Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He'd rehearsed this moment countless times over the years, practiced what he'd say if he ever ran into any of her family.
"I practiced what to say to you, but now it seems irrelevant. I can't ever tell you how sorry I am for that night," he said.
She smiled and dropped his hand, shifting to pop a hip in a cocky pose that screamed of false bravado. "I practiced what to say too, but none of it feels right."
Chase shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked onto the heels of his feet. The restaurant's ambient noise seemed to fade, leaving only the harsh rhythm of his own breathing.
"I guess I just wanted to tell you it's alright now," she said, frowning slightly and tilting her head. He waited, and she sighed, her shoulders drooping.
"I still miss her, but if that night hadn't happened the way it did, I never would've become a social worker. I love my job, and I'm doing a lot of good to help troubled kids."
A sense of dread filled him, and he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why did you become a social worker?"
She pursed her red lips and glanced away then back at him. "Dad couldn't handle the aftermath of losing Abigail. He dove into alcoholism, and Mom split. Dad died, and I ended up in the system."
Chase felt the weight of guilt pressing harder. His shoulders hunched involuntarily, as if physically trying to bear the burden of her words. The ripple effect of that single night altered so many lives.
"I'm so sorry," he finally managed, his voice scratchy, barely a whisper. "I didn't—if I could take it all back?—"
The words hung incomplete, a fractured apology that felt desperately inadequate.
Olive's expression softened, a mixture of understanding and something like compassion crossing her face. "I know," she said softly, the sound of forks the only sound in the room.
"These things happen, though. I'm glad that you didn't let the accident ruin your life. If you have all these people vouching for you—hell, Lola sings your praise all the time—then it sounds like you're a guy who really tries to help his family and friends. I just wanted to meet you and tell you that it's alright. I don't blame you anymore. It was an accident, pure and simple."
The words washed over Chase like an unexpected wave of grace. He felt something inside him—a knot of tension he'd carried for years—begin to loosen.
Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. She stiffened in his arms, then softened, both of them choking on their sobs and trying to remain strong. It wasn't a quick or long hug, but simply an acknowledgement of pain, survival, and the possibility of healing.
The thing inside him—a tightness he'd carried for years—began to release. Not completely. Not perfectly. But something was shifting, like a long-frozen landscape slowly, imperceptibly, beginning to thaw.
When they broke apart, tears glistened in both their eyes. Olive wiped her cheek, a quick, self-conscious gesture. "Bye," she said simply.
"Bye," Chase responded, his voice thick but clear as she spun on her heel and strode briskly through the door.
Chase could feel the stares from his family at the table. The emotional residue of the encounter still vibrated through him, raw and unprocessed. His hands were trembling slightly, so he fisted them and shifted on his feet.
Jewel stood and reached out, touching his forearm. Her gesture was gentle but grounding. "Do you want me to take you home?"
He couldn't speak, just nodded and avoided his family's eyes. His breath choked, and Jewel pulled him into a hug. "Sh, it's alright. I've got you."
Her voice was soft, and he curled his body around her, wrapping his hands around her waist.
Chase wasn't sure how long they stood there, his face buried in her neck, her fingers stroking the back of his head in soothing, slow motions. The diner sounds faded into a muted background, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
When he finally pulled back, Jewel's eyes were soft, understanding. She didn't ask questions, didn't push. Just waited.
"I need some air," he muttered.
Still avoiding his family's eyes, Jewel told everyone goodbye for both of them as he walked out, dropping cash off with the hostess to cover their meals.
They walked out together, her hand resting lightly on his lower back this time. The parking lot was crisp with fall, leaves skittering across the asphalt. Chase took deep breaths, filling his lungs with cool air.
The smell of freedom, a smell Abigail would never smell again. Survivor's guilt ate at him, and he fought an internal battle against it with every strategy his years of therapy had given him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Jewel asked quietly as they walked to her truck.
He shook his head. Not yet. Maybe never.
The ride back to the ranch was silent, the truck's engine a steady rumble beneath the weight of unspoken emotions. Chase stared out the window, watching the familiar landscape of rolling hills and scattered ranch buildings blur past. Jewel's hands were steady on the steering wheel, her profile illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
When they pulled up to the cabin, Chase didn't move. Didn't unbuckle. Just sat, his fingers tracing the seam of his jeans, lost in thought and memories of the past.
Jewel killed the engine and turned toward him. "Want to talk about it?"
He shook his head, a quick, jerky movement. But then, unexpectedly, the words started to come. Soft at first, then gathering momentum.
"I never told you everything about that night," he said, his voice rough. "About Abigail."
She turned off the engine. "Come on. Let's go inside, and you can tell me all about it."
The cabin's interior was warm, the soft glow of late afternoon filtering through the windows. Chase settled onto the worn leather couch, his body tense, hands clasped between his knees. Jewel moved quietly, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of him before sitting beside him, close enough to offer support but not so close that she would crowd him.
"I was tutoring Andre," Chase began, his voice low and measured. "We were just kids. Stupid, reckless kids. I was stressing about mid-terms. I—I don't remember it."
Jewel's body tensed beside his. "What does that mean?"
The coffee steamed between them, a silent witness to the story about to unfold. Jewel remained still, her presence a steady anchor as Chase gathered his thoughts.
"Exactly that. We finished tutoring, and Andre felt confident about the test on Monday. He offered me a joint and a few beers. We were watching TV when his dad came home. They argued, and I left. That's all I remember, walking out of their trailer."
Chase's fingers traced the ceramic mug's rim, his gaze distant. "The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. Three days later. My entire world was shattered when they told me what happened. But I don't remember any of it."
Jewel remained silent, her breath soft and steady as she laid a comforting hand on the back of the couch, her fingers tracing a pattern on his shoulder.
"Not remembering doesn't make you less responsible," she said softly. "But it doesn't make you a monster, either."
Chase's laugh was harsh, bitter. "Most people would disagree with you. At least, that's what I heard over and over when I was in court."
"Most people aren't sitting here with you, hearing your heart break over something you can't change." Her voice was steady, unflinching. "You've spent years proving who you are now. Not who you were that night."
He looked at her then, really looked. Saw the understanding in her eyes—not pity, not judgment. Just a raw, honest compassion that made his chest ache. He was amazed by this woman, and his heart beat just for her. He wanted her to know everything because if she eventually learned to love him back, he wanted to know that it was with blinders off. She had to know what she was getting into.
"They say I hit their family head-on and was thrown through the windshield." His voice cracked. "How out of it was I that I didn't buckle up? I always buckle up on the highway. Mom drummed that into all of us since we could walk."
"Chase," she said softly, "you can't keep blaming yourself for something that was an accident."
He laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. "An accident that killed an innocent girl. Destroyed her family. Fifteen years doesn't feel like enough punishment considering her lost life."
"The system punished you," Jewel said firmly. "You've done everything you can to rebuild. To make something good out of that terrible moment. You've learned from your mistakes, haven't you?"
He nodded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I've only drank one beer a night at the bar or at poker night since I've been out. Haven't smoked pot or done any of that other shit, so I guess I learned from the mistake. The thing is… I'd never over-indulged before either. Of the half dozen times I'd drank and smoked that semester with Andre, I'd never blacked out, never overdid it and got sick, or even had a hangover. I don't remember taking anything more than what I normally did, which was just one beer. Andre made fun of me for refusing all but the smallest amounts like normal."
He sat the shaking cup back on the coffee table and ran his sweaty hands down his pants. "Didn't fucking matter in the end. Abigail died instantly. Her sister survived with a broken leg. Parents survived with broken bones too."
Jewel's hand moved, not touching him, but close enough that he could feel her warmth, a silent offering of support.
"In prison, my therapist said Andre was technically an accessory. He could've stopped me from driving, could've taken the keys, could've called someone to come pick me up."
"But you didn't tell anyone about him during the trial, did you?" Jewel asked, but it wasn't a question. Her tone said it as fact.
He heaved a shuddering breath, his chest tight and eyes burning. "The reports said I was over the legal limit. They kept asking where I got it from, but I didn't see the point in him going to jail too for something I did. They said I was driving too fast, but I don't remember anything but flashes of light. Sirens. Screaming. The smell of burning metal."
His voice broke on the last word. A single tear traced down his cheek, which he wiped away with a rough motion.
"I never wanted to hurt anyone," Chase whispered. His hands clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone white. "Never."
Jewel's hand finally settled on his shoulder, her touch light but grounding. "I know," she said softly. "I know."
For several long moments, only the soft ticking of the kitchen clock broke the silence. Chase's breathing slowly steadied, the terrible weight of memory gradually lifting.
"Olive seemed… peaceful," she said finally. "About everything. About her sister."
Chase nodded, and Jewel continued. "Some people transform their pain into something meaningful. Sounds like she did that by becoming a social worker."
Chase's laugh was quick and brittle. "Not everyone gets that chance to become more than their mistakes. Not everyone gets second chances."
Her fingers squeezed his shoulder. "But you did. And you're making the most of it. You move into the house this week. You're going to pass the exam this week. You're working for Lola bookkeeping and you're helping all kinds of people grow their money so they can do better things with it. I think that's all we can do as human beings… try to make a positive impact on more people than negative effects."
Chase felt something inside him shift at her words. Not completely, not perfectly, but something was softening, thawing.
"I want to be a good father to Destini," he said quietly. "I want her to know that people can change. That mistakes don't define you forever."
Jewel's hand remained on his shoulder, her touch steady and warm. "And you will be. She already loves you."
He turned to look at her then, surprised. "She does?"
"When we went to bed, we stayed up for hours talking about all kinds of things. The thing she wanted to talk about most? You," Jewel said, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "She went on and on about how smart you are, how you explained things, how you listened to her. She's excited to get to know you, Chase."
The words settled into him like a balm, easing some of the rawness of the memories he'd just shared. Proud. His daughter was proud of him.
He nodded slowly, absorbing her words. The tension in his shoulders began to unwind, like a tightly coiled spring gradually releasing its energy.
The afternoon light filtered through the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Outside, the ranch stretched out—acres of potential, of second chances. Just like Chase.
He squeezed her hand, feeling something profound shifting inside him, like tectonic plates realigning after a long, difficult earthquake.