Chapter 4
Four
JADE
I wake up to the smell of cinnamon and something buttery drifting through the house. For a second, I forget where I am. Then the sound of waves crashing reminds me.
Chatham.
The Cape.
Irene’s perfect cottage that looks like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest.
I get dressed slowly in my new clothes—black sweater, black leggings, the jacket hanging nearby like armor waiting for the right moment. I’m not ready to put it on yet. Not this early.
When I go downstairs, Irene is sautéing something in a skillet and Aunt Susan is standing beside her, chopping apples and talking too fast. They look… happy. Comfortable.
Home.
I hesitate in the doorway before stepping in.
Susan looks up first. “Morning, honey.” Her eyes flicker over me—my short hair, my fresh brows, the way the new clothes fit—and she smiles like something inside her eases. “Sleep okay?”
“As well as I could,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Are we going home today?”
Susan laughs softly. “I like that you call my father’s old sea shanty ‘home.’”
I shrug, leaning against the counter. “It is home now. I love it there. Even with everything going on… it’s better than Ohio ever was.”
Her face softens. “I’m glad you think so.”
Irene plates something that looks like French toast but fancier. “Breakfast first. Life decisions after.”
Susan wipes her hands on a towel. “Before you eat, I should tell you… your mom called.”
My breath catches.
“Oh.”
“I know you wanted to leave your phone behind,” she says gently, “but I brought it. And your school bag. Laptops. Everything.”
I sit down slowly. “Does she know… about everything?”
“She knows enough,” Susan says. “And before you panic—today is a teacher workday. You don’t have class. You’re off the hook. Actually”—she nods, decisive—“you’re off the hook for the whole week. Then it’s Thanksgiving break. You’ll do your midterms online afterward.”
A small wave of relief washes through me.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “Really.”
She sits across from me. “We’ll make it a good holiday, Jade. I promise.”
I poke at the French toast. “I’d like that.”
Susan hesitates. “Do you… want to go home for Thanksgiving?”
I look up at her.
“Aunt Susan,” I say quietly, “I just told you. Here is home.”
Her lips tremble into a smile. “Okay.”
Irene snorts. “Her place is too tiny to host everyone anyway, Susan. You know that.”
“Oh, stop,” Susan mutters.
“Seriously,” Irene says. “If Jade’s family wants to come here, they can. I don’t bite.”
My stomach tightens. “We couldn’t impose—”
“Nonsense,” Irene cuts in. “It’s time your mother and Susan patched things up. Stupid falling-out they had. Over absolutely nothing.”
Susan exhales slowly. “It’s true. We had a heart-to-heart last night after you went to bed.”
My fork pauses midair. “You did?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “You should call them, invite them up for Thanksgiving. While they can still get tickets.”
I laugh under my breath.
“They’re not flying,” I say. “They’ll drive. They can’t afford flights.”
A shadow passes over Susan’s face. Not pity—just understanding.
“Well,” she says, pouring me more orange juice, “then they should start driving early. Because I want you to have a holiday that feels like a fresh start.”
I stare at my plate.
The idea of my mom here—of all of us in this gorgeous cottage for Thanksgiving—hits something raw inside me.
Soft.
Vulnerable.
Terrifying.
But maybe… maybe good.
I take a bite of toast. Sweet. Warm. Comforting in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll call them.”
And for the first time since homecoming—
It doesn’t feel like I’m drowning.
It feels like maybe, just maybe, I’m swimming back toward something.
After breakfast, I go back upstairs to the guest room. The faint morning sun spills across the white comforter, warming the space just enough to keep me from shivering.
Mason had popped in earlier after his jog, cheeks pink from the cold, hair wet with sweat. He handed me the Wi-Fi password written on a sticky note and grinned.
“Keep those cinnamon buns away from me,” he’d said, flexing just a little. “I worked hard for this body.”
Irene threw a dish towel at him. Susan snorted. I giggled before I could stop myself.
It felt… normal.
Like something from another girl’s life.
Now it’s just me.
I open my school bag.
My laptop.
My notebooks.
My phone.
I stare at it for a long time before picking it up.
It feels heavier than it should. Like holding it might break me all over again.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally power it on.
It vibrates nonstop—buzz, buzz, buzz—like an angry hive coming back to life.
Texts from Shani.
Texts from unknown numbers.
Texts from Coach Roman.
Emails from teachers.
A handful of “Are you okay?” messages from people who never cared before.
And Leo.
So many from Leo.
My throat tightens.
I start pacing the room, hugging my arms around myself. I’m not ready. Fuck, I’m not ready—but I can’t avoid this forever.
It’s only been a few days, but everything feels like a lifetime ago.
The screen flashes: Voicemail box full.
Of course it is.
I sink onto the bed, pull my knees up, and press play.
The first one is Leo.
“Gitanilla… I love you.”
My whole body goes cold.
Tears gather instantly, spilling down my cheeks before I can blink them away. My hand shakes so hard I almost drop the phone.
I hit “save.”
I don’t even know why.
The next few messages come in rapid-fire—apologies, confusion, desperation, fragments of his voice cutting in and out like he can’t breathe, like he’s running while leaving them.
I delete those.
But the last voicemail…
My breath stutters.
“Jade… baby, I miss you. I miss us. I’m losing my mind. Please. Just tell me where you are. I’m going to find you.”
I shut my eyes so tightly it hurts.
Because I don’t know how to feel.
The man I thought I loved—
the one who held me, kissed me, whispered promises into my neck—
that man would have protected me.
He would have fought for me.
He wouldn’t have dumped me in the first place.
Right?
I grip the sheets until my knuckles go white.
Was any of it real?
Were the nights on the cliffs real?
The way he looked at me like I hung the moon?
The way his hands trembled when he touched my face?
Or was I just… rebellion?
A phase?
A trophy he didn’t get to pick out but enjoyed until it got complicated?
My chest hurts.
Like something sharp is scraping the inside of my ribs.
I stand.
Start pacing again.
My thoughts spiral, messy and loud.
“I can’t go back to him,” I whisper. “I can’t let him do this twice. I can’t. I can’t.”
My voice shakes.
“But… he sounded…”
I rub my eyes hard.
I’m so confused I don’t know which direction is up.
I don’t know if I’m angry or grieving or just stupidly hopeful in spite of everything that happened.
I don’t know who I am without him.
And I don’t want that to be true.
“I just… I can’t get hurt again,” I say to myself. “The only way to stop the hurt is to never go near him again. Right?”
The silence in the room doesn’t answer.
It just waits.
Like it knows a storm is still coming.
I shouldn’t do it.
Every part of me knows I shouldn’t do it.
But I’m pacing the room, heart pounding, hands shaking, brain spinning, and temptation wins. I grab my phone off the bed.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself.
I open socials anyway.
And it hits like a punch straight to the ribs.
My name.
My tag.
My humiliation—still trending.
Still circulating.
Then the photos.
Leo.
At a party last night.
Cigar in one hand.
Whiskey in the other.
Girls draped across his lap.
One with her lips on his neck.
Another hanging off his shoulder like she owns him.
The room tilts.
My stomach flips like I might throw up.
He was leaving me voicemails that he loves me—while that was happening?
Rage detonates inside me.
Hot. Violent. Blinding.
“How dare he,” I choke out. “How dare he—”
Images keep sliding across the screen.
More girls.
More hands.
More smug smiles.
My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles burn.
“He calls me Gitania,” I spit through tears, “and then goes to a party with girls all over him? Freaking player. Liar.”
Before I can stop myself, I hurl the phone at the wall.
It hits with a crack that echoes off the pretty coastal wallpaper.
I sink onto the bed, shaking, swearing, crying—everything all at once, too much, too fast.
The door bursts open.
Susan.
Irene right behind her.
Both freeze at the sight of me, wild hair, puffy eyes, broken phone on the floor.
“Oh no,” Susan whispers. “Honey—”
“It’s all right,” Irene says, calm and steady as stone. “Let it out, Jade. Let it out.”
“It’s not all right!” I scream. “He’s leaving me all these voicemails saying he loves me, asking where I am, begging for another chance—and then he was at a party last night with girls all over him!”
I throw my hands up, furious tears streaming.
“He had a GIRL on his LAP—on his NECK—while telling me he MISSES ME!”
Susan rolls her eyes so hard it almost makes me laugh-slash-sob.
“Now you know why I’m fifty-three and still single,” she mutters. “I told you what that fisherman did. Boys never change. Men don’t change.”
Irene groans and throws her hands up. “And here I was, trying to convince you to download Tinder last night, Susan. Clearly terrible timing.”
Susan snorts. “Clearly.”
Irene turns to me, softer now. “Listen, Jade. He’s young. He’s confused. I don’t know him, but you do. Maybe just… step back. Focus on school. Sports. Your life. You’re halfway through senior year. You have decades to date. Not everything needs to be decided at seventeen.”
I wipe my face with the heel of my palm. “I don’t know what to do. I have all this anger—”
“That’s normal,” Susan says. “But you need tools to handle it. I’m finding you a therapist. Today. I’m calling in a minute.”
I swallow hard. “What do I do right now? Today? I need something. I want to break something.”
Irene looks around, spots a lamp, lifts it, thinks better of it, puts it down.