Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
RAVEN
T he air smells of grease and gasoline as I step into the mechanic's shop, the sounds of clanging tools and a distant radio filling the space. My heart races in my chest. I’ve spent the entire morning building up the courage to come here. I don’t even know if he’ll recognize me—or worse, if he’ll care.
I spot him under the hood of an old pickup truck, his body half-hidden. His father isn’t in sight, but Earl is here, his jeans low on his hips, grease smeared along his forearm. Then he rolls out from beneath the truck, his shirtless body glistening with sweat. Sitting up, he reaches for a rag to wipe his hands.
My eyes widen.
I’ve never seen him like this. The sunlight streaming through the open garage doors catches the sheen of sweat on his chest, the lean muscles of his shoulders. There is a faint smudge of grease on his jaw that I itch to wipe off. My face burns, and for a moment, I feel like I should turn around and leave. But I can’t.
He glances up, and his dark eyes lock onto mine. There’s a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—but his expression remains guarded. He’s so different from the boys at school. Much more mature, much more regal.
“Do you need something?” he asks coldly, like he’s embarrassed I’m seeing him unwashed in these greasy surroundings.
I swallow hard, gripping the handles of my bike tighter. “Um, my chain,” I say, stumbling over my words. “It—it’s broken. I thought maybe … you could help.”
He raises an eyebrow. “We fix cars, not bikes.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “But you’re good with tools, right? It shouldn’t be that different.”
“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Bring it here.”
I wheel the bike over, feeling both triumphant and stupid that my fairly transparent stunt worked. He crouches down, inspecting the chain with a practiced hand, and I catch a better view of his face—a sharp jawline, a stray strand of dark hair falling into his eyes. God, he’s beautiful.
He doesn’t say much as he works, his hands deftly repairing the chain while I stand awkwardly beside him. I’m mesmerized by the precision of his movements. My heart beats erratically as I watch him, every tilt of his head, every flex of his fingers sending a spark through me. I try to keep my gaze neutral, but it’s impossible not to admire the way his body moves—fluid, efficient, strong.
For once, I do not get bored. I soak in every passing second as I watch his body move. Eventually, he’s done.
“There.” He stands. “It’s fixed.”
I beam at him. “Thanks! How much do I owe you?”
His brow furrows. “Forget it.”
“Okay then, how about a game of Monopoly?” I offer quickly.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Monopoly?”
“Yeah, I’m the best there is. If you can beat me, I’ll buy you an extra-large burger, chips, and the biggest sundae at Tim & Marty’s.”
He crosses his arms. “Okay.”
“Great,” I flush all over. “I have it right here.”
I reach into the basket and retrieve the box. I’d known when I’d destroyed my bike chain that I’d need an excuse to spend some time with him.
He stares at me.
Does he suspect that I came here intentionally with the flimsiest plan ever just so I can see him again? My pulse quickens under his gaze, every second stretching endlessly. His dark eyes are sharp, penetrating, and entirely unreadable and I feel like I might disintegrate under his gaze. Is he trying to figure me out? I shift nervously on my feet, gripping the Monopoly set tighter in my hands, but I don’t look away.
Finally, he exhales and pulls a stool next to the wall with one hand, setting it down near the workbench. “Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s play your game.”
I can’t help but grin as I pull up a stool across from him, setting the board on the workbench between us. My heart pounds with excitement, but I force myself to keep it together. He agreed. He’s actually going along with this.
“Okay, rules are simple,” I say, opening the box and pulling out the pieces. “No cheating, no backing out, and no crying when I destroy you.”
He snorts, leaning back slightly. “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who brought a board game to a mechanic’s shop.”
“And you’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who’s about to lose,” I fire back, handing him the Banker’s tray.
His lips twitch as if he’s holding back a smile. “We’ll see.”
As we start to set up the game, I can’t help but steal glances at him. He’s not like no one I know. There’s a weight to him, a gravity that makes him seem older, more serious. I roll first, landing on a property. “Hah, Park Lane,” I declare proudly, placing my token on the space. “Of course, I’m buying. One hotel, please.”
“Spending all your money already?” he drawls, handing me the deed. “Bold move.”
“Bold is my middle name,” I reply, grinning as I hand over the cash.
He shakes his head, rolling the dice and landing on Chance. He picks up the card and he reads it aloud. “Advance to Go. Collect $200.” For the first time, I see him smile. It’s small, fleeting, but it lights up his whole face. My heart flutters in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe. This is why I came here. To see this side of him. To make him laugh, even if just a little.
“Lucky,” I mutter, but I’m secretly thrilled that he’s started to enjoy the game.
Slowly, the tension between us vanishes. I crack jokes whenever he lands on my properties, charging him exorbitant rent with exaggerated glee. He groans every time but pays up without complaint, his lips quirking in amusement despite himself.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he says at one point, after narrowly avoiding my three hotels on Boardwalk.
By the time the game is nearing its end, I’ve built an empire of properties, and he’s barely hanging on.
“Game over,” I announce triumphantly, counting my stack of cash with a dramatic flourish. “You’ve been thoroughly defeated.”
He leans back, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. “I thought your intention with this was to make me feel better. I can assure you that right now I do not feel better.”
“Womp womp,” I mock, grinning as I hold up the wad of fake cash. “I do, however, have compassion, and I’m such a generous winner, so I’ll let you have this as a consolation prize.”
“You’re giving me fake money?” he asks, his tone dry.
“It’s the thought that counts,” I reply, laughing happily …
“Mrs. Jackson. We’re here.”
At the sudden announcement, I jerk back to the present and realize that we’ve arrived at my parents' house. I lean back against the seat for a moment, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag as the memory fades. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Only the memory of those wads of cash flying through the air is still sharp enough to cut. The contrast between the young man I knew and the man he’s become is almost too much to bear. My heart twists painfully and I will the tears brimming in my eyes to stay put. There’s no time for this sentimentality—not now. Now I have to stop thinking of myself and save my father.
I draw in a deep breath, straighten my posture and wipe away the single tear that managed to escape. My face smooths into something bright, something cheerful, though it feels like I’m wearing a mask made of fragile glass. My parents can’t see me breaking—they need to believe I’m happy, that this marriage, strange as it is, hasn’t broken me.
“Mrs. Jackson?” the driver calls again.
“Yes,” I nod, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”
With steady hands, I push the car door open and step out, letting the cool air wash over me. The sight of my parents’ home brings a fleeting sense of comfort. I helped them buy this house with my wages. I clutch onto the feeling with everything I have. All that matters is that I make them happy and show them I’m okay—even if I’m not.
Inside, the smell of something delicious wafts through the air—a comforting mix of meat, onions, and herbs. My mom is in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, humming as she stirs a pot on the stove. Her face lights up when she sees me.
“There’s my girl!” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel and pulling me into a hug. Her embrace is warm and smells faintly of the lavender talcum powder she always uses. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Mom,” I say, squeezing her tightly. “What’s cooking? Smells amazing.”
“Just meatloaf, soup, and your favorite cookies,” she replies, her eyes twinkling. “Thought you could use a good home-cooked meal.”
I laugh softly, following her into the kitchen and setting my bag on the counter. “Thank you, I do.”
“Now, tell me everything. How’s the house? And how does it feel to have staff serving you?”
I smile and am about to lie through my teeth when the sound of my father shifting in his recliner catches my attention.
“Hang on a sec, Mom,” I say softly and make my way over to him. He’s in his usual spot, his chair tilted back for a nap, but his face looks pale, drawn, even as he sits up at my approach and smiles warmly.
“Hi, Dad,” I say gently, bending down to wrap my arms around him. He pulls me into a bear hug, but his embrace is weaker than I remember.
“Ah! you’re home,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep. “How are you doing, kiddo? Everything okay?”
I nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine, Dad.” The words feel heavy, but I force them out with a smile. “You get some rest. Mom and I will catch up in the kitchen and we’ll have lunch together, okay?”
He nods, though his eyes linger on me with the kind of worry only a parent can carry. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading back to my mother, who’s already bustling around the stove.
As soon as I rejoin her, she’s ready, questions spilling out like steam from a pot.
“So,” she begins, her voice light but probing, as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “How’s the marriage? What about you and Earl? Is he treating you well? Do you … see him much?”
The rhythm of her chopping slows slightly, a subtle cue that she’s paying close attention to. With a soft laugh, I pull out a chair and collapse into it. I lean my elbows on the kitchen table. “You can stop worrying, Mom, I’m fine. Really. The house is beautiful—absolutely gorgeous. It’s lovely having staff. And Earl and I are slowly working our issues out.” I force my tone to sound lighter. “And once Dad is well, you’ll both have to come up to the house. Maybe in summer. It’s beautiful. A dream, really. There’s a lake too and I know Dad will love it.”
Mom sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, tilting her head with a knowing look. “And what about Mrs. Belafonte’s staff? How are they treating you? Are they polite to you?”
I chuckle softly and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, Mom, they’re wonderful. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for better people. They’re so kind and helpful. They … they actually make me feel at home.”
Her eyebrows lift with surprise. “That’s good to hear. I’ve heard stories about Mrs. Belafonte and how she used to treat her staff, so I thought they might be a bit difficult or standoffish with you.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Not at all. They’ve been nothing but welcoming. I guess they much prefer me to their old mistress. Apparently, she was a real tyrant.”
“Yes, I heard that too,” my mom confirms. “Apparently, she used to make their lives miserable.”
“Well, I certainly don’t. Obviously, they do their jobs, but I treat them with respect. I didn’t grow up rich, so I think they see me as no different than them.”
“Good. That is how your father and I brought you up to be. To be kind. Never change, Raven,” she says, her voice thick with pride.
I nod, the words sinking into me with a quiet comfort. “I try to be kind, but they’ve made it so easy. Nora and I talk, we laugh… It’s nice. I don’t feel lonely at all.”
Mom’s eyes crinkle with joy and her shoulders relax. She turns back to stir the pot of soup on the stove. “Good. You deserve to be surrounded by people who care about you.”
“I am,” I reply.
“And what about your husband?” she asks. “I really wonder if I’m ever going to get used to that. Have you gotten used to saying it?”
“Not at all,” I smile. “And he’s alright. We’re working things out slowly. No issues there.”
I can tell something in my voice or expression must have given the game away and she doesn’t really believe me, but thankfully she doesn’t press and instead shifts the focus of the conversation.
“Your clothes look new. Did he buy them for you?” she probes.
I glance down at the simple outfit I’d thrown on that morning—a blouse I bought a long time ago and never wore, and jeans. “No,” I say, brushing off invisible lint from my sleeve. “These are just some old things I dug out of my closet.”
Her eyes linger on me for a moment longer, as though trying to read between the lines of what I’m not saying. Then she picks up the knife again and continues.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “It was too strange and sad when you moved out so suddenly.”
Tears fill my eyes at her words. I rush up to her and hug her hard. I need the warmth and love more than she will ever know.
“It’s good to be back,” I whisper tearfully.
Soon lunch is ready. Mom wipes her hands on her apron and calls out to Dad. I follow her into the small dining room, where he’s already sitting at the table that has been set for three.
I help Mom bring all the food to the table, making sure everything looks perfect. The aroma of warm soup and freshly baked meatloaf fills the room. The weight on my chest feels lighter. We start eating and the conversation flows easily at first, focusing on little things—the neighbor’s dog, a new series Mom has started watching, and the state of Dad’s vegetable patch.
But as the meal progresses, the inevitable topic surfaces: Dad’s health.
“How are you feeling, Dad?” I ask gently, my gaze settling on him. “Any changes since last week?”
He shifts in his chair, his shoulders slumping slightly as he exhales. “About the same,” he says, his voice low. “Tired, mostly. And the cough’s been worse at night.”
Mom glances over at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s been hard,” she admits softly, her fingers tightening around her napkin. “I’m trying to get him to rest more, but … you know how stubborn he is.”
Dad gives a weak chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Resting doesn’t fix much,” he says. “But I’m good.”
I nod, biting back the urge to argue. “Well,” I say, folding my hands in front of me, “we don’t have to wait anymore. I’ve made arrangements, and we can start treatment as soon as Monday.”
Their heads snap toward me, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. Mom’s eyes fill with emotion as she places her hand over her mouth. Dad blinks, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. “This Monday?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Earl was very generous. He’s already given me the first instalment for Dad’s medical procedures and I’ve already contacted the hospital and made an appointment for next week. So everything is ready. The doctors can start the process immediately.”
Mom sets down her fork, her brow furrowed in the way it always does when she’s worried. “We’re so grateful, sweetheart,” she says softly. “But … it just feels so fast. Are you sure about all this? About asking Earl for the money?”
I smile, keeping my tone light, even teasing. “Mom, he’s my husband. It’s his job to help with things like this. Honestly, he didn’t even hesitate. He wanted to come along today to say hello, but he’s busy during work hours. But he’ll try to come next time.”
They exchange a glance—one of those quiet exchanges that speak volumes without words. Dad clears his throat, leaning back in his chair. He looks tired and pale, but there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. “It’s not just the money, though,” he says, his voice rough. “We’re worried about you, kiddo. This whole situation … it wasn’t what you wanted, was it?”
“Dad,” I say firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “This is exactly what I always wanted. I’ve wanted Earl from the first moment I set eyes on him. No more discussions about my marriage. You’re going to start your treatment on Monday, and everything’s going to be okay. That’s all that matters for now.”
“You’ve always been stubborn, but thank you, Raven. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter than you,” Dad mutters gruffly.
But my mother refuses to let it lie. “It’s just … Earl is such a mystery. How did he get so wealthy so quickly? Why did he disappear for all those years?”
I laugh lightly and lean back against my chair. “You know, I asked him the very same thing. He told me it wasn’t overnight—it just looks that way. He got lucky and put everything into the right opportunities. He’s smart, Mom. And determined. I promise I’ll tell you more about it, but another time, okay?”
Mom nods, but there’s a flicker of unease in her eyes. “Well, if he’s taking good care of you, that’s all we can ask for.”
“He is,” I say brightly, forcing my voice to bubble with enthusiasm. “He’s been amazing, really. And once things settle down, he’s going to come by and visit you both. I promise.”
They don’t push further, though I can feel their worries lingering in the room like an uninvited guest. I take a deep breath, determined to shift the mood. “Anyway,” I say, standing and stacking the plates to bring to the sink, “let’s not dwell on all that. The important thing is that we can schedule Dad’s treatment starting Monday. Isn’t that amazing?”
Dad’s lips tremble slightly as he nods. “It’s more than amazing, kid. It’s a miracle.”
“We’ll get through this,” I tell him firmly. “Together.”
The conversation lightens after that, and we finish the meal with Mom’s famous cookies. We laugh and share old stories, and for a little while, it almost feels normal. I cling to that feeling.
For now, I’ll keep doing what I do best—pretending everything is fine.