Chapter 2
Two
JADE
The cottage is even more ridiculous up close.
Three stories of weathered shingles and crisp white trim, the kind of house you’d expect to see on a magazine cover with captions like “Coastal Restoration Dream” or “Inside the Perfect New England Retreat.” Tall windows. A wraparound porch. Wind chimes that tinkle every time the ocean breathes.
Aunt Susan kills the engine and stretches her arms like she’s home.
“This is Irene’s place,” she says. “My best friend. The one I’m always on the phone with…”
My eyebrows lift.
“Irene lives here?”
“She owns a high-end spa in town. Her second husband works from home on his law cases—Boston firm, all remote now.”
I swallow.
“Oh.”
Susan smiles gently. “You’ll like them. And they’ll love you.”
I don’t believe her, but I follow her up the porch anyway.
Before she even knocks, the front door opens.
A woman in her fifties stands there in a flowing cream sweater and jeans that probably cost more than my entire closet.
Her hair is silver-blonde, braided loosely over one shoulder.
She has the kind of face that’s both soft and intimidating—someone who has seen a lot, lived a lot, and taken exactly zero bullshit along the way.
“I thought I heard the car,” she says warmly. “Get in here, you two.”
A cozy fireplace crackles inside the living room, filling the space with light. A wall of windows overlooks the cliffs and the restless ocean beyond.
Before I can take it in, someone new walks into the room.
Tall.
Dark curly hair.
Blue eyes.
College sweatshirt.
Broad shoulders.
A smirk that says he knows exactly what he looks like.
He takes one look at me and whistles low.
“Ma,” he says, “you did not tell me we were having a smoking hot guest for dinner.”
My entire face floods with heat.
“I—what—no—”
My voice cracks like he just physically snapped it in half.
He circles around me once, playful but not unkind, then points at my hair.
“Did you do that, Ma? That cut? Damn, girl. You look like a mad Slovakian model with those cheekbones.”
I nearly choke on air.
“I’m not— I mean— I’m hardly a model,” I stammer, staring at my boots, patting the edges of my hair because it suddenly feels too short, too exposed, too everything.
“Jade, honey, no,” Irene says, stepping forward and cupping my shoulders with both hands. “You do not owe anyone an apology for looking gorgeous. That haircut is fierce.”
She glances at Aunt Susan.
“Susan, did you do that?”
Susan smirks. “You’re not the only one who’s good with a pair of scissors.”
Irene laughs—big and bright and genuine.
Her son snorts.
Susan blushes like she’s sixteen again.
“I’m Mason,” he says, offering a hand. “Please ignore everything I just said unless you enjoyed it.”
“I… um… hi,” I manage.
Great. Brilliant. Stunning display of social skill.
“Come in,” Irene says, ushering me fully inside. “You’re family, sweetheart. Sit. The fire’s going. I’ll get some water or tea.”
I step farther into the living room.
It’s beautiful.
Warm wood floors, deep navy rugs, cream couches with throw blankets, shelves of books and seashells and framed art.
The kind of space that makes you exhale without meaning to.
But the part that gets me is the view.
The entire back wall is glass.
Ocean.
Sky.
Endless gray-blue stretching out forever.
Mason catches me staring and grins, leaning against the doorway like he’s posing for a catalog.
“Chatham hits different, doesn’t it?”
I blush again, which is infuriating, because I did not travel across state lines to turn tomato-red over some college boy with nice hair.
But still…
Maybe I don’t look so terrible after all.
I hug my arms around myself, still unsteady, still shaky, still patting at my new haircut like I’m checking to make sure it’s really there.
Irene squeezes my shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” she says. “You’re safe here. Truly.”
By the time we finish bringing in our bags, the sun is already dipping low, throwing pale orange light across the water. The whole house fills with that soft, golden glow that makes everything look warmer than it feels.
Irene claps her hands together.
“So,” she says. “Dinner plans. We can stay in and cook something simple… or we can venture out before the dark catches us.”
The idea of sitting alone in a strange house with my thoughts makes my stomach twist.
“I think… town,” I say quietly. “It looks nice.”
Irene smiles like she expected that. “Town it is.”
Within minutes, we’re all piling into their massive SUV.
The engine hums.
We pull out onto Main Street.
And for a moment, I forget how broken I feel.
Chatham is beautiful.
Holiday lights are already strung across the shops, glowing warm even though Thanksgiving is still days away. Garlands hang from lampposts. Tiny trees in window displays sparkle with white bulbs. The streets look like they’ve been dusted with magic instead of frost.
Trinket shops.
Art galleries.
Bookstores with handwritten chalkboard signs.
Cafés with fogged windows and warm yellow lighting.
A music shop with old guitars hanging in the window.
People wander the sidewalks in scarves and wool coats, hands wrapped around paper coffee cups. Everything feels soft, cozy, alive.
I stare out the window like a tourist.
“It’s different, right?” Mason murmurs beside me. “Chatham at night feels like a snow globe someone forgot to shake.”
I smile faintly. “It’s… pretty.”
“Pretty is an understatement,” he says. “This place is obnoxiously gorgeous.”
We drive past a long line of small inns and boutiques before coming up on something massive—the Chatham Bars Inn. Lights wrap the entire property. It looks like a Christmas card brought to life, glowing against the darkening sky.
I must be staring, because Irene glances back.
“Dinner there tomorrow,” she says. “Once the weekenders leave.”
My head jerks. “What? No. I don’t have anything for a dress code. I brought like… three sweatshirts.”
“Don’t worry,” Irene says, waving her hand. “I own a boutique in town. My treat.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Honey,” she cuts in, “your Aunt Susan is the sister I never had. If she brought you here, that means I love you already. Let me spoil you a little.”
My face heats.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Of course.”
Mason leans forward, elbow on his knee.
“So what’s up with you, Jade? You in high school?”
I nod. “Royal Oaks Prep.”
His eyebrows climb.
“Wow. And I thought we had money.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I’m just the scholarship reject girl. Hence the haircut.”
He studies me for a beat—not judging, not pitying. Just curious.
“That sounds like a story,” he says.
I shrug. “Not one you probably want to hear.”
“Try me,” he says with a half-grin. “I just rushed a frat. You don’t even want to know what they did to me.”
I snort.
A real laugh threatens, small and weak, but there.
He nudges my shoulder lightly.
“See? We all go through hell. Some hells just have better haircuts.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension in my chest loosens a fraction.
His flirty energy isn’t heavy or pushy.
It’s just enough to distract me.
To keep me from drowning in my own thoughts.
And right now, distraction might be the only thing keeping me upright.
The SUV turns a corner toward a row of pubs lit with fairy lights.
My reflection in the window blurs with the glow of the street.
Short hair.
Red eyes.
Shaky smile.
Dinner is loud in the way families can be loud without trying.
We end up at a pub tucked between a bookstore and a pottery shop, all dark wood and old brass lamps and windows fogged from heat. Irene orders clam chowder for everyone before I even open the menu. It arrives steaming, salty, creamy. I stir mine more than I eat it.
Thom tells a story about a case he’s reviewing. Irene interrupts with corrections. Aunt Susan rolls her eyes in a way that means she’s heard this one before.
It’s normal.
Too normal.
I feel like I’m watching it through a layer of glass.
Mason sits beside me, drumming his fingers on the table, cracking jokes, trying to get me to smile. Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes he doesn’t.
When the plates are cleared, Irene bundles up, pats her husband’s arm, and says, “We’re walking the long way back. Town looks too pretty to waste it. You take the car home.”
Outside, holiday lights glow against the dusk like tiny constellations strung between the rooftops.
Most of the shops have closed early—Sunday hours—but the windows still show their treasures.
A jewelry shop filled with pearls.
A bookstore displaying holiday bestsellers.
An art gallery with watercolor seascapes.
A trinket shop full of glass ornaments that sparkle like little planets.
I catch myself slowing down at each one, marking them in my mind like I might need them later.
Tomorrow.
If I can handle tomorrow.
Irene and Susan walk ahead, deep in conversation, silhouetted by the glow of storefronts. Their voices drift behind them—warm, steady, familiar.
Mason hangs back with me.
“So,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. “Seriously. What’s your story?”
I stiffen.
There it is.
The question I can’t escape.
“I don’t have one,” I say quickly.
He raises a brow. “Everyone has one.”
“Well,” I snap, “what’s yours?”
He stops walking.
Looks me dead in the eyes.
A beat passes.
Then he lifts both hands in surrender.
“All right, all right, all right,” he says. “Message received.”
We fall into step again.
He kicks a pebble into the street before he starts talking.
“I was overweight as a kid,” he says. “Like… really overweight. Full glasses, J. Crew catalogs worth of outfits—designer threads over my marsh-mellow body, bowl cut, the whole tragic package.”
I blink. “You?”
He laughs. “Yeah. Shocking, right? Irene and Thom had me late. I was the miracle baby. The miracle baby who appeared right after Mom’s beloved dog died.”
I snort. “What does that have to do with anything?”