Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Savvy
The train ride home from Madison Center seemed longer than usual, each mile marker a reminder of how thoroughly my world had turned. James's words kept echoing in my head. "Richard Kingston doesn't make empty threats."
Five years. For five years, I'd told myself a story about not being enough, about Henry choosing his perfect world over our messy love. I'd built an entire career around that story. Around delivering the clean breaks I never got.
But Henry hadn't walked away because he didn't care enough. He'd walked away because he cared too much—because his father had spent weeks laying out exactly how he could destroy everything my family had built. Still, he should have told me. He should have trusted me enough to let me decide how much I could handle, instead of deciding for both of us.
I pulled out my business phone, the one reserved for client contact. No new requests. Then my personal phone buzzed with a text from Dr. Blake.
Dr. Blake
We need to discuss your recent client cancellations. Without consistent proof of your professional reliability, I can't continue referring people to your services.
My stomach dropped. Dr. Blake's referrals made up nearly half of my income. She was the reason Manhattan's elite trusted my professional alias with their delicate matters in the first place. Without her stamp of approval, I might as well apply for a barista job at Common Grounds.
Three hundred and forty-two perfect goodbyes, and then there was Henry Kingston—number three hundred and forty-three. It had taken one look at him to shatter my reputation. No wonder she was questioning my reliability.
I typed and deleted three different responses to Dr. Blake before settling on: "I’ve had a personal matter come up. It won't affect my future performance." But even I didn't believe that anymore.
“You’re not in your usual spot." Joe appeared with his usual tissue box.
I waved it away. "Sometimes we need to view life from another angle." My voice sounded strange, hollow. "Just sitting here processing."
"Processing looks an awful lot like overthinking from where I'm standing."
I let out a soft chuckle. "Occupational hazard."
He patted me on the shoulder and walked away.
My mind kept circling back to James's words. Richard Kingston had laid the groundwork years ago to destroy my family. The research was done; the plans were made, and I'd given him the perfect reason to act by delivering Caroline's goodbye.
My phone lit up. Dr. Blake's name flashed through my mind, but an NYU student loan notice glared back at me, the numbers a stark reminder of the life I'd planned versus the one I'd built. At least the breakup broker business kept the collectors at bay. Who knew helping people end relationships could pay so well? Or that I'd be good at it?
The screen lit up again. Henry.Seeing his name sent a wave of emotions crashing through me—anger, regret, and something else I refused to acknowledge. His timing was impeccable, wasn’t it? Showing up when I was regaining my balance, when the business was starting to feel solid. His family had a way of wrecking everything they touched, their wealth a wrecking ball disguised in silk.
I checked my business phone out of habit—no new clients. The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd built a career helping others walk away cleanly from messy relationships, yet here I was, still tangled in the threads of my past. The phone was heavy in my hand, Henry's name still glowing on the screen like a warning sign I was choosing to ignore.
The train lurched around a bend, and I caught my reflection in the darkened window. The perfectly-styled hair, the professional blazer, the mask of composure I'd worked so hard to perfect—none of it was real anymore. Jennifer Walsh, the untouchable breakup broker, had been built on believing Henry Kingston hadn't cared enough. Now that foundation was gone, replaced by something far more complicated.
My phone lit up again—Henry’s number. I let it ring.
The train pulled into River Bend Stationas the sun was setting. Main Street stretched ahead, the familiar walk home suddenly feeling longer than usual. The Weathered Barn’s windows were dark, Mr. Dixon having closed at five on the dot. Mrs. Patterson was probably updating her neighborhood watch group about my return—she never missed a detail.
My phone buzzed again. Henry.
I ignored it as I passed Common Grounds, Cork & Crown, the post office—each storefront a reminder of the life Henry and I had shared, the life his father had threatened. When I rounded the corner to River Bend Books, I stopped short.
Through the windows, I could see lights still on despite the "Closed" sign. And there, behind the counter where Mom usually stood, was Dad—looking as out of place as an engine manual in the poetry section. The fluorescent lights caught the silver in his hair and the worry lines around his eyes, making him seem older than I'd ever seen him.
I froze. In twenty years, I'd never seen my father leave the marina early. The man had shown up to my college graduation with engine grease under his nails and a socket wrench in his pocket, swearing he'd be back at the garage before the last dipstick had time to cool. Seeing him here, among Mom's shelves and literary treasures, sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the evening air.
My phone buzzed as I reached for the door handle. Henry could wait. The sight of my father anywhere but the marina at this time of day meant something had happened—something big enough to drag him away from Mrs. Mitchell's temperamental Volvo and Old Joe's ancient Chris-Craft. This has to be about what happened earlier today.
The bell above the shop door chimed as I stepped inside, the familiar sound suddenly feeling more like a warning than a welcome. The usual comforting scent of paper and binding glue mixed with something foreign—motor oil and worry .
Books surrounded me in their familiar rainbow rows, their spines creating the kind of comfort only well-loved stories can provide. The romance section caught my eye—or rather, I caught myself avoiding it, the way I had since Henry left. Mom still ordered the latest releases, arranged them with care, probably hoping one day I'd stop wincing at happy endings. Tonight, even the cheerful covers seemed to mock the unease in the air.
"Savannah." Mom's voice had that undercurrent she reserved for delivering bad news—the same one she'd used to tell me our ancient tabby, Marmalade, wouldn't be coming home from the vet. Her fingers fidgeted with the reading glasses hanging from their chain around her neck, a nervous habit I hadn't seen since the last time the rent went up. "Your father had a phone call today."
Dad turned, and I saw grease stains on Mom's pristine counter for the first time in my life. Paul Honeysucker might live and breathe engines, but he'd never bring marina grime into Mom's literary sanctuary. Not unless something had rattled him enough to forget his own rules. The smudges looked like black butterflies against the polished wood, each one marking a moment his hands had clenched and unclenched while he waited.
"The building inspector came by," he said, his voice holding something dark. "Found some interesting problems that weren't there last month." The words came out like they'd been caught in a failing transmission, grinding against each other.
"Interesting." The word tasted foreign, off somehow. After what James had told me about Richard Kingston's plans, 'interesting' was about as fitting as calling a hurricane a light breeze. "What problems?"
"Electrical issues." Dad's hands clutched the edge of the counter. "Foundation concerns. Violations that could shut down a business or move you out of your home." He paused, his following words careful, each measured like he was adjusting a delicate valve. "The problems that appear right after someone powerful makes them appear."
My phone buzzed again—Henry.
"When did this happen?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered like a boat in choppy waters.
"About an hour ago." Dad's fingers drummed against the counter, leaving tiny grease prints like morse code. "Walked through the whole place like he knew what he was looking for. Said we'd have to close immediately, that you'd need to move out of the apartment?—"
"But then James Morrison called." Mom's cardigan was practically a straitjacket now, wrapped so tight I wondered if she was trying to hold herself together or stop herself from throwing things. She paced behind the counter, her sensible shoes clicking against the hardwood in an anxious rhythm. "Said not to worry about the orders yet. That he was ... handling things."
"Handling things?" The words came out awkward and unfamiliar, like trying to read a book in the dark.
"He said to sit tight until we hear from his contacts." Dad's voice held equal parts worry and wonder. "Something about building department records getting temporarily misplaced." His weathered hands spread flat on the counter now as if bracing himself for impact.
"And then he told us everything else." Mom's hands twisted in her cardigan, her wedding ring catching the light with each nervous movement. "About Richard Kingston's threats five years ago. About why Henry left. About?—"
"His father threatened to destroy everything if he didn't," I finished for her. "I know. James told me today. That's where I was—at Madison Center."
Dad's eyes met Mom's over my head, one of those silent conversations they'd perfected over thirty years of marriage. The kind that usually preceded either good news or bad news. And given that Dad was at the bookstore instead of fixing Mrs. Mitchell's Volvo, I had a pretty good guess which this was. The air between them seemed to crackle with unvoiced concerns and shared fears.
My phone lit up again. Henry.
"You should probably answer that," Dad said, his voice low—the same one he used when telling customers their engines were beyond saving. Steady, careful, meant to cushion the impact. He hesitated, then added, even gentler, "You’ve heard James’s side. Maybe it’s time to hear it from the source."
I exhaled slowly, forcing the knot in my chest to loosen. I wasn’t ready to face him but avoiding him hadn’t solved anything. The silence between us had stretched too far, and now it threatened to snap. My head shouted no, insisting I keep my distance, but that small, stubborn piece of my heart he still owned whispered yes.
Maybe I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew one thing: I couldn’t keep running from this. I wasn’t letting him back into my life—I was just getting the details on why he left. That was it. I didn’t have to be open or kind or even civil. I just needed to hear what he had to say and take it one minute at a time. Or so I told myself.