Chapter 4 #3
A leather-bound journal—deep brown, almost black—stitched by hand, the cover embossed with a delicate vine design. Thick pages. The kind of journal someone writes an entire new life into.
Next to it, a gold pen with a tiny crown on top.
My lips twitch.
A crown.
Of course.
Mason steps beside me, eyebrow raised. “You journaling now?”
I pick up the journal, running my thumb along the spine.
“Self-therapy,” I say, shrugging. “Susan thinks I need a therapist, but this is cheaper.”
He snorts. “True.”
I grab the crown pen too and hand them to the cashier.
“Either that,” I add casually, “or a lighter and some gas so I can burn Royal Oaks down.”
The cashier freezes.
Mason chokes. “Jade—”
“I’m kidding,” I say with a bright smile.
…mostly.
The cashier slowly relaxes. Mason mutters, “I’m… like… eighty percent sure you were not kidding.”
“I was ninety percent kidding,” I say.
He gives me a look. “That does not make me feel better.”
I tuck the bag under my arm, the journal pressing warm and solid against my ribs.
A promise to myself.
A weapon, but a quiet one.
When we step back onto the chilly sidewalk, the wind grabs the fringe on my jacket and whips it out behind me like wings.
For the first time in days, I feel… not good, but grounded.
Ready.
Royal Oaks doesn’t know it yet.
But I’m coming back.
And I’m not coming back small.
We keep walking until the cold pushes us toward the glow of a tiny coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a boutique. The windows are fogged, the inside buzzing with chatter and the hiss of steaming milk.
“Coffee?” Mason asks.
“Always,” I say.
We step inside, and for the first time all day, I feel almost normal. Warm lights. Indie music. People reading. A couple of artists sketching in the corner. It’s cozy.
But Mason freezes.
Like full-body lock.
His jaw tightens, just slightly, and he mutters something under his breath in a tone I haven’t heard from him yet.
Uh-oh.
“What?” I whisper.
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes flick toward a table near the front window.
“That’s my ex,” he says softly. “My first real girlfriend.”
I follow his gaze.
A girl with perfectly curled hair, bright lip gloss, and an outfit that screams I peaked in high school but refuse to acknowledge it. She’s laughing with two friends, leaning back like she owns the place.
Not Royal Oaks, but definitely the same species.
Mason exhales. “She cheated on me last year. Some guy she met at a summer job. But before that? She… always kind of talked down to me. You know. Because I was the ‘fat kid’ back then.”
Something tightens in my chest.
He gives his head a little shake and whispers, “Do me a favor? Just roll with it. Please.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, he steps closer, puts his cup half in front of my face, leans down, and whispers—
“Pretend to be my girl. Just for a minute. I know you get what this feels like.”
I blink.
Then the ex spots him.
“Mason!” she singsongs, standing up with the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Oh my gosh! Hiiii!”
He tenses. “Kristen.”
She looks at me immediately.
Sizing me up.
Head to toe.
Twice.
Fake smile tightening at the edges.
I feel Mason shrink a little next to me. The easygoing guy I met yesterday suddenly looks like a kid bracing for a punch.
And something in me refuses to let that stand.
If I’m going to rebuild myself, maybe I start with acting.
So I slide my arm through his and curl into his side like I was born confident.
“Mason, babe,” I purr, batting my lashes. “Who’s this?”
The ex’s mouth drops just a bit.
Mason recovers fast, looping an arm around my waist. “Uh—my ex,” he says, nodding at her. “And you… you’re the upgrade, babe.”
Then—
before I can prepare—
he kisses me.
On the lips.
Not long.
Not deep.
Just enough for a message.
And Kristen’s face goes blank.
Completely blank.
“Wow,” she finally says. “Well. You look… different.”
Mason gives her a polite, icy smile I didn’t know he was capable of. “Yeah. Turns out I grew up.”
She swallows, trying to regain her footing. “Well… I mean… you’re over me, right? You seem over me.”
“Oh, he’s very over you,” I say, sweet as poison.
Kristen blinks.
Her friends stare.
The moment drags deliciously.
“Okay,” Mason says brightly. “Good running into you! See ya.”
He takes my hand and sweeps me toward a corner booth like we’re escaping paparazzi.
The second we sit, he blows out a massive breath.
“Holy shit,” he mutters. “Thank you.”
I shrug, tugging my jacket straight. “Hey. I know what revenge acting feels like.”
He grins. “You’re scary good at it.”
“Yeah,” I say, sippingMason and I sit in the corner booth, our coffees steaming between us. For a while neither of us speaks. The adrenaline from Kristengate is still buzzing under my skin.
He finally breaks the silence.
“Thanks again,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did not expect to see her here.”
I stir my latte, watching the foam swirl. “Did you guys date long?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Long enough that I thought it meant something.”
He gives a humorless laugh.
“She dumped me a month into my freshman year. Met some guy at Northeastern’s welcome week. Tall, shredded, lacrosse jawline, all that crap. Told me she needed someone who matched her ‘trajectory.’”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “And the cheating part hurt but… honestly? The way she talked to me for years? That messed me up more.”
I look up.
He’s staring out the window now, jaw working like he’s chewing on regrets.
“I worked my ass off in high school,” he says. “I lost weight. Got confident. Made a good group. But she still treated me like I was the fat kid from middle school. Like all this—” he gestures to himself “—was pretend.”
There’s something painfully familiar in that.
People thinking they know your worth before you get a chance to show it.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I say.
He smiles at that. A small, real one.
“What about you?” he asks softly. “You scared to go back?”
I let out a long, shaky breath.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m terrified.”
He nods like that was the answer he expected.
“I keep thinking… if I go back, I’ll break,” I say slowly. “But if I don’t go back, I’ll hate myself for running.”
“That sounds about right,” he murmurs.
“And I’m angry.” My voice cracks. “At Leo. At those girls. At myself.”
“You should be,” he says. “That doesn’t make you weak.”
I hug my arms around myself. The leather jacket creaks.
“I want to be strong when I walk through those doors again,” I whisper. “But I don’t know how to be that girl yet. I’m working on it, but… it’s messy.”
Mason nods thoughtfully.
“That’s how you know it’s real,” he says. “The messy stuff is the part that builds you.”
I swallow.
I’m not used to boys talking like this.
Not without an angle.
Not without wanting something from me.
He stands, stretching. “Want to head back? It’s freezing.”
We step outside. The wind hits instantly, whipping my jacket fringe into the air.
When we reach the split in the road—his turn toward Irene’s driveway, mine toward the beach—he pauses.
“You really should let me take you skating,” he says gently. “Not like a date or anything. Just… trust me. Hitting a puck as hard as you can? Cleans out your head.”
I smile despite myself.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s a no,” he teases.
“It’s a maybe,” I correct, lifting my chin.
He presses a hand to his heart like that’s the best news he’s gotten all day.
Then he jogs off, crunching down the gravel path.
I head back to the cottage alone, boots clicking, journal bag tapping my hip.
Inside, the house is warm and quiet. I climb to my room, close the door, and collapse onto the bed.
For a long second, I just breathe.
Then I reach into the shopping bag, pull out the leather journal, hold it against my chest.
Maybe it’s time to write.
Maybe it’s time to stop pretending I’m fine and finally put the truth somewhere it can’t drown me.
But not yet.
First, I stare at the cover, trace the embossed vines, and whisper—
“I’m going back. And I’m not the same girl anymore.”