Chapter 4 #2
“You know what?” she says. “Go for a run.”
I blink. “A run?”
“Yes,” she says, firm. “Down on the beach. You need to get out of your head. Move your body. Screaming into the ocean is free therapy.”
“It’s been a while since soccer,” I admit quietly.
“Then it’s overdue.”
I inhale.
Slow.
Uneven.
But solid enough to stand on.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” Irene says, kissing my forehead.
Susan squeezes my shoulder.
I’m still vibrating with anger when Mason appears in the doorway, cheeks red from the cold, hair tousled, eyes wide like he just walked into a war zone.
“Whoa—uh—what’s all the yelling?” he asks.
I point at him. “You’ve been nice to me, Mason, so don’t take this personally, but you’re a guy. You wouldn’t understand.”
He throws his hands up instantly. “Hey—HEY—what did I do?”
“My ex,” I snap, grabbing my shattered phone off the floor. “He lit up my voicemail telling me he loves me, and then last night he was at a party with girls all over him. Some girl’s mouth was on his neck. I HATE boys.”
Irene cackles.
Susan mutters “preach.”
Mason just grins like he’s watching a live sitcom.
“That’s dramatic,” he says, “but honestly? Fair.”
I stalk past him, and he follows me down the hall.
“You know what you need?” he says. “The ice.”
I stop. “The what?”
“ICE,” he repeats. “Hockey. I bet you’d be sick on the rink.”
I snort. “I’m from Ohio. I know how to skate.”
Irene claps her hands. “Perfect! Give her a stick and a puck. Let her whack something. Take her to the hockey lair with the boys.”
I freeze. “I JUST said no boys!”
“Fine, fine,” Irene laughs. “Ice later. Rage now.”
I slam my bedroom door shut—not at them, just at everything—and peel off my clothes. Throw on leggings, thermal gear, hoodie, sneakers.
Then I stomp downstairs without another word.
The second I hit the beach, the wind slaps me across the face.
It’s freezing.
Sharp.
New England cold is a different species of weather.
But it cuts through the molten storm in my chest.
I start jogging.
At first it’s slow, mechanical, stiff.
Then my feet hit wet sand—thud, thud, thud—and something loosens.
The wind tears at my hair.
The cold burns my lungs.
My heart pounds like I’m trying to outrun every memory of the past forty-eight hours.
And then I start cursing.
Out loud.
“FUCK—”
Step.
“EVERYONE—”
Step.
“AT—”
Step.
“ROYAL—”
Step.
“OAKS!”
A gull screams back at me like it agrees.
Hot anger mixes with cold air until my blood feels electrified.
“I’m going back,” I say between breaths.
A promise.
A vow.
“I’m not running anymore.”
My pace picks up.
Sand sprays behind me.
A sharp ache burns up my legs but I don’t stop.
“I’m DONE being the victim.”
I think about the slime dripping down my hair.
The laughter.
The humiliation.
The looks.
The betrayal.
My lungs burn hotter.
“I’m DONE being the nice girl who plays it straight.”
Another wave crashes loud beside me, spraying cold seawater across my shoes.
“THEY WANT A BITCH?” I shout into the wind. “I’LL BE THE BIGGEST ONE THEY EVER MET!”
Because something deep inside me shifts.
Like a tectonic plate turning.
Like a door unlocking.
Like a switch flipping in the center of my chest.
All the fear.
All the shame.
All the soft edges everyone counted on—
they melt.
What’s left is sharper.
Stronger.
Dangerous.
A phoenix rising from ashes that aren’t even cold yet.
I slow to a stop, chest heaving, hands on my knees.
The ocean roars beside me, wild and unforgiving.
I lift my head.
“I’m coming back to Royal Oaks,” I whisper.
“My way.”
The wind steals the words—
but the ocean gives them back.
By the time I get back to the cottage, my legs feel like rubber and my lungs feel like fire. The cold wind stung my face so hard it practically froze me from the outside in, but inside…
inside something finally stopped spinning.
I kick off my shoes by the mudroom door and head upstairs to shower. Just as I grab a towel, my phone buzzes with a familiar name.
Mom.
Of all times.
I swallow hard and answer. “Hey.”
“Jade!” Her voice is warm and worried in that way only moms can pull off. “Honey, are you okay? Susan told me everything.”
I sit on the bed, still wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto my shoulders.
“I’m… trying to be,” I say honestly. “Did she really tell you everything?”
“Well… not details,” Mom says. “But enough. Enough for me to know my daughter needs her family.”
I blink. “Wait.
Mom, are you… coming here?”
There’s a little pause.
A smile I can hear through the phone.
“Yes. For Thanksgiving.”
My brain stutters. “You’re—what? How?”
“We bought plane tickets months ago,” she says. “Your dad wanted to surprise you since you were going to be so close this year. We planned to spend Thanksgiving on the Cape.”
My heart thumps once, startled.
Tourists.
Beach cottages.
Thanksgiving lights.
Family.
It never occurred to me they would come all this way.
“We already rented a little cottage nearby,” Mom continues. “Nothing fancy. But it’ll take the pressure off staying at Irene’s. She’s lovely, by the way. I spoke to her yesterday. I didn’t want her feeling like she had to host all of us.”
I blink at the wall.
“Wait. You talked to Irene?”
“Yes.” Mom hesitates. “I know you. You wouldn’t take money from us, and I respect that. But… honey… we’re using some of the settlement money to make the trip work. We want to see you.”
My throat goes tight.
The old resentment between Mom and Susan.
The tight budget.
The thousand reasons why Ohio always felt too far from everything.
And they still planned this.
For me.
The towel suddenly feels too warm.
“You’re sure you can afford it?” I whisper.
“We already paid for it,” Mom says gently. “Flight, rental car, cottage. Done. And before you say anything—this isn’t charity. This is your family showing up.”
A tear slips out before I can stop it.
I wipe it quickly, shaking my head.
“I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll let us hug you,” Mom says. “Say you’ll let us be there.”
My voice cracks. “Yeah. I want that.”
A little exhale on the other end, like she’s been holding her breath for days.
“Good. We’ll be there in three days.”
Three days.
Three days until I have my parents near me again.
Three days until I’m not handling this alone.
I nod even though she can’t see it.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll see you then.”
“Love you, Jade.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, stare at my reflection in the darkened phone screen.
My hair still wet.
My face flushed from crying.
Salt on my lips from sweat and tears and ocean air.
Fuck it. I survived them.
The shower is hot enough to sting, which is exactly what I need.
To scrub off the crying.
The anger.
The part of me that still aches when I hear his voice in my head.
By the time I towel off and throw on fresh clothes, my pulse feels steadier.
I head downstairs.
Susan looks up from her coffee. “Feeling better, honey?”
“I’m going into town,” I say. “Clear my head.”
Before she can answer, Mason appears from the kitchen, chewing on a protein bar like it’s breakfast. “I’ll walk with you.”
I blink. “Shouldn’t you be back at Northeastern? Don’t you have classes or something?”
He laughs, tossing the wrapper into the trash. “Not until Wednesday, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe,” I mutter, snorting anyway.
He grins like he knew he’d win that one.
I go back upstairs for the final touch.
The leather jacket.
Black, cropped just right, with fringe down the sleeves like something an 80s rock dess would wear. I slip into it. The weight. The smell. The cool leather hugging my shoulders.
It feels like a shield.
My hair is still damp but styled enough to look intentional.
Sharp cheekbones.
Soft but deadly makeup.
Smudged liner.
Matte lips.
A version of me that’s not pretending to be okay, but refusing to be weak.
Jeggings.
Black suede boots with a heel.
Shoulders back.
Jaw set.
When I pull open the front door, the wind hits me—but this time I don’t flinch.
Mason whistles low. “Damn. You look… different.”
“Good-different or bad-different?” I ask, pulling on my gloves.
“Terrifying,” he says with a grin. “But, like, in the hot way.”
I roll my eyes, but it warms something in my chest I won’t admit out loud.
We start walking down the road toward town. The cottages are trimmed in early holiday lights, the sky bright but winter-cold, the air smelling like salt and pine.
“So,” Mason says casually, hands shoved in his pockets, “are we shopping or are you trying to scare the locals?”
“Both,” I say.
He laughs.
We step off the road and onto the first cobblestone stretch leading toward Main Street. People glance at us—at me—long enough to make it obvious.
And for once?
I don’t shrink.
I don’t look away.
I don’t apologize for existing.
I lift my chin and walk like I own the place.
Like I’m someone who survived something ugly and came out sharper.
The fringe on my jacket sways with every step.
My boots click with purpose.
Mason walks beside me, quiet for once.
“You know,” he finally says, “you look like someone who’s about to change her whole life.”
“I am,” I answer.
Chatham’s Main Street looks like a postcard.
Holiday lights already strung up.
Window displays full of seashell ornaments and overpriced scarves.
Tourists wandering with paper cups of cider.
I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Just… something that feels like mine.
Mason walks beside me without talking, which I appreciate. For a guy who clearly likes attention, he’s surprisingly good at shutting up when it matters.
A tiny trinket shop catches my eye—painted a dusty blue with little brass bells on the door. The window is cluttered with crystals, handmade soaps, locally printed tote bags, and shiny notebooks.
I push the door open. The bells jingle overhead.
It smells like sandalwood and warm vanilla.
I wander toward the back, past shelves of sea-glass earrings and candle jars shaped like lighthouses.
Then I see it.