TWENTY-EIGHT Jhene
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jhene
Two and a half months later…
“Okay, I’m obsessed with this place. The exposed brick? The mismatched mugs and menu written in chalk? The fact that I might get tetanus from this chair? It’s giving starving artist, and I love it.”
They’re the first words out of Chantal’s mouth as she slides into the chair across from me. We’re having coffee at a local cafe in Sunset Park that she’s taken one look at and fallen in love with.
She’s dressed in a cashmere sweater and plaid skirt she’s paired with what’s obviously a designer bag and a few pieces of delicate, feminine jewelry I suspect come from somewhere like Tiffany’s.
It makes me smirk because it’s so Chantal. It’s a reminder that it’s still completely unexpected we’ve ended up friends.
Never in a million years did I think I’d ever have any female friends as an adult, let alone ones as fashionable and amusing as Chantal and the others.
We’re not best friends—those roles will always belong to Simone and her cousin Monique—but it’s nice to have someone to meet up for coffee with.
Another slice of normalcy as I’ve started over the past couple months.
My hands slide around the mug of chai I’m sipping on. “I’m glad you approve. I was worried it wouldn’t meet your standards.”
“Please,” she says with a wave of her manicured hand. “I contain multitudes, Jhene. I can do rooftop champagne bars and I can do... whatever this is. Let’s call it artisanal struggle. My only wish is I wore a beret to fit the vibe.”
I laugh lightly and shake my head. “I’m pretty sure there’s no dress code. At least they haven’t complained when I’ve come by in yoga pants.”
“We really have to dress you up again one of these days! It was sooo much fun.”
“You’re kidding, right? I still have blisters from the sandal heels you made me wear.”
Chantal sighs as if I’m so incorrigible and then places her order for a caramel macchiato. The topic of conversation turns to how she’s finally almost finished decorating the house in upstate New York where she lives with Lochlan.
I listen intently, taking in the details and soaking up what’s a normal coffee meetup between friends.
It’s been two and a half months since I walked away from Killian on the steps of Callahan House, still so shell-shocked after being in Fedorov’s custody again and the violent struggle that went down.
All of it feels like a lifetime ago.
Other times, it feels like yesterday. As if I’m still grasping at how to start over.
But most days it does feel like I’m really doing it. For the first time, I’m succeeding at building a new life for myself.
I hadn’t counted on the large sum of money Killian gifted me. As someone who usually doesn’t accept things from people—certainly not monetary gifts from men considering that’s defined my life for the worst—I decided to accept Killian’s.
It was a show of trust more than anything.
I trusted him, that his gift was sincere and he would never expect anything in return. He told me many months ago he never would, and I believe him.
Let’s get one thing straight. As a man, I would never expect you to give me anything you didn’t want to give.
He simply wanted me to be happy.
So I’ve used the money to take practical steps to make that happen. I bought a modest two-bedroom apartment in Sunset Park, which still feels surreal every time I unlock the front door and remember it belongs to me.
It’s mine. The first real space that’s ever belonged to me.
I went with two bedrooms because of Eva. Because when I find her—not if, when—she’ll have a room waiting for her. A place that’s safe and warm and ours.
I’ve enrolled in therapy to work my way through my past with the Bratva.
Three sessions a week of breaking down long-term trauma and the effects of things like captivity and grooming.
Learning how to break the toxic mindsets that had me feeling some sense of twisted obligation to Fedorov and the Bratva.
Turns out, it does help to talk your way through your bad experiences. Even better when you have a professional there to listen and offer perspectives you never considered.
Therapy isn’t the only way I’ve filled up my time.
I’ve also started taking classes at the local community college. My eventual goal is to follow in Mom’s footsteps; as someone who loves math and numbers, it only seems right. A degree in mathematics is right up my alley.
The rest of the money has been invested (only a small amount) and then put into a high-yield savings account to collect interest.
Killian was right that it’s enough money to live comfortably for a very, very long time.
But I still err on the side of caution. I still live a humble life, wearing T-shirts and jeans and shopping at local bodegas. Like him, I’ve never been a flashy person. I don’t need luxury or some big lavish life.
I’m just happy having my freedom and a safe place to lay my head at night.
That still doesn’t mean I’m not without paranoia. In the wake of what’s happened, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For Fedorov to appear around a corner or for the Bratva to come knocking. I still don’t know whether he’s alive or dead, and the uncertainty gnaws at me in the quiet moments when I’m trying to fall asleep.
But I’ve also noticed the buttonmen keeping an eye on me from a distance. Telltale signs like a car with Callahan plates parked across the street or a familiar face in the crowd on my way to class. Security most likely arranged by Killian.
I’m not mad at it. I like knowing I have the protection, even if I’m trying to stand on my own two feet in most other ways.
“So,” Chantal says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “How are the classes going anyway? Still enjoying them?”
“Yeah, actually.” I set down my mug and fiddle with the handle, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“It’s weird because I spent so many years just...
surviving, you know? Not thinking about the future because I didn’t think I had one.
But now I’m sitting in a classroom learning calculus and it’s like...
I don’t know. It feels good. I’m finally becoming the person I was supposed to be. ”
Chantal hums softly and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “Oh, Jhene… so proud of you! You’ve been through hell and you’re still here. You are doing your own thing, and I am here for it. One hundred percent.”
“Thanks,” I laugh. “It’s nice to have cheerleaders in my corner.”
“Damn right,” she says, “And listen, when you’re ready to transfer to a four year, let me know. I can put in a good word for you at NYU. Simone and I both went there. We know people. You’d be a shoo-in.”
My eyes widen. “Chantal, you don’t have to—”
“Girl, please. Consider it light work. We’ve told you already—you’re one of us, whether you like it or not, and we help each other out.”
I can’t bring myself to point out that me and Killian aren’t together and haven’t been for months, which means I’m no longer one of the women of the Callahan clan.
It seems that doesn’t matter to the sassy gallery owner.
“Anyway, have I told you about my birthday plans? I’m pretty sure Lochlan’s taking me out for a romantic dinner,” she gushes. “I have a feeling he has something else up his sleeve too.”
“Oh really? How, um, exciting.”
I take a quick sip of my chai to distract from the fact that I’m in on the plan.
Chantal has good reason to be suspicious because Lochlan’s asked Simone and Monique to help him plan a surprise birthday party for his fiancée.
It’ll be held at Callahan House, and after some convincing, I’ve even agreed to come.
“I think a romantic dinner sounds perfect,” I say innocently. “Very low-key. Intimate. Fits the occasion.”
“Right?” She sighs contently. “I’m turning twenty-eight, not twenty-one. I don’t need a whole production.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, half tempted to laugh.
She’s going to lose her mind when she walks into that party.
Once coffee with Chantal wraps up, I head to my appointment with my therapist. Her office is located in a nondescript building in Park Slope, neighboring a yoga studio on the left and some smoothie place on the right.
Today’s session was a tough one. We talked about Mom and the night she disappeared, leaving me and Eva alone at the Greyhound station. I spent years wondering if she truly abandoned us or if Fedorov was lying and something worse happened to her.
I’m not sure I’ll ever know, but my therapist provides me the tools to start moving on from that childhood trauma one session at a time.
Childhood wounds will never truly heal, but that doesn’t mean you can’t work toward reaching a healthy enough place where you’ve learned to move on.
I’m still mulling over what was said during the session by the time I descend the stairs to the subway platform, my metro card in hand.
The platform’s crowded with the usual afternoon rush.
Commuters in business casual scroll through their phones and a guy with a guitar plays for donations, his case open on the floor to collect dollars and change.
A group of teenagers with their heads bowed together laugh about some funny TikTok they’re watching.
I find a spot near a pillar and wait out the minutes ’til the next train comes through.
It’s a typical New York experience, standing among other strangers, waiting to board the subway train.
My eyes scan the crowds with my mind still miles away. Eventually, they land on a girl on the far side who immediately wrenches me back to the present.
I blink several times and look again.
She’s partially obscured by the flow of people moving between us. But she has light brown skin and curly hair. She’s young and baby faced, with big, dark doe eyes I would recognize anywhere because I spent a childhood looking into them.
“Eva,” I whisper. Then I take a few steps forward. “Eva? EVA!”
My heart races as desperation clinches me. I start trying to shove my way through the crowd, calling her name as loud as I can.
“EVA!” I scream. “WAIT!”
I’m too late.