19. Nineteen
Hoping for more doors is a romantic ideal that makes sense for Jack Graham. He’s picture-perfect, bite-my-lip sexy, and has a heart-racing way with words—doors open for him automatically. Marcy’s remark about Jack and book signings—too many women hitting on him at once—probably isn’t an exaggeration. In a different life, I’d be one of those women desperate to catch the eye of the man behind the amazing love stories, and wishful that such a thing could happen.
But things like that don’t happen to me. Romances make promises that reality doesn’t keep—it’s an unfair genre. Spending time with Jack feels unfair, too. The way he looks at me, touches me, talks to me, tickles hope that shouldn’t be there. I can’t hope for more doors, but I must try to reopen the one I have.
Tonight’s the night!Rose’s text alert arrives as I cross the gully into our neighborhood from my morning run. It’s barely eight, but rental trucks, caterers, and event planners descend on Jack’s place like bees to a hive. I catch my breath on the grassy knoll and let out an embarrassing screech when firecrackers pop and squeal from Tom and Marcy’s backyard.
My phone alights again. WECT mentions Jack! TOU gets great reviews!
“It’s tradition,” Rose explained the other day over tea. “Whenever Jack releases a book, we set off fireworks and airhorns when he’s mentioned on TV or jumps up on the bestseller lists. It’s an all-day celebration.”
A cleansing breath relieves my sudden tension at the noises, and I stretch-walk the rest of the way home. At the door, my phone chimes again, this time from Jack.
Is it okay to say “disabled person?”
Put people first. “A person with a disability.”
I tuck my phone away, smiling, and trudge inside. The last two weeks have been quiet. Jack and I have occasional book talks as I work through my long reading list, and only then when we run into each other at the mailbox or in the driveway. He’s been writing nearly nonstop.
But he texts often. Questions like, Is gregarious just a pompous way to say friendly? Don’t you hate easily confused words like exasperated and exacerbated?
Yes. Yes. And just two days ago…
Please say you’re coming to my party.
Again, I answered yes. Attending Jack’s book release parties is an unwritten requirement in this neighborhood. But I want to anyway.
Airhorns sound from down the street—his release must be a hot topic on the morning talk shows.
The tradition started with Jack’s first book, Cape Moon, and a small gathering of family and friends in Tom and Marcy’s backyard. But as books kept coming, sales grew, and so did the celebration. Jack goes all out to thank the neighborhood that supports him. Black tie, book swag, live music, and catering—it promises to be a ritzy caviar and champagne party for an otherwise hot dogs and hamburgers crowd.
From the front window, Edgar and I watch Jack in his front yard, wearing his usual shorts, old band t-shirt, and flip-flops, directing the deliveries while occasionally picking weeds from his flower beds.
Another popping explosion echoes from Vernon and Rose’s driveway. Bothered by the noise, Edgar chirps and races down the hall, probably to hide under my bed.
I look up, shaking my head, to lock eyes with Jack from his yard. A timid wave passes between us, waking the butterflies in my stomach. Jack does strange things to me, like he’s a full moon, disrupting tides, altering moods, and inexplicably crowding emergency rooms. I don’t quite know what to think about him—only that I am. A lot.
Stranger still, he and I are becoming very good friends.
My phone buzzes in my hand—a text from Jack. Need help with those notebooks?
With a light laugh, I text back. It’s party day. You have much better things to do. I breathe out a sigh as I hit send. Though I’ve given Dr. Evelyn Tate a vague semester-long plan, I now need to fill in the gaps, not with traditional lesson plans outlining lectures, activities, and assignments but with what I’m calling Weekly Guides, material to have on hand and share based on each week’s theme. The first week, I plan to discuss genre to help them make their first book choices. What makes a book timeless… what makes a bestseller… what books appeal to them individually. Though I won’t dictate what we do, I need something to inspire them and fill awkward silences.
Not really. It’s too chaotic to write. Let me hide out with you?
If you’re here, I won’t get anything done.It’s a truth that pains me to admit—I’d rather hang out with Jack. But with school starting soon, I can’t procrastinate any longer.
I’m looking forward to tonight, I add on as an afterthought. I even know what I’m wearing—a sleek black dress with a swan-necked collar, which minimizes my neck scars without requiring a cumbersome scarf. In case there’s dancing, I think, hopefully. I’m not even nervous—a shocker, given that the oyster roast had me swearing off neighborhood parties and contemplating moving altogether.
Besides, as Mom rightly pointed out, it’s a book party. It’ll give me a cool story to tell my students when school starts. Dean sounded excited, too. “I hear Tom Holland’s starring in Cape Moon… you know, from Spiderman? They’re talking to Elle Fanning. Do you think they’ll be there?”
I had no idea. But it was a nice change having an upbeat conversation with Dean. He even said he loved me at the end, raising hope that things will return to normal when he’s home.
I head down the hall to my room, passing Sara’s door. A sticky note slapped to her door reads, “My house.”
My phone chimes. I’m looking forward to you being there. Text me immediately if you change your mind about the notebooks.
Annoying Jack-tingle-shocks release in a cleansing breath.
Sara arrives home just before the party while I put the final touches on my smokey eyes. I call out a greeting, but she doesn’t answer—the typical response.
So, I jump when I catch her reflection in my bathroom mirror behind me.
“You, um, you look nice.”
I smooth out the sides of my dress. “Thanks. Do you really think so?”
She nods, plopping beside Edgar on the bed.
“It should be fun. Rose and Vernon said that sometimes Jack does door prizes.” I turn to face her. “Aren’t you going to get dressed? You said you’d come—”
“Something’s come up.” She gnaws on her inner lip while worry lines clutter her forehead. “I was hoping you’d be okay with me staying at my place tonight.”
“Why?” My strappy black heels click across the wood floor as I sit on the opposite bed corner.
“Um, I miss home… It’ll just be for one night—I think. Maybe.” She fiddles with her fingers uneasily.
“Sara, whatever it is, just tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Her intricate eye-rolling ability makes a stunning return. Still, it ends with resignation as she slumps and blurts out, “My cousin Shaina says that my other cousins—the ones responsible for Dad being in jail—are planning to rob our house tonight. It’s like the perfect crime with no one there. I thought if I’m there with the lights on and the TV going, they’ll think he rented it out and won’t risk it.” She holds up her phone, tapping on a soundtrack of barking dogs that scares Edgar from the bed with a shrill meow. “See? I’ll play this if I see them coming. They hate dogs.”
“How sure is Shaina that it’ll be tonight?”
Sara’s green eyes widen. “Nearly a hundred percent. They’ve been talking about it all day.”
A deep breath brings me to my feet. “Then, we better get over there.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. I can’t let you do this alone. Besides, with my car in your driveway, they might buy your ruse. Maybe Shaina could off-handedly mention that she heard there’s a renter?”
She texts Shaina before I finish speaking.
Outside, cars line the street. Well-dressed partygoers overflow Jack’s yard and driveway. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” plays loudly from Jack’s backyard. Intoxicating food smells waft through the air—Asian barbecue—and my stomach growls.
Sara and I hurry to my car. But seeing Jack at his door greeting guests makes my heels scrape the concrete in a sudden pause—he looks incredible. His shaggy dark hair is tamed away from his eyes. The light stubble on his face is neatly trimmed. And his black suit makes him seem like he should be on a red carpet somewhere—not in a normal neighborhood hosting a house party.
Our eyes meet long enough to mouth a quick “Sorry,” and point to Sara before getting in the car.
Pulling into Sara’s driveway, my phone pings. Is everything okay?
I have to do something with Sara that can’t wait. Sorry.
Can I help?A short pause brings another ellipsis as he keeps typing. I have no qualms about leaving my own party. It’ll make me seem like a rebellious badass. *smirking face.
A heavy sigh escapes, and I realize, confusingly, that I believe him—he’d come if I asked. Thanks, but we’re good. Enjoy your party.
I expect questions, but he texts back. I’m here if you need me. Take care of Sara.
As streetlights flicker on and night takes over, nothing moves, and we hear crickets ramping up their evening activities.
“Shaina says they’re having a few beers first.” Sara unlocks the front door and leads me inside a tidy living room with mismatched second-hand furniture adorned in cozy accents. A crocheted blanket drapes the couch, reminding me of Grandma Betty’s handmade quilts. Colorful beach artwork featuring thick brush strokes in the style of Van Gogh liven up the brown paneled walls.
“These are gorgeous,” I say, peering into a beach at sunset painting.
Sara shrugs and starts turning on the lights and fans. It’s stuffy inside since the AC’s been off. But she gets that going, too, and I follow her lead, clicking on table lamps as I find them.
The living room feeds into an updated kitchen with white cabinetry and clean granite countertops. Sara’s room down the hall, with its walls covered in art and taped pictures, contrasts greatly with her father’s bare-bones minimalism. Everything is clean and well-kept.
We settle into the living room, where the street view through the picture window alerts us to traffic. She puts on Antiques Roadshow on PBS while we keep a cautious lookout.
Sara’s nervous eyes dart from her phone to the window like she’s on high alert. I order Domino’s, hoping to lighten the mood. We picnic in her living room and devour pizza between outrageous value reveals on the show.
“There isn’t much to steal,” she admits, mouth full. “But it’s ours, you know?”
“I understand wanting to protect your home. But you know, you can’t always be here.”
“I know.” She sighs heavily.
“Do you have other family who might help?”
Her lavender head shakes. “They’re garbage people. That’s why I’m with you. Dad didn’t want me with them—a stranger was better. When his parents left him this house, they were all jealous. He wants to believe the best about people. He employs half of ‘em in his lawn business, and they still treat him like shit. Maybe now, he’ll learn his lesson.”
I don’t say anything—what’s there to say? Sara needs no validation that her life is complicated. Nor does she need platitudes about things getting better. What she really needs is a solution.
“You have Wi-Fi, right?” I prompt my phone, thinking about how Jack answered his door before I rang the bell.
“Yeah.”
“I’m ordering two Ring doorbells. They have motion-sensor cameras that alert you if anyone comes near your front or back doors. That way, you can watch while you’re not here.”
“I can’t pay for—”
“Sara, the state gives me a stipend for you. You are paying for it.” With a few swipes, I announce, “They’ll arrive tomorrow.”
Her brow pinches like she doesn’t understand me. “Um, thanks.”
“Oh, I have another idea.” I scroll through my contacts until finding Lt. Ben Wright—the police officer Mira asked to help with the Trent situation years ago. His calm but authoritative demeanor diffused a few tense situations, and he helped me secure the restraining order. “I know a police officer. I wonder if he’s working tonight.”
I type out a quick text reminding him who I am and explaining the situation. He answers almost immediately. I remember. ETA one hour.
I smirk—he’s not one to use more words than necessary. “He’ll swing by soon. Let’s try to relax, huh?”
Still, the tension mounts with each passing second. We take turns pacing and staring out the window. When Shaina texts to say the cousins have left, our anxieties skyrocket.
“What are they driving?”
“A beat-up white van, like losers who learned crime from TV.” She shrugs, expressionless. “They’re not exactly masterminds.”
A growing sense of dread creates a knot in my stomach. What will I do if they show up? How can I protect us against three criminals?Am I so desperate to connect with her that I’ve lost all common sense?
I find my phone under the pizza box. Three missed texts from Jack light up the screen, asking for updates. A surprised smile breaks through my unease—why is he thinking about us when he should be enjoying his party? I type out a quick we’re fine, wondering if I should tell him the truth.
Sara goes to her father’s room and returns with a wooden baseball bat.
“Give me that.” I muster up my most reassuring smile despite trembling in my four-inch heels. “Your job is to call 9-1-1. That’s it. Okay?”
She nods weakly as I prop the bat by the door.
“Headlights,” she says suddenly.
I peek through the blinds to see faint white lights cutting through the darkness. “Everything’s okay. They’ll see the lights and the car and won’t stop. Do you have your barking dog ready?”
She prompts her phone and tests the sound effects, weirdly making us both jump even though we expect it.
The lights curve the block, slowing as they approach. As the vehicle nears, she grips my arm in anxious suspense, and I squeeze her fingers with mine.
The white van pulls to a squeaky stop at the curb. When a broad, bulky man exits the passenger seat, carrying a crowbar and looking at his surroundings as he lumbers up the lawn, I know I’ve made an enormous mistake. Adrenaline surges, bringing with it an onslaught of bad memories.
I drop Sara’s hand and grab the baseball bat.
“I’ll keep him distracted. Go out the back door to the neighbors. Call the police and wait there. Understand?”
She nods, gripping her phone like a lifeline. Her whole body shakes, and her fear keeps mine under control. Mostly. As the man’s footfalls land on the short stoop, I feel like I’m living in two nightmares simultaneously, this one and the one from long ago.
Sara prompts her barking dogs, bringing his clunky boots to a stop. He bangs on the door anyway, and through the peephole, I see him hiding the crowbar behind his back. I mouth a quick “Go” to Sara over my shoulder.
“Go away,” I yell toward the door. “I’ve called the police.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the armed resident of this house. Who the fuck are you?” I shout back. I hold the bat on my shoulder, my hands strangling its handle. “Leave! Now!”
His boots shuffle on the concrete outside the door as if he doesn’t know what to do. I hear voices egging him on across the yard. My heels pull along the carpet as I step away. He tries the door handle. Finding it locked, he wedges the crowbar between the lock and the frame.
My heart thunders in my chest. I know I should run. Why aren’t I running? Wicked memories cement me in place. Always make sure the door is locked. The door is your best defense. Don’t turn away.
The wood splinters and cracks. His shoulder bangs against the door. The noises echo, merging with memories. Bang, bang, bang. My heart beats so hard and fast that there’s no separation between them—just one long, agonizing beat.
It’s the strangest time to think about Jack. Heart racing. Feet immobile. Perpetrator nearly through the door. Jack breaks through my brain fog like he’s suddenly my comfort animal. He’s texted all night. I should’ve asked for help.
The door cracks again. It’s only held by the chain now.
I inch backward, my heels catching roughly in the shag carpeting. Then, I turn to run—I shouldn’t be here.
Sirens and screeching tires prevent the last break through the door.
“Oh, shit!” The crowbar clangs against the concrete.
I run into Sara, rushing through the back door. “It’s okay. The police are here.”
The bat falls to the floor, my legs wobble, and she holds onto me.
Blue lights flash through the front window. Gun drawn, Lt. Wright orders the men to the ground. They quickly obey, and two other officers pat them down and put them in cuffs. He finds us in the house once the men are safely in custody.
As Sara and I gush our thanks, Lt. Wright calmly explains the charges and takes our statements. Then, he promises to add Sara’s house to his nightly patrols.
Everything’s okay. Only I’m not.