12. Helen
HELEN
I’d planned to spend the afternoon alone, walking it out, breathing it in, continuing Alaska’s training so she stays calm around birds as we go.
Instead, I’m in Victor’s car heading toward Long Island.
“It’ll be quick,” he says. “You should see where we could end up.”
He gives me a tour of the neighborhood first, passing hedges, private gates, and driveways big enough to turn a limousine. His hand rests on my thigh as he drives.
Then he slows at a mansion that feels different from the rest. Stone and cedar stand behind mature trees. The roofline lifts around a sweeping arched window, chimneys framing the house like pillars. He doesn’t pull over immediately.
“Imagine living here,” he says, letting me look.
I used to live in something bigger than this. Marble staircases. Ballroom ceilings. Bedrooms bigger than the average city apartments. I don’t miss it.
“Jag,” I say, “if you’re trying to impress me, I am impressed. But even if you live in a seven-hundred-square-foot apartment, I won’t see you as anything less.”
His fingers stroke slowly along my arm, as if I’ve just confirmed something important.
“You’re right,” he says. “But there’s no sin in planning our future where life is comfortable. You should see the back. Faces the Sound. Grill, outdoor kitchen, the whole setup. You’d live out there every weekend.”
“You’ve seen the inside?” I ask.
“Parts of it. Enough to know.” He pauses, looking up at the mansion’s rows of windows. “Most of all, it has room to grow.”
The words “we could end up” suddenly becomes all too real. I turn toward him. “You mean…family?”
His eyes stay on the house.
“Yeah. Don’t you want a family, Helen?”
I’ve never had the luxury of thinking in timelines. My life has always felt like reaction.
“Well…” I inhale. “Yes. I do want a family. Not immediately, though.”
He finally looks at me and shakes his head. “Look at your face. Relax. I’m not asking you to give me children tomorrow.” His hand slides from my arm to my waist, fingers pressing me back against the seat. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.” His gaze flicks back to the mansion.
I smile and nod. “One day.”
“Sooner than you think,” he muses.
I almost tell him he should pour whatever money he has into the company instead of terraces and turrets. But that’s just my reflex. Budget before fantasy. So I swallow it.
He drives on.
“Any news from Greigson?” I ask.
He smooths an invisible crease from his cuff. “Helen. Helen. Helen. That’s old news. He agreed.”
“Oh. That’s wonderful,” I say. “You know, Jag? You don’t need anyone’s permission. If you want that house, or any house, you should.”
He slows near the water and pulls over. For a second, he just sits there. Then he turns toward me.
“Come here.”
It isn’t a command. It sounds tired.
I lean in, and he folds his arms around me. Not the public embrace he’s perfected at events. This is closer, and firmer.
“You make it sound simple,” he murmurs. “Like I’m not still standing in front of a verdict.”
“You’re not,” I affirm.
He lets out something between a laugh and a breath.
“You see me as this guy who’s always in control,” he says. “The one who handles it. But sometimes…” His fingers tighten at my back. “Sometimes I just need to know you’re with me. That you believe in it. In me.”
“You know I do.”
“The house. I want you to approve it,” he adds, softer now. “Not because I need permission. Because I want us deciding together. Collaboration?”
His expression holds both strain and hope.
“That’s the Jagger I knew,” I say.
His hand cups my jaw, a fingertip brushing beneath my ear. Then he kisses me.
Our mouths still find each other like they used to. There’s history in it. Something comforting that never had to be relearned. But the spark doesn’t flare the way it once did.
Is that just time doing what time does? Or is this what growing up means? Trading fireworks for a steadier burn, one that lasts longer than the flash ever could?
An incoming call interrupts.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say, realizing it’s mine. “It’s Gareth from PetBed.”
Victor’s mouth tightens for the briefest second before it eases again.
“Answer it,” he says.
I decline the call anyway, then suddenly find the dashboard, the windshield, and the passing traffic fascinating enough to avoid looking at him.
My phone pings with a new voicemail message. “He wants to talk about an upcoming shoot,” I explain.
“You’re going to Florida again?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No. But please coordinate with me.”
“Jag…”
“I’m not trying to control you,” he cuts in. “It’s because of the Game.”
Enough time had passed since he first brought it up that I’d started treating it like one of his half-finished provocations.
“You’re being dramatic about this,” I quip.
“It can happen at a moment’s notice, and if you forfeit, you won’t get another invitation.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes the seriousness feel justified.
A strange little current moves through me.
The same anticipation I felt during that fugu dinner comes rushing back, and despite everything else crowding my life, the thought of missing this suddenly feels like a mistake.
“We’ll talk about it,” he says, as if reading my interest now. “I booked us the wine cellar tonight at seven.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “You get that look right before my life becomes complicated.”
A slow smile pulls at his mouth.
“Helen,” he says, “you have no idea.”