Chapter 21 #2
I love this ridiculous man in his khaki pants and his too-pale ankles and his first-edition insecurities.
I love the way he writes letters that warm my heart and the way he shows up at beaches in dress shoes because he forgot everything except wanting to see me.
I love his velvet darkness phases and his margin-note worthy early work and the way he looks at me like I’m a story he wants to read forever.
I love him, and I need to tell him.
“Scott, I—”
I stop.
Because over his shoulder, through a gap in the collapsed umbrella, I can see the boardwalk.
And standing on the boardwalk, frozen, staring directly at us, is David.
My ex-husband.
The man who told me I was too romantic, too impractical, too much.
And he just watched me kiss someone else.
“Jessica?” Scott must see something in my face. “What’s wrong?”
“David,” I manage. “David is here.”
Scott turns. Through the umbrella gap, we can both see him now—David in his pressed shorts and polo shirt, looking exactly like the Connecticut businessman he became after leaving me. He’s not moving. Just staring.
“What is he doing here?” Scott’s voice has gone hard.
“I don’t know. I—”
We’re still tangled in the umbrella when Penelope Waters appears.
She’s approaching from the opposite direction, picking her way across the sand in wedge heels that are absolutely not beach-appropriate, and the smile on her face is the smile of a woman who has just discovered Christmas came early.
“Well, well, well.” Penelope stops directly in front of our umbrella disaster. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Scott and I scramble to untangle ourselves, which is significantly less graceful than either of us would prefer. I end up with sand in my hair and my book somewhere in the debris.
Penelope watches with undisguised delight.
“Penelope,” Scott says, his voice carefully neutral. “What a surprise.”
“Oh, the surprise is all mine.” She’s practically vibrating with satisfaction. “When I heard you’d personally purchased the bookstore building from Reed Development Corp, I couldn’t imagine what would possess you to pay such a premium for that little property.”
My heart stops.
What?
“But now,” Penelope continues, loud enough that probably half the beach can hear, “seeing you two rolling around under an umbrella, it all makes sense.”
“Penelope—” Scott starts.
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. The world has gone very still. “What did you just say?”
Penelope’s smile widens. This is exactly the reaction she wanted. “Oh, you didn’t know? Your boyfriend here bought your building. Personally. Took it right out of the Reed Development portfolio. The investors were absolutely furious. But I suppose when you’re in love, money is no object.”
I turn to Scott.
His face tells me everything I need to know.
“You bought my building?”
“Jessica, let me explain—”
“You bought my building. You own it. You—”
“I was trying to protect you. The board was going to sell, and I couldn’t let—”
“Jessica?”
David’s voice. He’s crossed the beach while Penelope was dropping her bomb, and now he’s standing there, close enough to touch, looking at me with an expression caught between anger and something that might be hurt.
“David.” I can barely process. Too much happening at once. “What are you doing here?”
“Brian and Melissa’s wedding is this weekend.” Our old friends. The ones I drifted from after the divorce because they were really his friends first. “I saw you from the boardwalk. With him.”
The way he says “him” is loaded with ten years of history and eight years of bitterness.
Scott steps closer to me. Protective. “This isn’t a good time.”
“I can see that.” David’s eyes are fixed on me. “Who is this, Jess? Your landlord?”
“Don’t call me Jess.”
“Your landlord who apparently bought your building?” David laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s convenient.”
“You don’t know anything about this situation,” Scott says, his voice low.
“I know Jessica. I know how she operates.” David reaches out and grabs my arm. “We need to talk. Alone.”
Everything happens very fast.
Scott moves, inserting himself between us, forcing David to release my arm. His whole body has gone rigid with barely contained fury.
“Get your hands off the woman I love.”
David’s eyebrows shoot up. Penelope makes a sound of delighted shock.
“The woman you love?” David repeats. “You’ve got to be kidding. You bought her building. You own her livelihood. And you think that’s love?”
“You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t get to touch her. You don’t get to—”
“What, defend her honor? That’s rich coming from the guy who literally purchased her like property.”
Scott’s hands ball into fists. He takes a step toward David.
“Scott.” Penelope’s voice is sharp with anticipation. “I’d think very carefully about what you’re about to do. My husband, the mayor, takes a very dim view of assault.”
Scott stops. The muscle in his jaw is twitching. He looks like he wants to punch David more than he’s ever wanted anything.
But Penelope has her phone out. Of course she does.
“This is quite the scene,” she says, clearly recording.
I find my voice. “Penelope. Put the phone away.”
“Why should I? This is fascinating. You rejected me from your little book club, but now I get a front-row seat to the real drama.”
“This has nothing to do with book club.”
“It has everything to do with it. You and your friends, thinking you’re so special with your secret meetings and your inside jokes.
Well, look at you now.” She gestures at the chaos—me with sand in my hair, Scott vibrating with rage, David smirking like he’s won something. “Not so perfect after all.”
David laughs. “Same old Jessica. Always finding a man to rescue her. Always letting someone else solve her problems.”
“That’s not—”
“Your landlord bought your building. Your boyfriend owns your livelihood. And you didn’t even know.” He shakes his head with the same disappointed condescension I remember from our marriage. “You never change, do you? Always the damsel. Always needing someone to take care of you.”
“That’s enough,” Scott snaps.
“Is it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just the latest in a long line of men who think Jessica needs saving. And she lets you believe it because it’s easier than standing on her own two feet.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Because some small, terrible part of me wonders if he’s right.
Scott bought my building. He made decisions about my life, my business, my future—and he didn’t tell me. He just... handled it. Like I couldn’t handle it myself.
Just like David used to handle our finances, our social calendar, everything, while I just...went along with it.
“Jessica.” Scott’s voice is soft now, the anger draining into something more desperate. “It’s not like that. I was trying to help. I love you.”
“You bought my building without telling me.”
“Because I knew you’d refuse. I knew you’d see it as charity.”
“It is charity. Or control. I can’t tell which is worse.”
“Neither. It’s—I was protecting you.”
“I didn’t ask you to protect me!” The words explode out of me. “I didn’t ask you to buy my building or fix my problems or make decisions about my life without consulting me! I spent ten years with a man who did exactly that, and I promised myself never again!”
Scott flinches like I’ve slapped him.
David looks satisfied. Penelope is still recording.
And I am standing on a beach with sand in my hair and a broken umbrella at my feet and the realization that I fell in love with a man who sees me as someone who needs saving.
Just like David always said.
“Jessica, please—” Scott reaches for me.
I step back. “Don’t.”
“Can we just talk? Away from—” He gestures at David and Penelope.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You made a massive decision about my life without asking me. You’ve been paying for my security while letting me believe I earned it. That’s not love, Scott. That’s control dressed up in good intentions.”
“It’s not control. I just wanted you to be safe. I was going to lower your rent back to the original amount after the event. I didn’t want to tell you before the event because it was motivating you to make it better and it would benefit your shop anyway.”
“You wanted to keep me safe from what? From having to fight my own battles or agency over my own business?” I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to me. “You’re no different from him. You just hide it better.”
The words are cruel. I know they are, even as I say them.
But I can’t stop.
Because I just realized I loved him, and now I’m realizing I don’t know if I can trust him, and the whiplash is too much.
“I need to go,” I say.
“Jessica—”
“Don’t follow me.”
I grab my bag—leave the book, leave the umbrella, leave the grapes—and I walk away.
Behind me, I can hear Penelope’s delighted commentary. David’s self-satisfied silence. Scott calling my name once, twice, then stopping.
I don’t look back.
I make it to the boardwalk before the tears start.
I arrive at my apartment before I let myself fall apart.
Austen meets me at the door, takes one look at my face, and does something he’s never done before—he headbutts my ankle and follows me to the couch, curling up against my side like he knows I need the weight of something warm and alive.
I cry until I can’t breathe. Until my eyes are swollen and my throat hurts and I’ve used up an entire box of tissues that I had to dig out from under my bathroom sink.
I was going to tell him I loved him, say the words, finally, after all these months of dancing around each other. After all the letters and the almost-kisses and the slow, terrifying process of letting someone see me again.
And then Penelope’s voice, dripping with satisfaction: Your boyfriend bought your building.
And David’s voice, dripping with condescension: Same old Jessica.
And Scott’s voice, desperate and confused: I was trying to protect you.
Protect me.
Like I’m something fragile. Something that needs handling.
I think about all the decisions David made for me during our marriage. The vacations I didn’t choose. The friends I didn’t pick. The version of myself I became because it was easier than fighting for my own voice.
And I think about Scott, buying my building without telling me. Fixing my problems without asking if I wanted them fixed. Deciding what was best for my life without including me in the decision.
He did it from love. I believe that.
But isn’t that what David always said too?
I’m doing this for us, Jess. I’m handling it because I love you.
The question I can’t answer, the one that keeps me awake until three in the morning with Austen purring against my chest, is this:
Where is the line between protection and control?
And how do I love a man when I can’t tell which side of that line he’s on?