Chapter 15 #2
Leo didn’t wait for permission. His hand slid from my chin to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just hard enough to make my pulse spike. Then his mouth crashed into mine—hard, desperate, like he’d been starving for this for years.
I gasped against his lips, and he took the opening, tongue sweeping in, tasting me with a hunger that stole my breath.
Spice and heat and him. My hands fisted in his shirt, yanking him closer even as my mind screamed to stop.
His other hand roamed, calloused palm sliding under my jacket, over my ribs, thumb brushing the curve of my breast through my thin tank.
I arched into the touch, a traitor to my own warnings.
He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, and backed me harder against the wall.
Dust motes danced in the dim light as his hips pinned mine, the rigid length of him pressing against my thigh.
My fingers dug into his shoulders, then lower, clawing down his back, pulling him impossibly closer.
Tongues tangled, teeth nipped, breaths mingled in a messy, frantic rhythm that matched the thunder in my chest.
His hand slipped lower, gripping my hip, fingers splaying over the waistband of my jeans, teasing the skin just above. I moaned— I couldn’t help it—and he swallowed the sound, kissing me deeper, slower now, like he was savoring every second of my surrender.
But even as fire licked through my veins, the ache in my chest sharpened. This wasn’t healing. This was wreckage. Beautiful, brutal wreckage.
I broke the kiss first, turning my head, lungs burning. His forehead rested against mine, both of us panting, his hand still tangled in my hair, the other frozen on my hip like he couldn’t bear to let go.
“We can’t,” I whispered, voice raw. “This doesn’t fix anything.”
His grip tightened for a heartbeat, then loosened. He didn’t step back. Just closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
“I know,” he rasped. “But damn if I don’t still want to try.”
The space between us hummed with everything unsaid, hearts cracked wide open and bleeding. And still, neither of us moved.
My back hit the wooden wall. I could feel the hay scratching at my calves through my breeches, but the real ache was in my chest.
He looked at me like I still belonged to him.
Like none of it—the silence, the betrayal, the heartbreak—had ever happened.
“Why, Leo?” My voice was soft. Broken in the middle. “Why did you really end things? Don't give me some polished line. I need the truth.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just exhaled through his nose like dragging it out hurt more than he’d expected.
Then he said it.
“My mother.”
And that was it. The final arrow. Shot straight through my lungs.
I nodded, slow. Deflating like someone had cut the strings that kept me upright.
“Of course,” I said, swallowing hard. “They’ll never accept me.”
He reached for me again, but I stepped back.
His hands dropped.
“Kannon’s family will?” he asked, sharp like the accusation stung.
I shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It was armor. The only kind I had left.
“His dad’s regular. He works in trades.” My voice went quiet. Honest. “Kannon’s a scholarship kid too… just like me.”
Leo’s jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to punch something. Maybe himself.
“But no one bothered to look into it, did they?” I continued, meeting his eyes. “Because he’s a guy. A male athlete. He got a free pass. I got hell.”
I didn’t wait for his reply. I couldn’t.
I pushed past him, my boots crunching through old hay, the scent of leather and dust clinging to my skin like regret. He didn’t follow. Just stood there, one hand on the stall door, the other clenched at his side.
Let him stew in it.
Let him choke on the truth— we might still be all heat and fire but maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.
Cape Cod in November feels like the world holding its breath.
Cold shoreline. Empty streets. Holiday lights strung up on weathered shingle houses. The kind of quiet that gets under your skin and makes you feel things.
Pulling up to the rental cottage—really more like a storybook house with cedar shingles and a wide wraparound porch—I don’t know what to expect.
Then my mom bursts onto the porch, wrapped in two scarves and already crying.
I barely get out of the car before she’s hugging me so tight my ribs crack.
My dad’s next, smelling like peppermint gum and engine grease—some things never change—and he holds my face like he’s memorizing it.
Inside is warm and cozy, fire already going, my mom’s pies cooling on the windowsill like we’re in a Hallmark movie.
The Cape rental is nicer than anything we ever lived in back in Ohio. Multiple fireplaces. Cozy reading nooks. A sunroom with white wicker chairs. A giant kitchen that looks like it belongs in a cooking show.
My chest loosens more than I expect.
That night, Irene, Tom, and Mason come over—arms full of wine, pastries, and a giant board game box that looks suspiciously competitive.
The table becomes a disaster of snacks, candles, elbows, and spilled wine.
And then Irene claps her hands.
“Alright, everyone. Phones. iPads. Laptops. Apple Watches. Anything that buzzes, rings, vibrates, or distracts. In the basket.”
She holds up a huge wicker basket that looks like she stole it off a Martha Stewart set.
Everyone groans.
She shakes it once.
“Old-fashioned Thanksgiving starts NOW.”
One by one, we cave.
My phone is the last to hit the pile.
Dropping it feels like slicing a tether.
But freeing, too.
For hours, we laugh. Hard.
Thom tells embarrassing stories about Mason.
My mom beats everyone at Scrabble like she’s hustling us.
My dad keeps snacking and forgetting it’s his turn.
Irene drinks two glasses of wine and gets emotional about holiday traditions.
And Mason keeps bumping my shoulder, nudging me whenever I roll my eyes at something.
When the last cork pops, he nudges me again.
“Hey,” he says, lowering his voice. “I brought you something.”
He disappears and returns with a box.
I freeze when I open it.
A pair of hockey skates—sleek, black, sharp.
“I guessed your size,” he says. “C’mon. Pond’s frozen. Let’s go.”
And before I can react, Irene’s cheering, my mom’s clapping, and Tom’s pulling on his boots.
Next thing I know, I’m bundled up and whisked outside.
String lights glow over a frozen pond like something out of a snow globe. A bonfire crackles nearby, college guys clustered around it holding mugs of hot cider.
When they see us walking up, they elbow Mason.
“Bro, seriously? You didn’t tell us you were bringing someone?”
Mason rolls his eyes. “Relax. She’s cool.”
Great. Attention.
Exactly what I didn’t want tonight.
But once my skates hit the ice?
Everything else disappears.
The cold air, the scrape of blades, the glitter of falling snow—it hits something deep inside me, something I forgot I had.
Fun.
Pure, stupid fun.
I spin too fast.
Laugh too loud.
Almost crash into Mason twice.
He pretends it was intentional.
And for a moment?
I’m not Jade Bryan, Survivor of the Royal Oaks Slime Saga.
Or Jade Bryan, Viral Girl.
Or Jade Bryan, Future Lawsuit.
I’m just… me.
But even without my phone, other people still have theirs.
College guys start taking selfies.
Girls ask if I’m “that girl from TikTok.”
Somebody gets a video of me skating and laughing, the lights glinting off the ice.
It’s harmless.
They’re kind.
But it jolts me back to reality.
This is my life now.
By the time we trek back to the house, cheeks flushed, boots dripping snow, my muscles ache in the best way.
Irene hands me my phone from the basket.
“Brace yourself, darling.”
I shouldn’t look in bed.
But of course I do.
I’ve been tagged in twenty videos.
Ice skating. Laughing. Smiling. Falling on my butt.
Caption after caption:
“Jade Bryan is actually the sweetest.”
“Look who we ran into on the Cape!”
“She looks so happy omg.”
“We love a resilient queen.”
#ThanksgivingVibes #CapeCod #JadeBryan
I groan into my pillow.
Fantastic.
Emerging celebrity status: confirmed.
But then—maybe stupidly—I open my front camera, prop the phone up on a pillow, and hit record.
“Hey guys… Jade here,” I say quietly. “No glam tonight. No edits. Just me.”
A breath.
“So, Thanksgiving. I’ve got my parents here, my aunt, my new friends. I went to therapy today—yeah, therapy. I'm not too cool to admit I'm in therapy. It helps. More than I thought it would.”
My gaze flickers off-screen.
“Tonight we unplugged. No phones. No scrolling. No doom spiraling. Just… people. And honestly? It felt amazing.”
I smile—small but real.
“So tomorrow… try it. Take a basket. Throw all your phones in it. Talk. Laugh. Burn something you meant to cook. I don’t know. Just connect with the people who care about you.”
I pause.
“And if you’re alone tomorrow? You’re still part of this. You’re still seen. You’re still worthy. The internet can make you feel invisible, but trust me—you’re not.”
I turn off the recording before I can overthink it. Post it to all my socials with a bunch of tags and turn off the light.
The room is warm.
The fire downstairs crackles.
Cape wind rattles the window.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.
And for the first time in a very long time…
I feel thankful.