15. The Right to Choose
Chapter 15
The Right to Choose
E very instinct I'd developed screamed at me to take control of the situation, to handle this crisis like I handled hostile takeovers. But watching Jimmy sit on his couch, staring at Gary's text message with unnerving calm, I realized this wasn't a corporate emergency I could solve with strategic maneuvering.
“How did he even get your number?” I asked, my pacing halting momentarily. The security implications made my corporate brain spin.
Jimmy frowned at his phone. “I have no idea. It's not like I kept his contact information...” He paused, then added dryly, “At least, I don't think I did. Hard to be sure these days.”
I resumed wearing a path in his carpet. The perfect evening we'd shared now felt like a dream shattered by Gary's unwelcome appearance.
“He wants to meet,” Jimmy said finally, his voice steady in a way that made my chest tight. “Tomorrow. Just us.”
“Absolutely not.” The words snapped out. I regretted it immediately, watching Jimmy's expression harden.
“And you get to make that decision for me?” The quiet challenge in his voice stopped my pacing. “Because you remember things I don't?”
I haven’t prepared to watch someone I loved consider walking into danger because he couldn't remember why he shouldn't. My father's negotiations felt simple compared to finding the right words here.
“Jimmy...” I tried to soften my tone, to pull back the instinctive command. “It's not about making decisions for you. It's about?—“
“Who is he?” The question hit like a hostile takeover bid – direct, unavoidable. “Really. Because my body remembered being afraid of him before my mind could explain why.”
I sat heavily in the armchair across from him, the weight of having to explain this settling on my shoulders. “Gary Reed,” I said carefully. “He's your father.”
Jimmy's face remained carefully neutral, but his hands tightened on his phone. “And?”
“And he has a gambling addiction that...” I hesitated, memories of our late-night conversations came flooding back. Of Jimmy explaining how he'd worked three jobs to cover his father's debts, how he'd learned to sleep with his wallet under his pillow. “That caused you a lot of pain.”
He absorbed this, fingers tracing the edges of his phone where Gary's message still glowed accusingly. “And the attack? Was he involved?”
“We don't know.” The admission felt like failure. “Ramirez was the one who hurt you, but the full story...” I trailed off as Jimmy stood, something shifting in his posture that I recognized from before – determination settling into his shoulders like armor.
“That's just it, isn't it?” He moved to the window, staring out at where Gary's car had disappeared into the darkness. “Everyone knows pieces of my story except me. You, Nina, the whole town – you're all trying to protect me from things I can't remember being afraid of.”
“Jimmy—“
“No.” He turned back to me, and something in his expression made my protests die in my throat. “I get it. I do. Past Jimmy knew all the reasons to keep this person at arm's length. But Current Jimmy? He needs to make his own choices. Even if they're the same ones Past Jimmy would have made.”
I recognized this version of him – the quiet strength that had first drawn me in at Rosewood, the determination that had helped him build something beautiful in this small town. “The last time he showed up,” I said carefully, “it was because he needed money. He said he had a sure thing, a bet that couldn't lose.”
“Let me guess – it lost?”
“You covered his debt. Again. Worked extra shifts at the bar, took on more clients than you could handle.” The memory made my hands clench. “You were exhausted, running yourself into the ground, but you wouldn't let anyone help because?—“
“Because he was family,” Jimmy finished quietly.
“Yes.” I stood, needing to move, to do something with the protective energy thrumming under my skin. “But family also means protecting each other. This whole town? They're your family now. The kind that shows up with casseroles and badly hidden surveillance operations, not bail money and gambling debts.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Mrs. Henderson's opera glasses are getting a workout lately.”
“The whole town's watching out for you,” I said softly. “Not because they want to control your choices, but because they've earned the right to care about what happens to you.”
“And you?” His question caught me off guard. “Where do you fit in all this?”
“I'm here,” I said simply. “Whatever you choose, whatever you need – I'm here.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “You know what's weird? When Gary showed up, my first instinct wasn't to back down. It was to protect myself. To protect...” He gestured between us. “Whatever this is becoming.”
My heart did something completely unprofessional in my chest. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed again – another message from Gary, this one more insistent.
“I need to know,” Jimmy said simply, a quiet certainty in his voice that I recognized from Rosewood days.
“At least let me call Jake,” I tried, pulling out my phone. “He can?—“
“Run a background check? Look into his recent activities?” Jimmy's smile held no humor. “I'm pretty sure between you and Nina, there's already a full dossier. That's not what I need.”
I forced myself to stop pacing, to face him directly. “He's dangerous, Jimmy. You might not remember everything he's done, but I do. I watched what his addiction did to you at Rosewood – the nights you worked until exhaustion, the constant stress of covering his debts...”
“Right,” Jimmy's laugh was bitter, cutting through my protests. “Because you stuck around so long to see the aftermath.”
The words hit like a physical blow, made sharper by the fact that Jimmy didn't even remember why he knew they would hurt. He couldn't know how many nights I'd laid awake in my corporate penthouse, wondering how he was handling another of Gary's crises without me.
My hands moved automatically to pull up the police reports on my phone – evidence, facts, something concrete to show him. But Jimmy stood, crossing the space between us to stop me.
“I don't want to read about my life in reports,” he said quietly. “I don't want secondhand accounts or carefully curated warnings. I need to hear it, even the ugly parts, from him.”
“Jimmy—“
“I know you're trying to protect me.” His hand covered mine, lowering the phone. “But keeping me in the dark isn't protection – it's just another kind of prison. One where everyone else holds the keys to my past except me.”
The gentleness in his voice somehow made it worse. Here I was, falling into the same patterns that had broken us before – trying to control situations instead of trusting him to handle them.
Through the window, I could see Mrs. Henderson had abandoned all pretense of casual observation. She and what appeared to be half the neighborhood watch were openly conferring on his front lawn. Any other time, their completely unsubtle concern would have been amusing.
“You don't have to do this alone,” I said finally, because I couldn't bear the thought of him facing Gary without backup.
His smile then was soft, knowing. “I'm not. I've got a very protective man on speed dial, remember? Not to mention what looks like an entire tactical squad of elderly neighbors out there.”
“I can't talk you out of this, can I?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” he said simply. “But you can trust me to handle it. Memory or not, I'm still capable of making my own decisions.”
“Let me at least call Jake,” I pressed, already reaching for my phone. “We can handle this officially, bring him in for questioning about?—“
“Did you ever consider,” Jimmy interrupted, his voice quiet but firm, “that maybe I need to do this my way? That maybe being handled is exactly what I don't need right now?”
The words hit like an echo of Nina's warnings about letting Jimmy protect himself. I watched, momentarily stunned into silence, as he moved to the kitchen with the kind of purposeful calm that made my protective instincts ache.
The familiar sounds of tea preparation filled the space between us – water running, cups clinking, the electric kettle humming to life. It was such a normal thing, making tea while dealing with earth-shattering revelations about his identity. His hands remained steady as he went through the motions, muscle memory apparently extending to stress-induced beverage preferences.
“You still drink chamomile when you're stressed,” I observed softly, the words escaping before I could catch them.
His hands paused briefly over the tea bags. “Apparently some habits survive memory loss.” He resumed his methodical preparation. “Like knowing exactly how I take my tea, but not remembering learning to make it this way.”
The domesticity of the moment struck me hard – Jimmy in his kitchen, making tea like we weren't in the middle of a crisis, handling revelations about his father with more grace than I was managing. While I'd been busy trying to protect him, he'd been quietly demonstrating a strength I'd never fully acknowledged.
"I'm meeting him," Jimmy said finally, sliding a cup across the counter to me. The certainty in his voice felt like a door closing. "And I need to do this alone."
"Jimmy, please." The words came out more desperate than I intended. "Let me come with you. After everything that's happened..."
"I can handle this," he insisted, but I could see the uncertainty flickering behind his determination.
"I know you can. That's not..." I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "Last time I tried to protect you by making decisions for you. This time, I'm asking to stand beside you. There's a difference."
He studied me for a long moment, and I could almost see him weighing the choice. Finally, his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe it's time we both learned how to do this differently. Together."
The last time I'd tried to protect him by controlling everything, it had cost us everything. The memories pressed down – that final night at Rosewood, the letter I'd left, the years of careful distance that followed. But this was different. This was Jimmy choosing to trust me, choosing to let me be part of his story rather than trying to write it for him.
“When and where?” I finally asked.
His smile then – quick and genuine and relieved – made me realize something important: sometimes real strength wasn't in protecting someone from making choices, but in standing beside them while they made their own.
Even if those choices made your corporate-trained heart want to implement immediate risk management protocols.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, sipping his own tea. “The diner. Very public, lots of witnesses.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Plus, Sarah makes a mean French toast. Might as well have good food while dealing with family drama.”
“The diner has excellent sightlines,” I found myself saying, CEO brain already mapping exit strategies. At Jimmy's raised eyebrow, I added, “What? I can support your choices while still appreciating good tactical positioning.”
His laugh felt like forgiveness, even if he couldn't remember what he was forgiving. “I'm pretty sure Mrs. Henderson already has a seating chart mapped out. Complete with color-coded escape routes.”
“I might not remember everything about who I used to be, but I'm starting to understand why I chose this place. These people.” He glanced at me. “Sometimes protection looks like letting someone choose their own path, then just being ready to help if they stumble.”
The wisdom in his words made my throat tight. Here I was, supposedly the successful business man, learning about true strength from someone who couldn't even remember all the battles he'd already won.
“And we tell Jake,” I added carefully. “Not to interfere, just to know.”
Jimmy considered this over his tea, then nodded. “Fair enough. Though something tells me he already knows. Small town telegraph system seems pretty efficient.” He gestured toward the window where Officer Dawn was making another suspiciously slow patrol pass.
Watching him there, backlit by his kitchen lights, something clicked into place. The Jimmy I'd left behind at Rosewood and the one sitting here now might not share the same memories, but they shared something more fundamental – a quiet strength that ran bone-deep. I'd been so focused on mourning what he'd lost, I'd almost missed seeing what remained.
“You still hold your cup the same way – kind of sideways, like you're conducting an invisible orchestra with your tea.”
His smile was soft, curious. “I do?”
“Yeah. And you still tap your fingers when you're thinking – same rhythm, like you're playing piano in your head. These little things that are just... essentially you. Memory or not.”
He looked down at his hands, one finger indeed tapping against his cup in a familiar pattern. “Sometimes I feel like my body remembers things my mind can't access. Like it knows exactly who I am, even when I'm not sure.”
“Your body remembers kindness,” I said quietly. “The way you still help everyone who needs it, still fight for what matters. That's not memory – that's just who you are.”
Through the window, Mrs. Henderson was apparently conducting a tactical briefing using Winston's tennis ball as a visual aid. The pug remained supremely uninterested in his role as demonstration model.
“I wanted to protect you,” I admitted, watching Jimmy hide a smile at the scene outside. “But maybe I was so busy looking for the person I remembered, I almost missed seeing who you still are – someone who never needed protection as much as he needed support.”
“Support that comes with elderly surveillance teams and color-coded escape routes?” His eyes sparkled with amusement as Riley attempted to casually document the impromptu security meeting while pretending to be fascinated by a nearby tree.
“Support that comes however you need it,” I corrected. “Even if that means watching you walk into something that scares me, just because you need to do it your way.”
The moment hung between us, weighted with understanding. Outside, Mrs. Henderson's tactical planning had evolved to include what appeared to be synchronized watch checking, but their dedication felt right somehow. Like maybe this was what love really looked like – showing up in force, ready to help but letting the person you care about choose their own battles.
Even if those battles came with questionable surveillance techniques and a sleeping pug as head of security.