Chapter 42 Jess
Jess
Ben and I are sitting at the kitchen island with crayons and shape-tracing pages spread out before us. Frederick is propped beside us.
“Can you color the circle red for me?” I ask.
Ben stares at the page. Her crayon hovers over the circle, but her bottom lip trembles.
Finally she colors it.
Stays mostly inside the lines.
“That’s right.” I try to high-five her. She barely lifts her hand.
My phone buzzes.
“It’s Dr. Hale,” I tell Ben. Our therapist. “Time for our daily chat.”
The five-year-old immediately looks away.
I accept the FaceTime call.
Dr. Hale appears on screen. “How are we doing today?” she asks cheerily.
I purse my lips. “Doing well, I suppose. Just working on shapes and colors together.”
Beside me Ben’s face crumbles. Tears start streaming.
Okay so maybe not well.
Dr. Hale guides us through breathing exercises. One, two, three. The same ones I taught Ben before the attack. The same ones that barely seem to do a thing these days. I squeeze Ben’s fingers with each breath.
“Ben,” Dr. Hale says gently. “Can you tell me three things you can see right now?”
Ben sniffles. Finally looks around the kitchen. “Frederick. My crayon. The... circle I colored. And Jess.”
“Good.” Technically that was four things, but neither Dr. Hale nor I comment.
“Now name two things nearby you can touch,” Dr. Hale says.
Ben’s hand finds mine. Squeezes. “Jess’s hand. And the table.”
“And now name one thing nearby that makes you feel safe,” Dr. Hale says.
Ben’s eyes drift from Frederick, to me. She looks at me with such innocence I could cry.
“Jess,” Ben says. “She makes me feel safe.”
My throat goes tight.
You make me feel safe, too, I want to tell her. Complete.
But I don’t think I can, not without erupting into tears. I’m having enough time holding it together as it is.
“Do you feel safe now?” Dr. Hale asks.
“I do. But... Daddy...” Ben doesn’t finish.
Dr. Hale’s expression softens. “Your daddy is healing, Ben. Sometimes when people get hurt on the outside, they need time to heal on the inside, too. Does that make sense?”
Ben nods slowly. “Is he hiding because he’s sad?”
“Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little scared. But none of that is your fault. Your daddy loves you very much.”
“Then why won’t he come out?” Ben’s voice cracks.
When a kindergartener asks the exact question you’ve been screaming into your pillow every night.
Dr. Hale looks at me. “Jess, do you want to help answer that?”
No. I absolutely do not want to explain why the man I’m in love with has decided emotional availability is for other people. But here we are.
“Your daddy’s face got really hurt,” I say carefully. “And sometimes when something changes about how we look, we need time to get used to it. Like when you got your hair cut short that one time and didn’t want anyone to see you for a whole day.”
Ben considers this. “But I wasn’t hurt. I just didn’t like it.”
I nod. “Right. But the feeling was kind of the same, wasn’t it? Not wanting people to see you until you felt ready?”
She nods.
Dr. Hale gives me an approving look. “That’s exactly right, Ben. And your daddy will come out when he’s ready. In the meantime, you and Jess are doing a wonderful job taking care of each other.”
Ben leans against my arm. I wrap it around her shoulders.
“Okay Ben,” Dr. Hale says. “Can you go play with Frederick for a few minutes while I talk to Jess about grown-up stuff?”
Ben slides off my lap and wanders toward her sticker collection.
Dr. Hale’s attention shifts fully to me. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I lie automatically.
She just looks at me. That therapist look that says ‘we both know that’s garbage.’
I finally sigh. “I’m tired. Marco talks to me through a closed door. I haven’t seen him since the hospital.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s like being trapped in one of those reality shows where everyone votes you off but you can’t actually leave because a traumatized kid needs you.”
Dr. Hale makes a note. “Are you sleeping well?”
“Define sleeping well.”
She purses her lips. “More than four hours a night.”
“Then no.”
“Jess.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “You can’t pour from an empty cup. You need to take care of yourself, too.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I just... I don’t know how to do that right now. Everything feels like it’s barely holding together.”
Dr. Hale nods as if in understanding. “Then let’s build in some small moments. Five minutes a day that’s just for you. Can you do that?”
I think about my glorified closet room. Ben’s nightmares. Marco’s silence.
“I can try.”
“Good. That’s all I’m asking.” She glances at the time. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. And Jess? You’re doing better than you think.”
Am I though?
Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m one step away from a complete breakdown.
But I nod anyway. Smile. Thank her.
After the session ends, I fetch Ben and set her to organizing stickers into color-coded piles.
Halfway through that, my phone rings. Unknown number.
I almost don’t answer.
Finally I pick up: “Hello?”
“Jessica.” Livia Caldarelli’s voice is ice. “We need to talk about the holidays.”
Oh good. Because what this situation really needs is more pressure.
“Of course,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“Enzo and I would like Benedetta for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Full days.”
“I think that sounds lovely,” I tell her. Because what else am I supposed to say? “I’m sure Marco will want to coordinate with you directly.”
“Oh don’t you worry, I’m calling him next,” Livia says. “If he even answers, that is. He hasn’t been taking our calls.”
“Oh.” Well that’s not good. “Okay, I’ll be sure to let him know you called.”
“Thank you.” She pauses. “You know, last time we visited, when you were kind enough to give us privacy with Marco, I tried to talk to him in the kitchen. But he just stood there staring at Isotta’s mixing bowl for the whole twenty minutes. Couldn’t even speak to me.”
Well, at least he comes out of his room for you...
Her voice cracks slightly as she continues: “I know he’s grieving again, but Benedetta needs her father present, not frozen in the past.”
“I understand,” I tell her quietly.
“I knew you would. You care about them both. I can see that.” The warmth in her voice feels genuine. Almost. “We’ll be in touch about the holiday arrangements. Take care, Jessica.”
She hangs up.
I stand there holding my phone like an idiot.
Has Livia finally accepted me? Not quite.
Still, she was being... honest. Worried about her son-in-law. Concerned about her granddaughter.
And she’d just handed me a small tidbit of information I needed.
Marco is stuck. Literally frozen in front of a ceramic bowl while his daughter needs him and his in-laws can’t reach him and I’m sleeping in the same house wondering if I even have the right to intervene.
I probably don’t.
But I’m going to anyway.
I find Jag in the hallway. “Hey. Quick question. Where’s Isotta’s ceramic mixing bowl?”
He gives me a look. The kind that says he knows exactly where this is going and wishes he didn’t. “Kitchen. Top shelf.”
I go to the kitchen and look. Yep, there it is.
I grab a step stool. Reach up. Snatch the bowl.
It’s beautiful. Hand-thrown pottery with a soft cream glaze. I can picture Isotta using it. Can see her hands covered in flour. Can imagine her laugh when Marco probably made some terrible joke about proper flour to water ratios.
This bowl needs to go.
I wrap it carefully in dish towels. Place it in a box. Add a label in neat handwriting: “Isotta - Kitchen.”
I carry the box upstairs. Knock on Marco’s door.
Silence.
“Marco. I need to talk to you about something.”
More silence.
“Your in-laws called. They want Ben for the holidays. And...” I take a deep breath. “I packed away Isotta’s mixing bowl. Not to erase her. Just to make... space.”
“Where is it?” his voice comes from the other side. His voice is rough. Unused. It sounds... irritated.
Well, at least I’ve got some sort of emotion out of him. Other than the usual resignation.
“I have it right here,” I answer. “I—”
“Give it to me,” he orders.
The door opens a crack. Just like last time. His right hand appears.
I give him the box.
“Fine, we’ll store her bowl,” he says. “But the lemon tree on the roof stays. The hard hat by the back door stays. The photos in Ben’s room stay. Non-negotiable.”
“Marco—”
The door closes.
Great talk.
Really productive.
I head back downstairs and find Ben where I left her. Still organizing stickers. Still not okay.
None of us are okay.
I’m making lunch when my phone buzzes again. Amara this time.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Jess,” she says. “Quick heads up. That mommy blogger? Marlowe Pennington? She’s been posting about you again. Posted a photo of Marco’s townhouse. Asked her followers to ‘send prayers to the family’ but in a way that’s really just broadcasting the address. Basically doxxed you guys.”
My stomach drops. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Thought you should know.”
I hang up. Text Filepe immediately. He’s already on it. Already knows. Already has a plan.
Of course he does. He works for a billionaire hermit.
Two hours later I’m helping Ben with basic reading comprehension when Jag appears.
“Marlowe Pennington is outside,” he says quietly. “At the curb.”
You have got to be kidding me.
I glance at Ben. She’s absorbed in her book. Doesn’t notice.
“Give me two minutes,” I tell Jag.
I head to the front door. Take a breath. Remember every single piece of advice Sabrina ever gave me about handling press.
Marlowe is there with her phone mounted on a hand-held gimbal. She’s recording.
“Jessica!” Her voice is cloying. “Just wanted to check in. See how Marco and sweet Benedetta are doing after the terrible accident.”
“No comment,” I say.
Her smile doesn’t falter. “A lot of my followers are wondering about your relationship with Marco. Nanny by day, something else by night?”
My face burns. “No comment.”
“Is it true you were with him when it happened? That you put yourself between the bear and his daughter? That’s so brave.”
Frames from the attack flash into my mind.
Along with the guilt.
I was too slow with the bear spray...
“You need to leave,” I say. Not a request.
Filepe appears beside me. Silent. Solid.
Marlowe’s eyes light up. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening a journalist?”
“You’re on private property,” Filepe says calmly. “You have five seconds.”
She doesn’t move. Just keeps recording.
Jag appears on my other side. The three of us standing there like the world’s most awkward security detail.
Marlowe finally lowers her phone. But her victorious smile remains.
“I’ll be posting this tonight,” she says. “My followers have a right to know what’s really going on.”
She leaves.
I stand there shaking.
Filepe’s hand touches my elbow. “You handled that well.”
Did I? Because I’m pretty sure I just gave her exactly what she wanted. The reaction. The confrontation. The clip.
Later, when Ben’s finally asleep and I’m sitting in my tiny room scrolling through Marlowe’s Instagram I find the post.
My phone lights up. A text from an unknown number.
Then another.
Then five more.
Marlowe’s followers. Finding me. Sending messages. Some supportive. Most not.
Gold digger.
Home wrecker.
Opportunist.
When your fifteen minutes of fame come back to haunt you except this time you’re not even trying to be famous and the algorithm still finds a way to destroy you.
Amara calls a few minutes later.
“I saw it,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to let Marco’s lawyers handle it?” Amara says. “They can bury her.”
I think about that. About what it would look like. Billionaire restaurateur destroys struggling mommy blogger. The optics alone would be terrible.
And more than that? Still I see my old self in Marlowe.
“No,” I tell Amara. “Let her have her time. Just like I had mine.”
“At least let his team issue a take-down request,” Amara presses.
“I’m sure they’ve already sent one,” I reply. “The video will be down, soon.”
I hang up. Sit there in the dark.
My phone keeps buzzing with random messages.
I’m about to stop reading them when I spot a text from Marco: Say the word, and she’s done.
So that’s what it takes for Marco to finally contact me.
A mini-crisis situation.
Good to know he’s still in there, somewhere.
I consider letting him destroy her. And if I’m being brutally honest, I kind of want to destroy her.
But instead I type back: Let her do her thing.
He texts back: Fine. But if she ever posts footage of Ben, she’s done.
Fair.
More obscene texts come in from random numbers. Through it all, I keep refreshing the app until finally I get the 404 error.
The post has been removed.
Relieved, I turn off my phone. Lie down. Stare at the ceiling.
What am I going to do about Marco?