Chapter 17 Jeremy
JEREMY
I try not to keep glancing over at Avah in the passenger seat as my Range Rover eats up the miles between Skylark and our dinner in Denver. The late afternoon sun slants through the windshield, catching the gold strands in her hair.
She rolls her head lazily, like a cat stretching in warm sunlight. “Have I mentioned how much I love this car?”
Three times now, starting with the moment she’d climbed in. “I can’t remember.”
I’ll buy you five. Ten. A whole fleet.
At least that’s what I want to tell her, but I keep my mouth shut.
I’m not down that bad, but you can bet I’m brand-loyal to Range Rover for life.
My assistant picked out this six-figure SUV.
I don’t give a shit about cars, except now mine smells faintly like sugar and Avah’s floral perfume, and I’m going to have a hard time ever selling it.
I’m so far gone it’s pathetic.
“Walk me through your pitch.” She shifts toward me in the leather seat. “How are you opening the conversation?"
“I’m planning to lay out the partnership structure I’ve been developing, along with the timeline and growth projections. Show them exactly how much we could scale the platform’s reach within eighteen months.”
Avah gives a full-on, head-thrown-back laugh. And it makes my stomach dip like I just dove off the edge of a cliff.
“What’s the problem?”
“Between drinks and dinner, you’re going to ram a spreadsheet down their throats?”
“Spreadsheet is an oversimplification. It’s a comprehensive strategic—”
“Jeremy.” Her hand lands on my forearm, the contact sending a jolt straight through me. “These people built NorthStar from grief and love and the desire to make their daughter’s death mean something. You can’t treat a potential partnership of something so precious like a hostile takeover.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“I get that you’re used to being the smartest person in the room.” Her blue eyes seem to see through every wall I’ve constructed. “And people fall all over themselves to get a minute of your time. But Joel and Mariel need to trust you before they’ll take that leap.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “What do you suggest?”
“Ask questions and listen to the answers. Talk about why this matters to you.” She tucks one leg beneath her.
“Maybe tell them about being fourteen and scared and feeling like a burden to your parents. Share how it’s been supporting Sloane the past year.
Let them see who you actually are instead of who Forbes says you are. ”
I turn her words over in my mind as the downtown skyline comes into view, the mountains to our west postcard perfect.
“You want me to use vulnerability as a strategy?” I draw in a slow breath to stem the panic rising in my throat. The thought of sharing the private parts of my life with anyone, let alone people I consider business associates, is…just no.
“I want you to be real.”
“You’re good with people for someone who claims not to like most of them.”
“I never said I don’t like most people.”
“Just me, then?”
The question comes out before I can stop it. I hold my breath in the silence that follows, the Range Rover so insulated from the highway noise that I can hear every second she doesn’t answer.
“Not you,” she whispers.
Two words that shouldn’t mean as much as they do.
But I have to focus very hard on the road to keep from pulling over and doing something stupid.
Like kissing her. Telling her she’s all I think about.
Admitting the weeks since Bora Bora have felt like I’m slowly suffocating from how much I miss her.
“Good to know,” I answer softly.
“Before we get to their house,” she says, her tone suddenly sharp, “do we need to discuss the fact that I don’t want you calling me out for putting my career on hold to bake muffins.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. In fact, I’m a big fan of your muffins.” I deliberately drop my gaze to her chest before dragging it back to the road, giving her an exaggerated leer that breaks the tension.
She snorts. “Subtle.”
“I never claimed to be subtle, Avah.” I shift lanes to pass a slower vehicle, choosing my next words carefully. “You’ll be great at whatever you do, and if baking brings you joy—”
Her body goes rigid, and I wonder what unseen landmine I’ve stepped on now. “Did Sloane tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About my bucket list item.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
My sister talks about the book club constantly, regaling me with updates, inside jokes, and her gratitude for their ride-or-die bond.
I’ve tuned out more than I should, too focused on trying to seem present without actually being present.
It’s coming back to bite me in the ass now.
“She hasn’t mentioned it.”
Avah studies me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to decide whether to trust me with whatever this is. “Each member of the book club is taking a turn with a bucket list challenge.”
“Like going skydiving?”
She shakes her head. “Things that push us out of our comfort zones.”
“Like being real with people?” I mock shudder. “Sounds terrifying.”
“Yeah, well…mine is finding joy.”
“Joy?”
“Joy,” she repeats, gazing out the window at the passing landscape, suburbs and strip malls giving way to high rises as we approach the city. “I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I felt genuinely happy. Not performative or pretend happiness. Real joy.”
The confession settles into the quiet between us as I think about her armor and attitude, every word sharpened to a point. Behind that armor, she’s trying to keep herself safe, just like me.
But here she is, letting me see the unguarded version of herself when trust doesn’t come easy for her. I don’t think she has any idea how brave that is. Or how much it makes me want to be brave enough to do the same.
“What does joy look like for you?”
Her laugh is hollow. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“You’ll get there.” I reach out and trace one finger along the back of her hand. “For me, it’s getting what I want.”
“You sound like a toddler.” Her words are a rebuke, but I’ll take the smile that comes with them.
“A toddler with excellent instincts for business investments.”
“And decent taste in baked goods.”
“Especially snickerdoodles.” I signal for the exit that will take us toward Cherry Hills Village. “I’m also partial to women with zero patience for my bullshit.”
She doesn’t respond to that, but I file away the flush that creeps up her delicate throat as evidence that this thing between us isn’t one-sided, even if she won’t admit it.
We pull up to a comfortable two-story colonial with a basketball hoop in the driveway and flower beds that need weeding. It’s the kind of house where kids grow up, and grandchildren come to visit. Real, just like Avah told me to be.
Joel opens the door before we reach the porch, handshake firm and gray eyes welcoming as I hand him the bottle of wine I grabbed from the basement cellar on my way out the door. Mariel appears behind him and pulls Avah into a hug like they’re old friends.
Inside, the walls hold evidence of a life well-loved. There are school photos, wedding pictures, and grandchildren at various stages, from first steps to toothless grins. Scattered among them, in places of honor, are photos of a daughter gone too soon.
My childhood home was absent of these sorts of chronicled memories.
In place of gap-toothed smiles bound by silver frames, we had heavy wooden bookcases lined with artifacts my parents collected on dig sites across three continents, with strict instructions not to touch.
They were relics from civilizations that held their attention in ways their own children never could. The contrast makes my throat tight.
“Hope you like spaghetti and meatballs.” Mariel leads us toward the kitchen, where the smell of garlic and basil fills the air. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Joel places the wine on the counter, then chokes out a laugh. “Wait. This is a 2010 Screaming Eagle cab.”
“I hope it pairs well with meatballs.” I didn’t think to ask about what they were serving.
“It’s a four-thousand-dollar bottle.”
In the excruciating silence that follows, I imagine the Johnsons adding another check mark in the out-of-touch-billionaire column.
“Jeremy’s assistant has excellent taste.” Avah loops her arm through mine, her smile bright and easy. “Unfortunately, her boss is as much a wine connoisseur as your typical frat boy.” She elbows me gently. “Last week I watched him drop an ice cube into a glass of Petrus Bordeaux.”
It’s a lie. I would never. But Joel and Mariel both laugh. Once again, Avah—a woman who apparently is an expert on both cinnamon rolls and expensive wine—has saved me from myself.
As we sit down in a dining room that has clearly hosted decades of family dinners, Avah’s coaching plays in my head.
Ask questions. Listen. Most importantly, let them see who I am.
I’m petrified that could be a problem, but vow to try.
Mainly because I don’t want Avah giving me shit on the way home.
So I talk honestly about my own cancer journey, and then Sloane’s diagnosis. How helpless I felt sitting in hospital waiting rooms and wanting to do something more substantial than writing checks.
I draw out their own stories about the NorthStar community as we enjoy Mariel’s delicious meatballs, and do my level best to convince this couple that I believe in what they’ve built and want to help them reach everyone who needs it.
Despite my obvious shortcomings, it seems to work.
“The caregiver camp starts next week,” Joel says, leaning back in his chair after devouring one of the brownies Avah brought for dessert. “Just outside Steamboat Springs. Maybe you could come up for a day or two to meet some of the community?”
“Yes.” The word comes out too fast, but I don’t care. This is the chance to prove I’m more than a bank account. “I’d like that.”