19. Jack #3
Then her mom turns to me, voice loud and syrupy sweet as she says, “Izzy’s always been the responsible one. Too responsible. All work, no play. I keep telling her she needs to loosen up, have some fun before she’s too old.”
“I have fun, Mom.”
“Working at a bookstore isn’t fun, honey.” She pours herself another glass of wine. “I can’t believe you’re always so busy. Who reads those books? I bet you’d do better with a bookstore full of real books.”
“It’s only busy right now because everyone wants to see Jack,” Peyton adds. “Don’t think anyone can imagine you’d land…” She catches herself, but I know where she was going with that comment.
“Land what?” I hold Peyton’s gaze until she looks away.
She waves another forkful of turkey toward Luca. He chucks it to the ground instead, and no one bends to pick it up. She gestures at me. “Well… you. Jack Murphy.”
Izzy suddenly becomes focused on her plate, pushing green beans around until she’s sorted out all the mushroom bits she doesn’t like. But I see how she’s trying to disappear. And something in me snaps clean in half.
First, I bend to reach for Luca’s fork, wipe it clean with my napkin, then hand it back to Peyton.
“I’m incredibly proud of her,” I say, and my voice is steady, but I swear the room freezes. Even the TV volume seems to drop. “She works harder than anyone I know. I’m lucky she even entertained the idea of dating me.”
Phil nearly chokes on his forkful of turkey. “You can have anyone you want.”
“She built and grew that bookstore by herself. Pivoted from a mobile bookstore in a van to a brick-and-mortar location without help. And now she’s working toward expanding it. She’s committed to her customers, makes the store welcoming for everyone.”
Izzy’s hand reaches for mine under the table. I brush my thumb over her wrist in slow, steady sweeps. I tell myself it’s to help her, but I think it’s the only thing calming me down.
“She shows up for people, no matter who it is, better than some people show up for their own family.”
“Like anyone in Merritt Point needs help,” her mom snorts. “Wrong income bracket for sure.”
“Her success has nothing to do with me. She has a brilliant mind for business.” I put my hand on the back of Izzy’s chair. “And she’s incredibly determined. I love that about her.”
Silence sucks the air from the room. My pulse is drumming in my ears. Izzy’s throat works as she swallows, her eyes glassy. She doesn’t look at me when she pushes back her chair. “I’ll get dessert.”
On the way home, she stares out the window.
“You okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. My head’s a mess after that shit show, and I figure she needs space to untangle hers too.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t.” My hands tighten on the wheel. “Don’t apologize for them.”
She shrugs, scoffing. “Usually, it’s worse.”
I guessed, but still not what I wanted to hear.
“Your mom seemed pretty comfortable letting you handle everything in the kitchen.”
“She’s having a hard time.”
“So are you. You’re wearing yourself out, Iz.” I glance over. She doesn’t look away from the window. “But you’re too busy saving everyone else to notice.”
“That’s not—”
“When’s the last time she asked how you were doing? Not what you could give her. Just… you.”
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t understand. She’s my mom. I have to—” Izzy brushes back her bangs with a sharp, frustrated swipe, then turns to face me. The passing streetlights cast orange shadows across her face. “Why do you fight?”
“What?”
“Why do you keep fighting when you’re hurt? When you shouldn’t?”
The question blindsides me. “It’s my job.”
“I’m not an idiot. Plenty of players don’t rack up as many penalty minutes as you.” Her voice stays quiet, but every word lands. “So, no, I don’t buy it. You fight because you think it proves something. That you’re tough. Worth keeping around.”
My chest tightens.
“And I keep fixing everything for everyone because I think that proves I’m good enough. Responsible enough. Worth keeping.”
The light turns red. I stop but can’t look at her.
“We’re both trying to earn something we shouldn’t have to earn,” she says quietly.
Fuck, she’s right.
My whole life, I’ve been the guy people like because I make things fun. Easy. I hate it. And somewhere along the way, I turned that around on the ice. I made sure I didn’t keep the peace. At least then, sometimes, I could breathe. I wasn’t a joke anymore.
“Where are we going?” she asks when I drive past the center of Merritt Point.
“Have something I need to show you.”
She sets her hands in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her skirt, her head turned toward the stretch of beach that’s swallowed up by the black inky night.
We’re fifteen minutes on the other side of town when I turn down a dirt road and stop at a house set back against a rocky outcropping by the edge of the ocean.
“Really?” She turns toward me. “If you wanted to pick a fight, we could have done that at my house. Not somewhere in the middle of the woods.”
I really had no intention of ever showing her. Hell, I haven’t even told my family. But after tonight, I think it’s important she knows.
“Where are we anyway?”
I scratch my jaw and glance over. Maybe I had too much coffee with dessert. “I was lucky. Landed a dream contract a few years back when I came to Boston. I’ve done a lot of dumb shit along the way but somehow had the good sense to invest in real estate. So that’s what I do now. I buy property.”
“Like the hockey rink?”
“That’s a little different, but yeah. I try not to think about it too much,” I admit. “But I can’t stop lately. Hockey isn’t going to be forever for me.”
Confusion sets between Izzy’s brows. That’s on me. I’ve never trusted anyone enough to say this out loud.
“I bought this place a year ago.” I nod toward the dark outline of the cedar-shingled house. “It still has a few months to go before the last of the contractors are out. But it’s mine.”
She nods slowly, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve until she turns to face me fully. “Why are you telling me?”
“Because I need you to know.” My voice is rough. “I’m staying.”