37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
KINSLEY
I fasten the last of the buttons at the nape of my neck, then swipe a clear coat of lip gloss over my lips and slip my feet into a new pair of black ballet flats.
“It’s over,” I say, my voice pitched too high, to my reflection in the mirror on my apartment wall. I shake my head and try again, but this time, the words come out dry and robotic. After a third failed attempt at sounding normal, frustration washes over me. It’s two tiny words. I’ve done this dozens of times. It shouldn’t be this difficult, and yet the idea of saying them makes me sick. It’s a betrayal to the promise I made to rid myself of the Ice Queen of Wreckage title.
Then the call came. Caroline Reed, the librarian and my mom’s on again, off again, best friend, pleaded with me to do one last engagement cancel.
I’d told her no not once, not twice, but three times. But she was relentless, and in the end, I caved.
“Last one.” I grab my purse and head out the door. After today, there will be no more it’s over s.
When I step out into the Charleston sun, I slip my sunglasses over my eyes. For late October, the weather is still relatively warm, so I opt to walk to the water taxi and take it to Patriot’s Point.
I cross the street, and just as I reach the curb, my phone buzzes in my hand.
“Hi, Mom. I’m on my way out, so I don’t have much time to chat.”
“It’s okay. I just wanted you to know that I heard back from one of my previous informants. It looks like your sister and Derrick are good. They’re bouncing around until Derrick—Oliver—has to testify, which should be in the next few days.”
Derrick is the last surviving witness in the Hernandez case. He was Mateo’s personal therapist leading up to the latest warehouse fire, and his testimony is crucial for his conviction.
Three years ago, in an attempt to keep Derrick safe, the Department of Justice placed him in the witness protection program, assigning him to my mom’s case load just a few months before she retired. She then convinced the FBI to arrange a fake marriage between him and Tessa, claiming that immersing him in life on Hope Island—with a house, a job, and a wife—would be the best way to keep him hidden.
Yes. My mom worked for the Department of Justice. I’m still getting used to that little tidbit of information, though I have a newfound respect for her.
The most shocking revelation I’ve discovered is that Tessa and I are the twin daughters of Mateo’s brother, Diego, who was killed, along with our biological mother, Charlotte, in a factory fire in Arizona when we were four years old. We, too, have been in the witness protection program, which is why my mom refused to tell me who my birth parents were when I had to conduct a family health history after my cancer diagnosis. She was concerned that any information released would alert Mateo to our whereabouts.
She insisted there had always been a plan to come clean about our real identities—Talia and Karina Hernandez; not Tessa and Kinsley Grant—once Mateo was convicted and sentenced. While the lack of information had a negative impact on our relationship, my mother was willing to endure it for our safety, no matter how long it took.
There are still days I struggle with it all, but calling my mom that night Ethan was in surgery jump-started the healing process. I’d been bottling up all the pain I’d suffered for years, and I just needed to cry it out. While I still have so many questions, I trust that my mom will tell me the full story once Derrick and Tessa come home. Once Mateo Hernandez is convicted and sentenced.
“I saw your new blog post,” my mom says, keeping her tone light. “I love that you went with the picture of Ramon at Four Oysters.”
Warmth spreads through me. I used the photo I took of him at the country club a little over a month ago, as well as a more recent one I snapped while at Four Oysters. It was the day of the festival, and Ramon was in his element.
“I had to,” I say. “Just because I haven’t talked to any of them since…” My chest pinches. It’s so difficult to discuss that particular day. I haven’t talked to Ethan or any of his siblings since Victoria appeared at the hospital. I haven’t spoken to Ramon either. I took the coward’s way out and texted him to let him know that my article was going live today.
I’ve spent the better part of the last three weeks trying to heal my heart and considering what I truly want out of life. In turn, I’ve ignored all distractions.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I get it,” she sighs. “I just wanted to tell you that I loved the article. I’m sure a lot of people can relate.”
She’s talking about me.
“Know Your Worth.” That’s what I titled it. What started off as a simple lifestyle blog entry about a loyal bartender quickly turned into an article delving into the journey of self-love. While I don’t doubt Ramon has enough confidence to outshine an entire Olympic swim team, the one thing he lacked was his ability to see beyond his loyalty. He’d been pigeonholed into wanting one thing for so long that he’d forgotten to open his eyes to view the possibilities available to him.
There are definite parallels to my own life. I’m fully aware of that. The most obvious? The way I shut out the opportunity to find love, even before Jay came into the picture—let’s be honest, I was never my real self around him. I played a part I thought I wanted because I didn’t love myself enough to know my own worth. I let life sweep past me rather than forging my own path.
I end the call with a promise that I’ll reach out in the morning. Then I stuff my phone into my purse and find a spot in the back corner of the taxi. Tilting my head back, I remove my sunglasses and close my eyes. I take a deep breath in, counting to four, before holding it for seven and then exhaling. My plan is to clear my mind. To think of nothing but the length and depth of each breath. But the overpowering earthy smell from the harbor below infiltrates my nose, making it impossible. Instead, memories and visions of Ethan flood my senses.
Behind my closed lids, Ethan appears, and all thoughts of meditation go out the window. I trace back to the first time I saw him after so long. His body towering over me at the country club, his expression soft yet full of surprise. I follow his tall frame to his brown eyes, watch the way they smolder when he tells me he isn’t pretending. For an instant, I study his lips, but then they’re crushing against mine like the night we made love in the tiny twin bed on his boat.
“It’s over,” I say once more, this time softening my tone with compassion and grace. Once more, not just for the engagement I have to cancel, but for myself. For a future that no longer includes me fake dating my ex-boyfriend.
As I let out another long exhale, a shadow crosses over me. I turn around, half expecting a passenger to squeeze by, but the boat is empty. Empty, that is, except for a single person standing in my space, sucking all the oxygen right out of my lungs.
“It’s far from over,” Ethan says.