Chapter 4
Jasmine
My phone glows on the nightstand. A text from Antonio, sent forty minutes ago.
Went for a run. Back soon with breakfast.
A week has passed in a haze of rest and recovery. Antonio brings me warm lemon water each morning at the perfect temperature. It’s been my ritual since college, though I never told him about it.
The first two days, I insisted I could get my own food and make my own lemon water. He’d simply left everything within reach and disappeared.
By day three, I stopped protesting. By day four, I started looking forward to the knock on my door signaling breakfast had arrived.
He texts every morning asking what I want for breakfast, then either picks it up or has it delivered within the hour. Lunch and dinner follow the same pattern.
He’s changed my bandages without complaint, kept my room stocked with water and snacks, and somehow anticipated needs I didn’t know I had.
I’ve spent most of the past week in bed sleeping, watching movies, or facing the windows overlooking the lake, trying to come up with ways to make my characters talk to me again.
Today, though, I feel better. Strong enough to venture beyond the guest room for the first time since I arrived.
I push myself out of bed slowly, mindful of my ribs. They’re healing, but sudden movements still send pain shooting through my side. My wrists feel better, but the brace won’t come off for a few more days.
I step into the hallway, then pause at the threshold. The last time I had been in this hallway, I was in Antonio’s arms, too injured to protest being carried. Now I’m on my own feet, slower than I’d like, but upright.
The lake house is beautiful in daylight. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the water beyond, and sunlight pours across hardwood floors.
The open floor plan isn’t my style, but the view makes up for it. The lake stretches endlessly, blue and calm, ringed by trees.
My mug of lemon water is waiting in the kitchen, sitting on a mug warmer. He made it before he left and set it up so it would be ready when I woke up.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I’m still standing at the counter, holding the mug, when the front door opens.
Antonio steps inside and crosses the living room toward the kitchen, breathing hard. His t-shirt clings to his chest in ways I’m trying very hard not to notice.
“Morning.” He sets a paper bag on the counter. “I got that grain bowl you like. And some fruit.”
Three days ago, the grain bowl had been a mistake in the order. I’d tried it anyway and loved it. He’d been ordering it ever since.
“Thank you.” I lift my mug slightly. “And thank you for this.”
We move around the kitchen in an awkward dance. He reaches for plates while I reach for glasses.
We both reach for the same drawer, and our fingers collide. I snatch my hand back so fast I nearly elbow him in the ribs.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re fine.” He steps left, and I step left.
“I’ll just—” I step right, and he does the same.
“Go ahead.”
This is ridiculous, and also the longest we’ve been in the same room since he settled me into the guest room a week ago. He’s been giving me space to heal without hovering.
He hands me the grain bowl and retreats to the other side of the island with his coffee. The silence stretches.
“How was your run?” I ask to fill it.
“Hot.”
“It’s July.”
“That would explain it.”
The rest of the day passes at a snail’s pace of inactivity. Antonio works in his office. I sit on the deck with my laptop, willing the words to come.
They don’t.
Every time Antonio walks through the living room, I’m aware of him. Every time he speaks, I catch myself watching his mouth. Every time he looks at me, I feel the weight of his hands on my waist.
When it starts drizzling after supper, I retreat to my room and run a bath.
The water is warm, and the bathroom fills with steam. My laptop is balanced on a bath tray with the screen tilted toward me.
When I first started writing, I’d soak for hours, letting scenes unfold in my mind while the water relaxed my muscles. Words used to come easily in the tub.
Now I stare at the page, holding back my tears.
I type a sentence. Delete it. Try another. Delete that too.
The water cools. I add more hot. The words don’t come. They haven’t come in so long that I’m starting to wonder if they ever will again.
When the water turns cold for the third time, I accept defeat. I close my laptop and set it on the floor beside the tub.
I push up with my uninjured hand and swing my leg over the edge of the tub, but my arm gives out and I slip back, heart pounding.
Water sloshes over the side, soaking the bath mat. I try again, slower this time, but my muscles won’t cooperate. I drop back into the water with a splash that sends more water onto the floor.
This is fine. I’m fine. I just need to figure out the right angle.
Ten minutes later, I’m still in the tub. I’ve tried pushing off the wall, using the faucet as leverage and hooking my leg over the edge, and pulling myself up.
Nothing works. My arm is too weak, my ribs too sore, and the porcelain too slippery.
I’m stuck.
A week ago, I would have stayed in this tub until hypothermia set in rather than asking Antonio for help. But he’s shown up every day without being asked. That kind of consistency is hard to ignore.
I reach for my phone on the bath tray and type out a text before I can talk myself out of it.
I need help.
His response comes immediately.
What’s wrong?
I’m stuck in the bathtub.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. Then I hear his footsteps in my bedroom and a knock on the bathroom door.
“Jasmine?”
“I can’t get out. My arm isn’t strong enough.”
A pause. “I’m coming in.”
The door opens. Antonio steps inside and stops, his eyes moving over me. He doesn’t pretend he isn’t looking. His gaze travels from my face to the water and back up again, and the lines of his face harden.
He moves closer, rolling up his sleeves. “Give me your hand.”
I reach up and he takes my uninjured hand in his, bracing my shoulder with his other hand near my armpit. He hauls me up slowly, his grip firm as I find my footing on the slick porcelain.
Then the arm holding my hand slides to my waist to steady me. Water sluices off my body while I stand in the tub, completely exposed.
He reaches for the heated towel hanging on the rack and wraps it around me without comment. His hands linger on my waist for a moment longer.
“You’re showing,” he says.
Heat floods my cheeks, but not from embarrassment. Pride, maybe. Wonder at what my body is doing. “Barely.”
“It’s more obvious without clothes.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “When you’re dressed, I can’t tell.”
“That’s because I wear oversized clothes.”
“I know.” He steps back. “I bought a book.”
The subject change throws me. “Okay?”
“I thought I could read to you. It might help with writer’s block. If you want.”
I almost say no. Reading has always been solitary for me, and the thought of sharing that space with him feels too intimate.
But I’m also tired of being alone with my thoughts and feeling like a failure.
“Let me get dressed. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I dry off, moisturize my entire body, and pull on my softest pajamas. When I step into my bedroom, he’s sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, phone in hand.
I hesitate in the doorway.
“I can read from the chair if you’d prefer,” he says, watching me.
“No, it’s fine.”
I cross to the bed and climb in beside him, arranging the pillows until I’m comfortable.
He holds up his phone for me to see the cover. Blackout by Evan C. Ryder. There’s a silhouette of a man against a city skyline, the title in bold red letters.
“I’ve never read a crime thriller,” I say.
“Give it a chance.” He touches the screen and the page flips. “Something different might shake things loose.”
Before I can argue, he starts reading.
His voice is low and warm. The words flow easily, and I find myself sinking deeper into the pillows as he describes Detective Connor Black arriving at a crime scene. The story is darker than anything I usually read, grittier, but Antonio’s voice makes it feel almost comfortable.
The rain picks up outside, drumming against the windows. I’m drifting, half-asleep, when the power goes out, plunging the bedroom into darkness. A moment later, thunder rattles the windows.
I’m moving before I can think, pressing myself against Antonio’s side, my heart slamming in my chest. The sound. That sound. It’s the same as the crash, the same deafening impact, the same violent interruption of everything safe.
“Hey.” His arm comes around me, pulling me closer. “It’s just a storm. You’re safe.”
Another crack of thunder. I flinch, and his arms tighten.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you, querida.”
I can’t respond. I’m shaking, and I hate it, hate that I’m falling apart over a storm, but I can’t make it stop.
He holds me tighter. His hand strokes my back in slow circles. He doesn’t tell me to calm down or that I’m overreacting. He holds me.
The storm rages outside. Rain lashes the windows. Lightning illuminates the room in brief white flashes. I press my face against his chest and try to remember how to breathe.
He sets his phone on the nightstand. “I’ll read more tomorrow. If you want.”
I want. I want so badly it scares me.
Slowly, the panic recedes. My breathing evens out. The thunder rolls again, more distant this time.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was four,” I start. “My mother hurt her shoulder playing tennis. The doctor gave her pain pills.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps stroking my back.
“She got addicted. It happened slowly, and I was too young to understand. I just knew she was different.” I swallow. “She started making bad decisions. Driving when she shouldn’t have.”
Thunder rolls again. I press closer to him.
“One night, there was a storm. She put me in the car anyway. I don’t know where she was trying to go. I just remember the rain, and the thunder, and her driving too fast. And then we crashed.”
His arms tighten around me.
“I don’t remember the impact. Just the sound. And then the screaming. I don’t know if it was her or me.” I close my eyes. “CPS took me after that. I never saw her again. She lost custody, and a few months later, she overdosed.”
The room is quiet except for the rain. Antonio’s hand has stopped moving on my back, but he hasn’t let go.
“Is that why you refused the pain medication at the hospital?” he asks.
I nod against his chest. “I’m terrified of being a mother,” I admit. “I’m terrified I’ll fail like she did. That I’ll hurt our daughter somehow without meaning to. That I’ll turn into someone she can’t trust.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve watched you for years. The way you love Meesha and Jessa.
The way you care about everyone around you.
The way you’re already thinking about our daughter’s future, worrying about being good enough for her.
” His hand cups my face. “That fear you feel is love. Bad mothers don’t worry about being bad mothers. ”
I want to wrap myself in his words and believe them. But years of self-doubt don’t disappear with one reassurance, no matter how much I want them to.
“She’s going to need more than just love,” I say. “She’s going to need stability. Consistency. Things I never had.”
“Then we’ll give her those things.” His voice is level. “Together.”
“Together,” I repeat, testing the word. “What does that mean?”
“It means we’re a team.” He shifts onto his side, facing me fully in the shadows. “I want to be there for her and for you. I’m in this for the long haul. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
Before I can overthink it, I lean up and find his lips in the darkness.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he wasn’t expecting it. He goes completely still, and I think I’ve made a mistake. Then his hand slides into my hair, angling my head as he kisses me back.
It’s nothing like Vegas. That night was heat and urgency. This is slow. His mouth moves against mine as if he’s memorizing the shape of my lips and the way I taste.
I pull back. “She’s moving.”
Antonio’s entire expression shifts. “Really?”
I press my stomach more firmly against his middle. “Right here. Can you feel that?”
We stay frozen like that, waiting. His hand stills on my back, both of us barely breathing.
“I can’t feel it,” he says.
“I’m sorry.” I start to pull back, but his hand on my back keeps me there.
“Don’t be sorry.” He cups the back of my neck. “Tell me every time she moves. Even if I can’t feel it yet. I want to know.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He pulls me back down into another kiss. Slower this time. A brush of lips, then another. He chases my mouth when I pull back, and I smile against his lips.
We stay like that, trading slow kisses while the storm rages outside. Eventually, the kisses grow lazy. My eyes are heavy and I let my head fall to his chest.
His arms wrap around me, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him. Into the safety of being held.