Chapter 1 #2
My stomach drops.
My eyes burn.
“Aunt Susan—”
“Don’t worry,” she says, gripping the wheel with both hands. “He can’t tail me. I’ve lived in this town for half my life. I know every back alley they’ve paved and every one they forgot to.”
She takes a sudden right.
Then a sharp left.
Then another, fast enough I have to grab the handle above the window.
We shoot through a narrow street I’ve never noticed before, past two churches and a row of closed shops, weaving through Middletown like she’s been training for this moment.
“Hang on,” she says.
“What are you doing?”
“Losing him.”
And she does.
She doubles back through a side street by the marina, cuts across the old bridge, and merges onto the coastal highway heading toward the Cape.
The ocean stretches wide and cold beside us.
The sky is pale.
My heart is heavy.
I sink back into my seat and finally let a quiet sob slip out.
Aunt Susan keeps one hand on the wheel and reaches the other over, resting it gently on my knee.
“You’re safe,” she says.
“We’re getting out of here.”
I stare straight ahead.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I believe her.
The highway hums under the tires, steady and low, almost like a lullaby if my chest didn’t feel like it had been hollowed out.
Aunt Susan doesn’t push conversation. She keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes focused, shoulders tense enough to show she’s still half-expecting Leo to pop out from behind the next sign.
We drive in silence for twenty minutes before she signals left toward a Dunkin’ Donuts off the highway. It’s almost empty, just a bored teenager wiping counters and a guy in a fishing jacket waiting for a bagel.
Aunt Susan orders without asking me, which I appreciate. I can’t make choices right now. My brain feels like wet cement.
“One large toasted almond latte,” she says.
“For my niece. Lots of whipped cream. Go wild.”
The kid behind the counter quirks a smile.
“Rough morning?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she mutters.
She hands me the cup when we get back in the car.
It’s warm. Too warm.
I wrap both hands around it anyway.
I take a sip. Sweet. Hot. Comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
“Coffee is like alcohol to me,” she says as she buckles in. “One sip and I start oversharing.”
I huff a tiny laugh.
She turns on the radio to some oldies station that shouldn’t fit the mood but somehow does. Fleetwood Mac hums under her voice as she starts talking.
“Your mom and I… we had a falling out,” she says. “A long time ago. Before you were born.”
I blink.
I’ve never heard the full story.
Mom never talked about it.
“It was over something stupid,” she continues. “Like most family arguments. I was jealous. I thought your grandfather loved her more than me.”
My brow furrows. “Why would you think that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I was twenty. Dumb. Insecure. Angry at the world. Your mom… she was the golden child. Or at least I thought she was. Dad went to all her events, talked about her achievements. I felt like background noise.”
I sip my drink again. The warmth spreads through my chest, but it doesn’t fix the ache.
“I don’t think he favored either of us,” she says softly. “We were just two different kids. She was sunshine. I was… fog.”
I watch the guardrails blur past the window.
“When your grandfather died…” she pauses, breath tight. “I handled it badly. I lashed out at her. Said things I didn’t mean.”
My throat stings.
The way she said it—regret wrapped in years of silence.
“That’s why I stayed out here,” she says.
“I wanted distance in a familiar place. Your mom didn’t even ask me to buy out her half of the summer cottage we live in now.
It was our father’s happy place. And keeping it in the family meant something more than money.
So I took the fishing shack. Took a job at the clinic.
Tried to build something that was mine.”
She glances over at me.
“And your mom… she met your dad in college, got married, moved out to Ohio, and built her life there.”
Her fingers tap the steering wheel.
“We never fixed it. Not really. Sure I came to visit but we never spoke about the emotional baggage between us.”
I swallow hard.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“I know.” She sighs. “Your mom and I loved each other. We just weren’t very good at showing it. And then time passed. Years passed. And resentment turns into habit. Before you know it, you don’t remember how to talk.”
The wind rushes against my window.
She keeps going, words gentle, steady.
“But I never stopped loving her. And when everything happened to you in Ohio…” Her voice breaks for half a second. “I told your mother I’d take you. No hesitation.”
My chest tightens.
I stare down at the cardboard cup, blinking fast.
“She didn’t ask twice,” Aunt Susan says. “She trusted me with you. And I know I mess up sometimes, and I know I’m not perfect, but I’m trying, Jade. I’m really trying to be someone you can lean on.”
Something pricks behind my eyes.
“I know,” I say, barely audible. “I know you are.”
We fall quiet again.
The latte warms my hands.
We drive past dunes. Salt grass. The smell of cold ocean. The sky stretching gray and flat above us.
I lean my head against the window.
For the first time today, the numbness bleeds into something smaller.
Not pain.
Not comfort.
Just… something human.
And maybe that’s enough for now.