17. Skye
— ? —
Skye
The silence from Jayden stretched on. No calls. No texts. No showing up at Ellen’s door with cold breakfast burritos and desperate apologies. Just… nothing.
I tell myself this is what I wanted. Space. Time. The freedom to rebuild my life without him hovering at the edges.
I tell myself I’m not disappointed.
I’m lying.
“This is ridiculous,” Ellen says, watching me check my phone for the fourth time in an hour. “You’re literally moping because he’s not bothering you.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’ve been staring at that phone like it owes you money.”
“I’m waiting for a call from the Foundation about the reinstatement ceremony.”
“Uh huh.”
I throw a pillow at her. Ellen catches it without looking up from her laptop.
“For the record,” Ellen says, “I don’t think he’s given up. I think he’s trying something different.”
“Like what?”
“Like showing instead of telling. He’s been doing things. Have you noticed?”
I have noticed. That’s the problem.
Not long ago, an anonymous donation arrived at the Starlight Foundation - large enough to fund operations for two years. No name attached. Just a brief note: For the kids who deserve champions.
Ellen traced the wire transfer. It came from Jayden’s personal accounts.
“He could have put his name on it,” I’d said when Ellen showed me. “He could have used it for publicity.”
“But he didn’t. He just gave the money and walked away.”
The day after that, a package arrived at Ellen’s apartment. Inside was my college screenplay - the one I’d finished when I was twenty-two, the one I’d abandoned when I got married and forgot who I used to be. It was professionally framed, the pages preserved behind glass like something precious.
The note attached: You were always the talented one. You gave up your dreams to support mine. I’m sorry it took me this long to see that.
I’d cried. I’d pretended I hadn’t.
And then came the letter from the Rowland Studios board. An official invitation to be reinstated as Foundation director, with a public ceremony and formal apology. The letter was signed by every board member - even Franklin, whose signature looked like it had been extracted through torture.
But it’s the flowers that undo me.
They arrive every day. Not the expensive arrangements he used to send through his assistant - towering displays of exotic blooms that cost hundreds of dollars and screamed I delegated this.
These are different. Wildflowers, like the ones he used to pick for me in high school because he couldn’t afford roses.
Daisies and baby’s breath and purple asters, bundled together with twine.
Each bouquet comes with a handwritten note. A different memory every day.
Remember when we got lost on that road trip and you navigated us home using a gas station map? You’ve always been the one who finds the way.
Remember the first time I made you dinner? You said the pasta was “creative” and I didn’t find out until years later that was code for inedible.
Remember when you stayed up all night to help me rehearse for that investor pitch? You were better at it than me. You were always better at everything that mattered.
I keep the cards in a shoebox under Ellen’s guest bed. I tell myself I’m not rereading them at night. I’m lying about that too.
The reinstatement event comes sooner than expected.
A small Starlight Foundation gathering at a community center downtown - nothing fancy, just scholarship recipients and their families celebrating the program’s continuation.
I wear a simple blue dress. No designer labels. No borrowed jewelry. Just myself.
The event is wonderful. The kids are wonderful.
Maria, the Juilliard student, gives a speech about what the scholarship meant to her.
DeShawn, now a junior at Howard, tells the crowd about the engineering internship he landed.
Parents come up to thank me personally, pressing my hands between theirs, telling me they never believed the accusations.
I almost believe them.
And then, near the end of the event, I see him.
Jayden is in the back row. He’s wearing jeans and a plain button-down, looking nothing like the CEO who used to dominate every room he entered. He’s sitting quietly, not drawing attention to himself, not trying to be noticed.
He’s just there. Watching. Clapping when Maria finishes her speech. Smiling when the kids pose for photos.
My chest does something complicated. I look away, focus on shaking hands and accepting congratulations, but I feel him there the whole time.
A low hum of awareness at the edge of my vision.
When I glance toward the back of the room, his eyes are already on me.
Not possessive. Not expectant. Just… present.
When the event ends, I look for him.
He’s already gone.
Back at Ellen’s apartment, I’m still thinking about it when she reads through the day’s card.
“‘Remember when you convinced me to adopt that stray cat even though I’m allergic? You were right. Mr. Whiskers was worth the sneezing.’” Ellen looks up with an expression of reluctant admiration. “He’s not asking for anything. He’s just showing you who he wants to be.”
“It would be easier if he just asked.” I take the card from her, studying Jayden’s familiar handwriting - the aggressive slant of his letters, the way he still capitalizes words in the middle of sentences when he’s emotional. “Then I could say no.”
“Would you? Say no?”
I don’t answer.
The truth is, I’ve been looking for him. At events. In crowds. When I walk down the street. I catch myself scanning faces, hoping-
I hate that I’m hoping.
A notification pops up on my phone. An email from the arts program at Millbrook High - my old high school. The one where Jayden and I met.
Dear Ms. Bennett,
We are writing to inform you that a significant donation has been made in your name to the Millbrook High School Arts Program.
The donor has requested anonymity but asked that we ensure you were notified.
Thanks to this gift, we will be able to fund our drama program for the next five years, including a new scholarship for aspiring screenwriters.
The scholarship will be named “The Skye Bennett Award for Creative Excellence.”
With gratitude…
I read it three times.
A scholarship. In my name. For kids like the person I used to be - the one who dreamed of writing stories before she got lost in someone else’s story.
He remembered.
After everything, he remembered who I was before I was his.
Ellen looks over my shoulder at the letter. “The Skye Bennett Award for Creative Excellence. That’s… actually really sweet.”
“He named a scholarship after me.”
“At your old high school. Where you met. That’s borderline stalker behavior, but in a romantic way.”
“Is there a romantic way to be a stalker?”
“Apparently, yes. It involves large donations and your maiden name.” Ellen pauses. “You know he’s going to be insufferable about this if you tell him you’re moved.”
“I’m not moved.”
“You’re crying.”
“I have allergies.”
“To what? Emotional growth?”
That night, my phone explodes with notifications.
Ellen turns on the TV.
The headline scrolls across the screen: HOLLYWOOD MOGUL STEPS DOWN: “I BUILT AN EMPIRE AND LOST WHAT MATTERED MOST”
I stand frozen in front of the television, watching footage of Jayden walking out of Rowland Studios for the last time. Not a press conference. Just a brief statement and then gone.
“… effective immediately, I am stepping down as CEO of Rowland Studios. The company is in excellent hands with the new leadership team, and I have complete confidence in their ability to carry forward the vision we built together.
“For the past few years, I prioritized this company above everything else in my life. I told myself it was necessary. I told myself the sacrifices were worth it. But I was wrong. I built an empire and lost what mattered most in the process.
“I’m stepping away to focus on what should have always been my priority: being the man my wife deserved all along. Whether she ever forgives me or not, I owe it to her - and to myself - to try.”
The camera catches him walking away. Not to a waiting car. Not to a crowd of handlers. Just walking, alone, down the street.
Ellen mutes the television.
“Well,” she says. “That’s… something.”
I don’t respond. I’m still staring at the screen, watching Jayden disappear around a corner.
He gave up the company. The empire he sacrificed everything to build. The thing that mattered more to him than anything - more than dinners, more than vacations, more than me.
He gave it up.
For me.
My hands are shaking. I don’t know if it’s anger or something else - something that feels dangerously like hope, like the first green shoot pushing through scorched earth.
I pick up my phone. My thumb hovers over his contact. I put the phone down. Pick it up again.
“What are you doing?” Ellen asks.
I don’t answer.
I’m still not ready to call him. But for the first time since the gala, I’m not sure I want him to stop trying either.