6. Rosalie
SIX
Rosalie
T he city lights of New York blur past as the Uber drives us back into the heart of the city. If you’d asked me yesterday whether I could ever sit next to Jay without having kidnapped him, I would’ve laughed. There’s no way, right? But here we are, sitting in the backseat together, the silence stretching between us like an unspoken agreement. It’s always been like this. This heavy, quiet space we occupy, filled with unvoiced words. Words we both know but can’t say, because they’re either too dangerous or too forbidden.
But there’s a difference in the air tonight.
Usually, we only cross paths when my brother’s around—always with that awkward tension, always something left unsaid. But this time? Jay’s relaxed, the rigid edge in his posture almost gone, and I can’t help but appreciate it.
Maybe it’s because we’re finally alone, and God, do I like it. I like it a lot.
Of course, none of this would be happening if I hadn’t done the most ridiculous thing imaginable. I got so wasted that I can barely remember what happened the other night. Now, everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. I tried to quit the party drugs a while ago, and if this isn’t a sign that I should stick to quitting it, I don’t know what is. I don’t ever want to feel this powerless again. How heartbreaking is it that life has to throw something like this at you just to make you realize you’re messing everything up?
When I’m around him, I feel stupid for even thinking about using anything. I wonder why it’s so clear to me when I’m with Jay, but when I’m with Charlotte or Vaughn, everything gets foggy. Why doesn’t it seem so obvious then? When Jay’s around, being reasonable is easy. But when he’s not, it’s like I lose myself. It’s always been like that…and yet, Jay is usually so far away from me.
I rummage through my purse, desperation clawing at my chest as I dig for a clue—any clue—that might help me piece together what happened. Just as I’m convinced there’s nothing there, my fingers graze something cold and metallic.
When I pull it out, my heart stops.
A small silver key.
Oh no, no, no, no.
The moment my fingers curl around the cold, metallic shape, it’s like a lightning bolt of memory slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. Images flash—disjointed and terrifying—and my stomach churns. I see me. Standing at his door. The key sliding into the lock. The faint click as it opens.
I drop the key as if it burns me, my hands trembling so violently I can’t stop them. The memory feels so real. I nearly vomit right there. I don’t want it to be real. Please don’t be real.
“What is it?” Jay’s voice pulls me back.
He moves closer to me. But his injured leg protests, causing a pained expression to briefly cross his features. He lets out a frustrated breath and stares at me with intensity, impatient for answers. Which I don’t have.
I can’t look at him.
Can’t acknowledge the weight of his worry or the irritation simmering beneath it. My focus stays fixed on the cold metal in my palm, the key that feels heavier with every passing second. It’s as though my whole world has narrowed to this one object, and nothing—not even Jay—can pull me out of the suffocating spiral it’s thrown me into.
“It’s…it’s a key,” I stammer, my voice barely audible as the pieces of the memory claw at my sanity.
“ Whose key?”
I can’t answer him. My mind is spinning, trying to connect the dots, but none of it makes sense. Why would I have this key? My thoughts race back to the Golden Globes gala where I last saw Devereaux—just a glimpse, really. Vaughn hated him, made it clear we weren’t to talk to him. And I hadn’t. Devereaux is a jerk, not someone I’d even want to know.
So how do I have his key?
“Rosie?” Jay’s voice drops, it’s softer now, like he’s trying not to spook me. At some point, he must’ve grabbed the key, because it’s right there, dangling between his fingers, right in front of my face. “ Whose is it?”
“It’s his .”
His reaction is subtle—a slight clench of his jaw—but it’s enough to push the thoughts swirling in my head out of my mouth.
“What if…what if I was involved in the break-in?”
“Rosie, don’t go there. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“But—”
“No,” he cuts me off, his tone firm. “We’ll figure it out.”
And then he does something that surprises me so much it leaves me breathless. He reaches out and takes my hand in his. His grip is hot, solid, anchoring me when I feel like I’m floating in chaos. His hand is so big. His fingers so long and strong.
“Listen to me. I know you. You’re not a criminal. You’re not capable of something like this.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Well, I think you forgot I did sell drugs once. And I’ve done more than my fair share of stupid things before.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let go of my hand. “Okay, fine. You’re a Plankton criminal,” he says, his lips quirking into a faint smile that shouldn’t make my chest tighten, but it does. “But don’t make yourself look worse than you are. I hope you’re done with that, though. You know why you keep doing shit like this? Because those people you’re hanging out with are shit. You need better friends. Real friends. But that’s all there is, bad choices. Not an ounce of a bad person in you. Did you even reach Charlotte yet?”
“No,” I say. I tried to call her a hundred times. She’s not answering, not even to my texts.
I look at him then, really look at him. The way his jaw is set, the way his eyes burn with conviction. And all I can think is, I want him to be my friend.
But I know it’s a lie. I don’t want Jay as my friend. I want him as everything. And I know I can’t have that.
So instead of saying anything, I wrap my arms around him and his body tenses for half a second before he relaxes into the hug, his arms coming around me like a shield.
For a moment, in his arms, the chaos in my head quiets. God, he feels so steady, strong, and I can’t help but lean in, taking in his scent.
But then he pulls back—not far, just enough to create space that feels like too much and not enough all at once. His hands stay on my waist, though, like he’s grounding both of us.
I glance up, meeting his gaze, and the world tilts.
His eyes burn into mine, pulling me under with the weight of everything unsaid between us. I can feel the air shift, thickening with something electric, something I’m not sure he’s ready to face.
“You okay?” Jay breathes.
I nod, though my throat is too tight to speak. My hands are on his chest, and I can feel the fast thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips.
He leans closer and I feel his breath ghost against my skin. My pulse stutters, my lungs forgetting how to work as his gaze dips to my mouth for the briefest second and—
“All right, here we are,” the Uber driver announces, clearing his throat in a way that sounds way too pointed.
We jolt apart like guilty teenagers caught doing something they shouldn’t. My hands fly to my lap, fiddling with the strap of my bag, while Jay straightens like someone just barked out orders at him.
The air in the car feels suffocating now, thick with the weight of what almost happened. My skin is burning—my cheeks, my neck, everywhere he was close enough to touch without actually touching.
“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, then pay and scramble to open the door.
I catch a glimpse of Jay out of the corner of my eye, his jaw is tight again, his face all tense, staring hard out the other window like making eye contact will set off something we can’t handle.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say and confidently take my first step onto the sidewalk.
“Leave your shoes at the entrance,” Ethan says, his tone cold enough to freeze the Sahara. “I’m not a pig.”
The man of the hour stands in the doorway, arms crossed like we’re here to sell him a timeshare. His expression suggests he’s already mentally filing a restraining order. To be fair, I do look like I just crawled out of the nearest dumpster, wearing Jay’s oversized clothes, but that’s beside the point.
“Nice to see you too, Ethan,” I say, plastering on my most sarcastic smile as I try to take off the Crocs. “Do you ever wear, like, comfy clothes? Or are suits your entire personality?”
“No,” he snaps, tugging at his perfectly knotted tie like even the question offended him. It’s Saturday , for God’s sake. Who wears a suit at home on the weekend? Ethan, apparently.
His two grumpy gray cats even look more relaxed than he does, lazily perched on the arm of his pristine white couch, judging us with the same piercing disdain as their owner.
Jay hobbles in after me and slides off his shoes with the help of his cane. “Hey, sorry, man. It’s kind of an emergency.”
Ethan’s sharp gaze flicks between the two of us, taking in my mismatched outfit and Jay’s obvious discomfort. “Is she pregnant?”
“What?” Jay and I shout as if from one mouth.
Ethan sighs. “Guess that’s a no. Fine, explain what you want, but first”—he strides over to his bar cart, a shrine of crystal decanters and expensive alcohol—“drink?”
“Yes,” Jay says immediately.
“No,” I counter, shooting him a glare.
“ Yes .”
“ No .”
“God, you’re children,” Ethan grumbles, then pours Jay a bourbon and hands me a glass of water. “Everyone gets what they want. Happy now?”
Jay smirks and takes a sip, while I cross my arms. The audacity. I glare at him, making sure he knows that we’re definitely circling back to this conversation about his drinking later.
Ethan sits down in an armchair across from me, crossing one leg over the other. “So, why the hell are you two, of all people here, looking like…that?” He gestures vaguely at Jay’s clothes hanging off me.
I glance back at Jay, but he’s busy nursing his bourbon like it’s his last drink on earth. This actually riles me up more than it should. He’s the perfect human. He can’t break. He’s always been my role model.
Ethan clears his throat.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” I start and explain everything I remember.