eardrums, the light from my phone gives me a headache, and the softness of my pillowtop bed is stifling. I miss the seclusion of the old house. The dim lighting and crisp air and the gentle lulling surf.

I miss everything.

Precious misses everything too. He sighs a lot—long, pitiful whines—before curling up in his bed without sleeping. Sometimes he sits at my feet, staring at me. And it feels . . . judgy.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Bark.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Bark.

“This is our house. This is where we live.”

Bark, bark, bark!

At the beginning of my second week on the outside, I return to the office full time. I bring Precious with me, because the thought of leaving him in the condo alone is unbearable. Beckett is abrasive and mean, but no more than he was before. Bailey is quiet—he doesn’t mock me as much as he used to, but he’s probably just out of practice.

When a deal falls through at Buchanan Industries, it’s on to the next—like it never existed at all. The only remnant of my defeat is that I’m relegated to the idiot chair during conference meetings until my father dictates otherwise.

And I just can’t muster the energy to give a damn.

I float through the days, going through the motions, performing tasks and saying all the right words—like a hollow puppet on a string. Feeling only the occasional weight of exhaustion.

Until the end of the third week, when my father walks into my office. It’s an unusual move—he typically summons us to his domain. He doesn’t sit, but stands across from me, bracing the thumb and forefinger of each hand on the edge of my desk.

“This will stop.”

I try to remember what he’s referring to, but my head is clogged with a lot of not giving a shit these days.

“What will stop?”

He gestures to me. “This . . . behavior. It stops. Now.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You failed.”

Simple, direct—and at any other time—eviscerating.

“I’m aware.”

“Move on.”

“I didn’t realize that was an option. I don’t even know why I’m still working here. Why haven’t you fired me?”

“I won’t have this, Jade.”

“Won’t have what?”

He raises his voice. “You’re acting like—” His words cut off sharply. And he stands there, stone-faced and condemning, like I should already know what he means.

“What, Dad?” I stand up. “I’m acting like what?”

But in the ensuing silence, all the puzzle pieces fall perfectly into place. And I understand everything.

“Or is it who? Who am I acting like, Dad?”

I get nothing from him but his stare. Black and empty.

“You can’t even say her name.” I shake my head. “Who’s weak now?”

I’ve always clung to the sliver of hope that my father was hard on me out of some warped sense of caring. That he wanted the best from me—for me.

He crushes that illusion, once and for all. “If you won’t pull yourself together, you’ll be sent away.”

And for the first time in weeks, I’m not numb. A sinewy vine of fear winds its way around my throat. “Excuse me?”

“Somewhere discreet, where no one knows your name. And you can be . . . helped.”

“I’m a grown woman. I’m an adult. You can’t do that.”

“Can’t I?” He smiles, and the vine coils tighter. “Who would stop me? Your brothers? Beckett would celebrate. And we both know Bailey would fall in line. Your assistant is as harmless as she is powerless, and I doubt your uncle would notice your absence. Who’s left?”

I only think of him for a moment—just a flash of his perfect face—but that’s all it takes for my father to read my mind.

“Oh, I see.” He nods slowly. “Damon Burke has made his priorities crystal clear, and you, my darling daughter, are not one of them. You never were.”

And it’s so strange. How transparent it all is now. How I used to look at my father and see an all-powerful titan . . . but now I just see a man. A manipulative, greedy, terrible man.

“You don’t know the first thing about Damon. Or me.”

I was wrong when I told Damon he’d only given me words. He built fires for me, and kicked down doors for me. He danced with me, and he hung stars for me. If I know nothing else, I know that much. And that’s what I hold on to—like a rope lashed to a piling as the current tries to sweep me away.

“But it doesn’t matter.”

“This is the only warning you get, Jade.”

I nod. “I understand. Thank you for the pep talk. You can go now.”

And I sit back down.

“I beg your pardon?” my father asks.

I look up from the papers on my desk and clarify my meaning. “I have work to do. Fucking leave.”