Chapter 17 #3
He’d given Blake the stability of a real home with Ava.
He’d moved her to this mountain town, this perfect snapshot of Americana, and Blake would always have somewhere to come back to.
A place that was hers, no matter what. Every time Jenna let herself dwell on that, she felt like she might die from gratitude.
Asher hadn’t had that, and neither had Jenna, but together, they’d given it to their daughter. That counted for something.
Jenna’s phone vibrated on the nightstand, so she sat up.
It was a text from Blake saying she was going to babysit Tabitha on Monday because it was a teacher in-service day.
She stared down at the phone for a moment in confusion, then realized Blake must have agreed to babysit for Deacon, and then he probably said that she needed to check with Jenna first, and this was her version “checking” with her mom. She messaged back.
Blake
thanks for the update in your itinerary
She set her phone back down, and the next song that came on, because God had a sense of humor and a direct line to her emotional underbelly, was “Dress” by Taylor Swift. Of course it was.
First “Bed Chem” then “Dress.” Who made this playlist? Oh right, she had. But not recently, she made it the summer before last.
Forget cleaning. Maybe she should go on a run. Leave the house completely.
A run? Who was she kidding? She hadn’t run since…damn, she hadn’t run since she found out she was pregnant and her entire life went up like a tent in a hurricane.
She’d never forget the morning she peed on the stick knowing those two lines meant no more Olympics, no more scholarship, no more Carrie Bradshaw life.
She traded it all for a crying baby, a husband who loved her until he didn’t, and a certificate from the community college in cosmetology.
And she never regretted it, not for one day. How could she when she had Blake?
Still, she wondered if she had any of the old Jenna left in her. Did she even have running shoes?
She should be exhausted. She’d been at the salon since eight that morning, double-booked all day, and she’d only sat down once, and that was to eat half a granola bar in the supply closet.
But she was amped up with unspent energy that she was sure had a lot to do with the vintage Valentino hanging in her closet and the invitation attached to it promising debauchery.
Jenna brought the garment bag up to her room the first night after dinner and forbid herself from opening it.
Going from trying it on to attending, she’d decided, was a slippery slope, one that she’d been worried she would be tempted to throw a Slip-N-Slide on and ride down if she allowed herself to venture too close to.
She pushed off her bed, opened the closet door, and got down on her knees to search through her piles of shoes when she heard Taylor singing about silence, pining, patience, and desperately waiting.
Check. Check. Check. Check. It was as if Tay Tay had taken a page out of her diary.
All she did was silently, patiently, desperately pine and wait for Deacon.
It was literally the soundtrack of her life since she’d met him at O’Grady’s.
Having no luck finding fast-moving footwear, she stood and tried to push all thoughts of Deacon from her mind when she came face-to-face with the bag that held the dress at the exact moment Miss Taylor declared she’d only bought the dress so you would take it off.
The words put an image of Deacon taking the dress off of Jenna in her mind’s eye. She didn’t do it consciously, it just flashed there. A shiver ran from her head to her toes, and she shut, slammed, the closet door.
Being at loose ends was not something Jenna dealt with well. Her life was full and she liked it that way. When she wasn’t going a million miles a minute, she binged watched Dawson’s Creek. But right now, she feared, not even Pacey and Capeside could be the balm to her frazzled nervous system.
Her phone buzzed and she looked down at the nightstand expecting it to be her peanut. She picked it up. It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown
open your front door
Was it…? No, it couldn’t be Deacon. He didn’t have her number. But who else could it be? As she stood in her room contemplating who it might be another message came through.
Unknown
I got your number from the card I took when you did Tabby’s hair
Her entire body tensed with tingles just knowing it was him texting. Explosions of bliss were being detonated throughout her limbs, her torso, even her fingers and toes. She stood frozen for a moment, then another text came through, the same as the first.
Unknown
open your front door
Oh, fuck! Was he there? He was there. He had to be. She glanced down at herself. She was still wearing her black leggings, white shirt, and baseball hat she’d worn all day. She’d needed to be comfortable, but she looked like shit.
She needed to change.
But she didn’t have time. What if someone, a neighbor, saw him on her porch?
That would get tongues wagging. Fuck. She rushed down the stairs and couldn’t catch her breath.
To be fair, she was breathless before she even hit the first step.
By the time she made it to the bottom, she was practically hyperventilating.
Her heart went wild as she crossed the entryway, the rhythm of it almost painful, feet bare, legs shaky, every step toward the door tightening her chest, the inner monologue a tangle of hope and mortification. She flung the door open, adrenaline flooding her so sharply that she felt lightheaded.
The porch was empty. The world outside was the particular gray blue of late dusk, the neighborhood nestled in its mountain silence.
She blinked, letting her eyes adjust. Her heart sank.
Was this a joke? Was he upset she hadn’t responded to his invitation and dress delivery, so this was his version of adult doorbell ditch?
Her stomach twisted, she felt stupid and embarrassed for getting, she could admit it, excited over the thought that he was on her doorstep. She was just about to shut, slam, the door when she noticed something at her feet.
At first glance, she thought it was a basic gift basket, one of those standard spa day sets with cheap bubble bath and a candle that barely burned.
But as she bent to pick it up, she noticed every detail, the heaviness of the lotions, the elegance of the bottles, and the way each item was nested in shreds of tissue paper that matched the satin lavender ribbon.
It was absurdly, unnecessarily perfect. Luxurious.
She sniffed the air instinctively, and underneath the scent of pine needles and the distant woodsmoke, she could detect a faint, expensive perfume.
She stepped cautiously out onto her porch and looked around. She didn’t see anyone. She moved back inside and shut the door, her heart still beating a million miles a minute.
Inside, she set the basket on the kitchen island and stared at it for a full thirty seconds. The kitchen was dark except for the glow from the back porch string lights. She flicked on the overhead light, and the basket’s contents glimmered like a treasure.
There was a folded note on top, ivory paper with her name written in script. She pulled it out, fingers trembling, and read:
Instructions for Your Evening:
1. take a relaxing bath
2. think of me and touch yourself but DO NOT come
3. put on body lotion and pretend it is my hands on your body
4. spray perfume in only one place that only I will be able to smell
5. get ready and get dressed wearing ONLY the items I have provided you
6. burn this message so no other eyes see it
7. go outside and get in the SUV waiting for you
8. meet me at the gala
9. I will do the rest
Jenna stared at the paper, her hand trembling as she held it.
All she’d ever wanted was to have someone come into her life and take control.
Someone she trusted to handle things, to tell her what to do.
She’d just spent the past thirty minutes trying to figure out what to do with her night and now she had a nine-step plan.
And it included getting to wear the vintage Valentino dress.
Okay, number one, take a bath.