1. Jade #2
“You look thin,” Mom says, studying my face with the focused attention of someone who has been waiting and worrying and keeping both to herself. “Are they feeding you up there?”
“I eat,” I say.
She hums in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t believe me and has decided not to push on it yet. “I made stew. And cornbread.”
The kitchen smells like comfort: beef and onions simmered low, bread warm and just out of the oven, butter already softening on the counter.
My stomach tightens at the first bite, the kind of physical response that happens before you can brace against it, like your body’s been waiting for something real.
We eat mostly in silence. The clock above the sink ticks steadily.
The cabinet door that’s always stuck is still stuck.
The crack in the tile near the fridge is still there, familiar as a scar.
And Dad’s chair sits empty at the head of the table, angled the way he always left it, like he might come back any minute and reach for the remote without thinking.
Mom clears her throat. “Clinic opens at eight tomorrow.”
“I know,” I say. My spoon clinks against the ceramic.
“You don’t have to rush into things,” she adds gently. “They’ve kept it running just fine.”
Something sharp moves through my chest at that, not anger exactly, more like the thing that lives just underneath it. “I’m sure they have.”
She watches me for a moment, patient in the way she’s always been patient. “They did right by your daddy.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
There’s a beat, the clock ticking into the silence, and then she sets her mug down carefully, like she’s been deciding all afternoon when to say the next thing. “So. How long were you planning on not telling me what happened with Damon?”
My spoon stops.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, even though my pulse has already given me away.
She gives me the look. One eyebrow, slightly lifted, the one she used to level at me when I tried to sneak past curfew. “Baby, I raised you. You don’t come home looking like this because you’re tired.”
I exhale through my nose and set the spoon down. The stew doesn’t look as good anymore. “He cheated,” I say finally. “With Heather Vaughn. Our director’s daughter. He was with her the whole time I was here for the funeral.”
Mom’s hand tightens around her mug. Just a fraction.
“He lied about not finding coverage for his shifts,” I continue, because once it’s started it’s easier to let it finish.
“He found it immediately. He just chose to stay home with her instead of coming with me.” I pause.
“And then he ended things at the gala. In front of everyone. Made a little speech about needing to focus on his career and thanked me for my contributions.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line that means she has words she’s choosing not to use.
“He also stole credit for my research,” I add. “For years. I let him because I thought that’s what you did when you were building something together.” I look at the window, at the light going golden over the back yard. “Turns out we were only building his something.”
She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Warm. Still. “Eight years, Jade.”
“I know.”
“That’s not stupidity,” she says firmly. “That’s loyalty given to someone who didn’t deserve it. There’s a difference.”
I don’t answer that. Outside, cicadas are starting up in the heat, filling the yard with sound.
I stare at Dad’s chair and think about how he would’ve had something to say about all of this, something that managed to be both direct and kind, the way he always was, and the ache that comes with the thought is dull and familiar now, which somehow makes it worse.
“I thought coming home would feel like failure,” I say after a moment.
“Failure in front of who?”
I look at her.
“His family?” she continues. “His colleagues? People who never thought you belonged there in the first place?” She squeezes my hand once before she lets it go. “You belong wherever you decide to plant your feet.”
I stand and start rinsing my plate, needing something to do with my hands. The water runs warm over my fingers.
“They’ve held the clinic together,” she says behind me, her voice going casual in a way that means she’s been thinking about this for a while. “Those three. But it needs more than holding together now. That’s why you’re here.”
“I’m not trying to blow their world up,” I say. “I just want to make it better.”
“Then don’t walk in like you’re rescuing them,” she says simply.
I dry my hands and reach for my keys. “I don’t know how else to do this.”
She makes a soft sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “You’ve always led with your chin when you’re hurting.”
I glance back at her. “I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure you are.”
I kiss her cheek, grab my bag, and head down the hall to the room I grew up in, which is smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’ve just grown somewhere it doesn’t account for.
The ceiling fan ticks in uneven circles above the bed.
The sheets smell like sunshine and fabric softener.
My diplomas are still on the wall next to the old trophies I never bothered to pack.
I used to hate them a little without knowing why.
Now I think I understand. They were evidence I was already trying to prove something, even at seventeen.
I lie on top of the comforter and stare at the ceiling and let the silence of the house press down on me, not uncomfortable, just very present. The cicadas outside are going full force now, filling everything.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I reach for it without thinking, and then I see the name and I go still.
Declan Finch.
I don’t know his face. I couldn’t pick him out on the street. He’s one of three men who’ve been running my father’s clinic for two years and I have nothing but a name and a vague impression of a dark suit at a funeral I was too hollowed out to fully attend.
I look at the notification for a long moment. Long enough that the screen dims. Long enough that I’m aware of my own heartbeat doing something I’d rather it didn’t.
I flip the phone face down and turn onto my side and press my hand flat against the mattress until my breathing evens out.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I walk in there and I do what I came to do.
Tomorrow. Not tonight.
Tonight I just have to get through.