Chapter 13- JADE
Logan Airport hasn't changed at all.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting their sickly yellow glow across the same scuffed linoleum floors.
Announcements crackle over the intercom, warning passengers about unattended baggage and departure gate changes.
I shuffle through the terminal with my small carry-on bag, surrounded by businessmen in rumpled suits and families wrangling overtired children, feeling like a ghost returning to a life I no longer recognize.
The flight from LA was five hours of turbulence and cramped seats and too much time to think.
I kept my phone off for most of it, unwilling to face whatever messages might be waiting for me.
The last text I sent Phoenix still burns in my memory.
I shouldn't have sent it. I should have waited until I could see his face.
But I was scared, and tired, and sitting in my mother's house with decades of secrets pressing down. The truth came out in fragments, pieces of a puzzle I'm still trying to assemble, and now I have to figure out what to do with the picture it's forming.
That's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I just need to survive.
My mom is waiting at arrivals, and even from a distance I can spot her.
The same silky black hair I inherited, though hers is shorter now, cut to her shoulders and straightened to a glossy shine.
She's wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater, simple but elegant.
Classic Mom. Her red lipstick is perfectly applied, as always, a small act of defiance against a world that has never made things easy for her.
As I get closer, I notice the new lines around her eyes. She's aged in the weeks since I've seen her, worry etched into her face. Worry about me, probably. About where I am and who I'm with and why her daughter stopped answering phone calls and started sending vague texts that said nothing at all.
But when she sees me, she looks relieved, and she pulls me into her arms before I can say a word.
"Jade." Her voice breaks on my name, and I feel her trembling against me. "Oh, sweetheart. You're here. You're really here."
I breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume, something floral and warm that takes me back to childhood, to skinned knees and bedtime stories and the absolute certainty that my mother could fix anything.
I didn't realize how much I'd missed this until right now, standing in the middle of a crowded airport with her arms wrapped around me.
"I'm here, Mom." My voice comes out thick with tears. "I'm here."
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes scanning my face with the intensity of a mother cataloging every flaw, every shadow, every sign of damage she might have missed. Whatever she sees makes her frown deepen.
"You look thin," she says, her hands still gripping my shoulders. "You look tired. What has he done to you?"
"He hasn't done anything, Mom. We just needed space."
"Space." She says the word like it tastes bitter, like it confirms every suspicion she's ever had about Phoenix Crawford and his family. "Is that what they're calling it now?"
"Mom, please. Not here."
She presses her lips together, visibly swallowing whatever she was about to say. Then she nods and takes my bag from my hand, looping her arm through mine like she used to do when I was a teenager and we'd walk through the city together, just the two of us against the world.
"Come on," she says. "Let's get you home."
The drive to her apartment takes us through streets I know by heart.
Past the coffee shop where I had my first job, the library where I spent countless afternoons, the park where I used to sit and write terrible poetry about boys who didn't know I existed.
Everything looks the same, but it all feels different somehow.
Smaller. Older. Like a photograph that's been left in the sun too long.
Or maybe I'm the one who's changed.
My old house is exactly as I remember it.
The overstuffed couch with its faded floral pattern.
The kitchen that's too small for two people to cook in at the same time.
The bookshelf crammed with paperback romances and self-help books and the complete works of Jane Austen, spines cracked from reading and rereading over the years.
She's made up the guest room for me, the one that used to be mine before I moved into my own place across town.
The bed is covered with a quilt my grandmother made, the walls still decorated with posters I hung in high school.
It's like stepping back in time, except I'm not the same person who used to sleep in this room dreaming of the life she wanted.
"Sit down," Mom says, guiding me to the kitchen table. "I'll make dinner. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."
I sink into the familiar chair and watch her move around the kitchen, filling the kettle, pulling mugs from the cabinet. Everything is heavy with what we're not saying.
"Tell me about him," she says finally, her back still to me. "Really tell me."
I stare at my hands, trying to figure out where to start. How much can I say? How much can I hide?
"I met him at a business dinner in California," I say, sticking to the story Phoenix and I agreed on. "He's in finance. We fell fast, I know, but it's real, Mom."
She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "And he treats you well?"
"Yes." The word comes out too quickly. "He's good to me."
"Then why are you here? Why did you fly across the country looking like you haven't slept in weeks?"
The kettle whistles, and she turns to pour the water, giving me a moment to compose myself. But I don't have an answer. Not one I can give her.
She sets a mug in front of me and takes the seat across the table. The steam rises between us like a barrier.
"How are you doing with everything?" she asks, her tone shifting. "The bills, I mean. I know things were tight before you left."
I tense. "What do you mean?"
"Jade, I'm not stupid. You were drowning. The hospital bills from my surgery alone were enough to bury you."
"I told you not to worry about that. I was handling it."
"Handling it how?" Her voice rises. "You were working three jobs and still barely making rent."
Silence. The kitchen feels too small.
“Aren’t you worried about it, Jade?"
I could lie. I should lie. But I'm so tired of lying.
"It's gone."
She blinks. "Gone? That was almost four hundred thousand dollars."
"Someone paid it off."
"Who?"
I stare at the table. "Phoenix."
The name lands like a bomb. I watch her face cycle through confusion to horror.
"Phoenix," she repeats. "The man you've been dating for a few weeks paid off four hundred thousand dollars."
"It was before we were dating. He sent an anonymous check. I didn't know who it was until I tracked him down."
"And you cashed it?"
"I was desperate, Mom! I was about to lose everything!"
She stands abruptly, pacing. "So some stranger sends you hundreds of thousands of dollars, and you cash it, and then you start dating him?"
"It wasn't like that—"
"What's his last name?"
My stomach drops.
"Crawford."
She stops moving. Goes completely still.
"Crawford," she whispers. "As in Nicholas Crawford."
"His son. Phoenix is his son."
For a long moment, she doesn't speak. Then the storm breaks.
"A Crawford paid off your debts. A Crawford." Her voice shakes. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Mom—"
"That's what Nicholas did to Olive! He found her when she was vulnerable, showered her with money, and by the time she realized what was happening, she couldn't escape!"
"Phoenix isn't Nicholas—"
"You owe him four hundred thousand dollars! You think that doesn't come with strings?"
"He said it was a gift—"
"There's no such thing as a free gift from a Crawford. Trust me. I watched it destroy the best friend I ever had."
Her voice breaks. She's not just angry. She's terrified.