Chapter 18 Jasmine
Chapter eighteen
Jasmine
I feel myself becoming weightless, the harsh wind of gravity pushing across my hair and body as I plummet rather fashionably into the ground.
My body hits the earth with a loud crash and the impact rattles my internal organs.
A dull ache swallows every joint as I push up, wiping sweat and grime off my face.
I look around and feel the reality of my situation sink deeper.
I’m no longer surrounded by tall trees and thick bushes.
Now it’s a giant stretch of land with nothing to see for miles and miles.
And miles.
I look up to the edge of the cliff above me—the one I fell from—and wait to see if I can spot what’s been running behind me. Running after me.
I don’t see anything. Not the usual blob of fur that has always terrified me to my core.
I don’t hear anything either, and a wave of relief slides down my body.
I’ve been running for so long. Maybe it’s time to stop running.
Maybe it’s time to finally take in the world around me and embrace the beauty in the quiet.
Rocky plains stretch out to the horizon.
It is quiet. Plainly quiet. The quiet starts to make me uncomfortable.
Not for long.
The sound I’ve been dreading for what feels like my entire life splits the air and I feel the blood in my veins run cold.
“He’s here.”
I look up to the edge of the cliff and see it.
A bear. The biggest bear I’ve ever seen.
Its heavy footsteps rattle the edge, causing stones to break off and tumble just like I did.
I can see its face clearly for the first time.
It isn’t a bear’s face. For a moment I can’t make it out. Then I do, and my blood goes colder.
I know the face.
It’s Harold.
Harold Swanson.
“Hey!” a familiar voice echoes across the plain. “Hey!”
“Hey.” Asher’s voice seeps into my sleep and my eyes flutter open. He’s standing over me, concern etched across his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, peeling myself upright. I’m drenched in sweat, and my heart is sprinting like it wants to vault out of my chest. I rub my eyes and sit up carefully. The wall clock above the TV reads 10:41 p.m. Too early for nightmares.
Especially ones about Harold Freaking Swanson.
“What’s going on, Jasmine?” he asks again.
Oh, it’s nothing. Just the usual: a giant grizzly bear with Harold’s face chasing me across a confusing hemisphere while a disembodied echo shouts at me from nowhere.
“Nothing. I’m just stressed,” I say instead, and even I can hear the insincerity.
“You can’t let Harold occupy your thoughts all the time,” Asher says, shifting a little closer on the couch. “The last thing you should give that man is power when he isn’t even in the room.”
My pulse slows, the nerves settling under his voice. That’s happening more often and I refuse to think about what it means.
I nod. We sit in a small pocket of silence, staring at each other, waiting for someone to say something. The urge to pull him closer and kiss him flickers again.
“Okay,” he says finally, pushing to his feet with a quiet laugh. “I’m gonna go to bed. We’re seeing your mom tomorrow, and the last thing I want to do is show up looking like I’ve been through hell.”
He heads up the stairs, leaving me with a creeping thought: What if he has no feelings for me? What if this is all in my head? What if I made up every soft look and steady hand and almost-smile?
“Goodnight, Jasmine.”
“Goodnight, Asher.”
***
It’s morning and thankfully I survived the rest of the night without more nightmares. Awake now, I’m eager to go see my mom.
Annabel Kelly Wallace grew up in Golden Heights.
She loved watching the town swell into its own because of the togetherness and the stubborn sweetness of community.
She met her two best friends—Heather and Eloise—right here.
They grew up side by side and, in a bout of romantic practicality, bought a big old house together—the creek mansion—as a sanctuary they could retreat to when life turned mean.
At least, that’s how my mom always told it. I don’t know if that story will land for her today. I don’t know if my face will, either.
“Hey, Leslie,” I say to the receptionist as Asher signs in, trying to fit all those letters of “Officer Asher Vaughn” into a narrow box.
“Good day, huh?” Leslie asks, eyes darting between him and me. Word travels fast in Golden Heights; I can see her curiosity trying on questions like dresses.
“Don’t even ask,” I say, and follow her down the hall.
We reach her room and I spot my mother, knitting by the window.
Mom lights up when she sees me, and a warm rush of relief climbs my spine.
“Jasmine!” she squeals. Asher steps aside and gestures to the empty chair. I sink into it and let the glow of my mother’s happiness soak into me.
She hasn’t recognized me in months. I know this probably won’t last. I plan to wring every drop of joy out of this moment anyway.
“How are you, Mom?” I ask, taking her wrinkled hands. They’re colder than I remember, and tough like leather.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks, tipping her chin toward Asher. “Or is he—more than a friend?”
Oh boy.
“No. This is Officer Asher Vaughn. He’s my—he’s a friend.”
Asher’s voice softens. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“You too,” Mom says. “You’re an officer? Unless they changed the meaning of the word since I got stuck in here.”
“You haven’t been here that long,” I tease.
“You don’t live in Kinsley,” she fires back. “You don’t get an opinion.”
I roll my eyes. Good—she hasn’t lost the drama. “Really?”
“In here, time runs like a sloth in slow motion.”
I laugh, warmth flooding my chest. For a second I wonder if Harold—or his men—could somehow barge in and ruin this. I’ve already filed two reports. Both times I got a polite promise of an investigation from county code enforcement and a ‘we’ll be in touch.’ Great.
I look down at her knitting, unable to tell what it’s going to be. “What are you making?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mom lifts the needles, proud as a magician. “A hat. For Eloise. She insists she doesn’t get cold. That’s a lie women tell when they’re stubborn.”
“It’s pretty,” I say, and mean it. The yarn is the color of the creek at dusk—blue that can’t decide whether it wants to be green.
“It’s a Scotty cap,” she adds, chin tilting with satisfaction. “Named after my Daddy, naturally. Heather says that makes me insufferable. Eloise says I’ve earned it.”
“Of course you have.” My throat tightens. “They’ll love it.”
Footsteps tap the threshold. “We already do,” Eloise sings, sweeping in with Heather a step behind, a tote bag swinging from Eloise’s wrist like a trophy.
Eloise is in a floral dress that could out-bloom spring; Heather’s wearing soft pastels and that kind smile that cuts right through a person’s weather.
“We brought lemon cookies,” Heather reports. “And by ‘we,’ I mean a bakery box Eloise bullied out of a poor teenage clerk with her bracelets.”
“They were out front like pirates’ bounty,” Eloise says, unbothered. Then she spots Asher and gives me a look that says she sees everything she’s not saying. “And who is this statuesque oak you’ve brought to sway by your side?”
“This is Officer Vaughn,” I say, cheeks warming. “Asher. He’s a—friend.”
“A helpful one,” Heather adds gently, nodding to him. “Thank you for bringing our girl.”
Asher smiles, polite, small. “Happy to.”
Mom’s eyes bounce between us, bright and a little sly. “You have kind eyes, Officer. Don’t waste them. Keep them on my daughter.”
“Mom,” I whisper.
“What? I’m old, not blind.” She returns to the hat, needles clicking like contented crickets.
“The creek house is drafty in winter. We should’ve known, three romantics buying an old place because the porch sighed pretty.
” She glances up at me. “Have you been by lately? The trees still kiss over the drive?”
“Of course.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “Always.”
She nods, satisfied, working another neat row.
“People with money think they can buy the way a place feels.” A flicker crosses her face—thought skittering just ahead of the fog.
“There was a man years ago—wanted the creek lot. Tall, loud cologne. We said no.” She squints, searching. “Had a way of smiling like a knife.”
Heather leans in, gentle. “You told him the only oil at the creek was in Eloise’s hair treatments.”
“And I was right,” Eloise says, preening.
“Mom,” I ask carefully, “do you remember his name?”
The cloud settles. She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. We kept what was ours.”
A nurse glides by to check a vitals sheet. Asher catches my eye, tilts his phone. “May I?” he mouths.
“Please,” I breathe.
He frames us in the screen. Mom tucks the Scotty cap-in-progress against my shoulder and leans her head to mine. Click. He shows her the photo.
“Oh.” She touches the image like she can feel us there. “Print it. Will you? Tape it to my mirror. So I remember the face I’m looking for.”
“I will,” I say, anchoring the promise like a tent stake.
Mom’s fingers pause, then pat blindly at the tote on her chair. “Jas, there’s a blue cedar chest under the office window at the diner—your grandmother’s. Did you ever open the false bottom?”
“The what?”
“False bottom,” she repeats, as if it’s obvious. “A little lip of wood that lifts if you know how to look. I tucked things there once. Recipes that matter. A letter, maybe.” She frowns, chases the thought. “From your father? Or to him. I can’t remember which way it went.”
I swallow. “I’ll check.”
“Good.” She nods once, sends the needles dancing again. “Some things don’t want to be thrown away just because time is noisy.”
Eloise pretends not to dab her eyes. Heather doesn’t bother pretending. The nurse circles back, murmurs that it’s almost lunch.
We make our goodbyes slowly. Mom squeezes my fingers, then holds Asher’s hand a beat longer than strictly necessary. “Statuesque oak,” she says gravely. “Don’t topple.”