Chapter 31 Jessica
JESSICA
Three days. That's how long it's been since the article dropped, and Callum's face appeared on every news site from here to Seattle, looking sympathetic and heartbroken, spinning his narrative about the "mentally unstable omega" who broke his heart.
The Negrorios Pack have been trying to manage the fallout.
Sergio on the phone with lawyers.
Nacho documenting everything.
Pedro fielding angry calls from patients who don't want to be seen by a doctor who "harbors runaways."
Carlos losing the Brennan commission because Mrs. Brennan's sister plays bridge with Callum's mother.
They're losing things because of me. Tangible things.
Money and reputation and peace. And I'm losing my mind in their guest room, scrolling through comments that confirm every terrible thing I've ever thought about myself.
The comments section is a war zone, and I'm losing.
I'm curled in the window seat of the guest room, knees pulled to my chest, phone clutched in hands that won't stop trembling.
Late afternoon sun streams through the glass, warming my back, completely at odds with the ice spreading through my chest. Outside, a cardinal lands on the oak branch near the window.
It tilts its red head at me like it's judging my life choices.
Fair enough, little bird. I'm judging them too.
Desperate omega trash. Couldn't lock down one man so she spread her legs for four.
My stomach lurches. I press my palm flat against my abdomen, willing the nausea down.
Classic homewrecker behavior. Those poor men don't know what hit them.
The cardinal flies away. Smart bird. Knows when to retreat.
I knew her in college. She was always off. Weird energy. No wonder she snapped.
I don't remember anyone from college posting about me. But then again, I don't remember much about college except the gnawing loneliness and the way Callum's attention felt like sunlight after years of grey.
My thumb keeps scrolling. I should stop.
Pedro told me to stop six hours ago, his green eyes sharp with concern as he physically removed the phone from my hands.
Carlos hid it in the flour canister, which would have been clever if I hadn't watched him do it through the kitchen window.
Nacho changed the wifi password and only relented when I promised, hand over heart, that I wouldn't torture myself with social media.
I lied. I'm a liar. Add it to the list of my character flaws, right between "mentally unstable" and "seduces friends' exes."
The guest room feels different today. Smaller.
The sage green walls that seemed soothing last week now press in like they're trying to suffocate me.
My nest dominates the bed, that ridiculous pile of stolen hoodies and borrowed blankets that seemed so comforting before my face ended up on every gossip site from here to Seattle.
What kind of grown woman builds a nest out of other people's laundry?
A crazy one. The kind Callum described to reporters.
Morrison family releases statement: "We pray Jessica gets the psychiatric help she so clearly needs."
Psychiatric help.
The words blur as tears fill my eyes. I blink them back and force myself to keep reading because apparently I'm a masochist now. Add that to the list too.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother. The fourth one today.
Jessica, please call me. We need to discuss damage control. Your Aunt Patricia saw the article. She's very concerned.
Aunt Patricia, who hasn't spoken to me in three years except to criticize my hair at Thanksgiving.
Another buzz.
The Morrisons have been very gracious. Callum's mother called me personally. She said they might be willing to help with treatment costs if you apologize publicly.
Treatment costs.
A laugh tears out of my throat, high and sharp and slightly unhinged. The sound echoes off the walls of the empty room, and I clap my hand over my mouth to stop it.
This is what crazy sounds like. This is what they're all talking about.
I shove the phone under a pillow and push myself up from the window seat.
My legs have gone numb from sitting too long, pins and needles shooting through my calves as I stumble toward the closet.
The hardwood floor is cold under my bare feet.
I should have put on socks. Pedro's wool socks are somewhere in the nest, buried under Carlos's flannel and Nacho's grey hoodie.
I'm not going to need them anymore.
The closet door sticks when I pull it. This house is old, full of quirks and creaks, doors that don't quite fit their frames after a century of settling. Sergio mentioned fixing this door last week. Said he'd plane it down over the weekend.
He won't have to bother now.
I grab my suitcase and drag it out and heave it onto the bed. The impact sends pillows tumbling. Sergio's hockey jersey slides off the headboard and lands in a heap on the floor, faded number seventeen staring up at me like an accusation.
My chest constricts. I bend down and pick up the jersey, pressing the worn fabric to my nose. Cedar and smoke. Safety and warmth and everything I don't deserve.
I fold it carefully and set it on the nightstand. He'll want it back.
The dresser drawers screech when I yank them open. I grab clothes in handfuls, not bothering to sort, just cramming everything into the suitcase. A shirt I bought last summer. Jeans that are starting to fray at the knees.
My hands are shaking so hard I drop a sweater twice before managing to shove it in the bag. The trembling has spread up my arms, into my shoulders, down into my core. My teeth chatter even though the room is warm.
This is panic. I've felt it before, in the dressing room at the church, right before I kicked off my heels and dove through that window.
The difference is, last time the panic pushed me toward four men who made me feel like a person instead of a project.
This time the panic is pushing me away.
I zip the suitcase and wrestle it off the bed. The wheels catch on the braided rug as I drag it toward the door. I should leave a note. Should try to explain.
But what would I write?
Dear Sergio, Pedro, Carlos, and Nacho,
Thank you for three weeks of kindness. Sorry about the property damage, the raccoon incident, the thumb in the centrifuge, and the media circus currently camped at the end of your driveway. I'm leaving so your lives can go back to normal. Please forget I exist.
Love (pathetically, desperately, inappropriately), Jessica
P.S. I stole your clothes. They're on the bed. Except for the hoodie I'm wearing. I'm keeping that. Consider it payment for emotional damages.
The hysterical laugh bubbles up again. I swallow it down and reach for the doorknob.
It turns before I can touch it.
The door swings inward, and Sergio fills the frame.
He's fresh from the shower, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, a few droplets of water still clinging to his jaw. Grey t-shirt stretched across his chest. Worn jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood.
His eyes drop to the suitcase in my hand.
His whole body goes still. Not frozen. Coiled. Like a predator spotting movement in the underbrush.
"No."
One word. Flat. Final.
"Sergio, I have to..."
"No." He steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him. The slam echoes through my bones. "You don't."
"I'm making everything worse." The words tumble out, tripping over each other. "Nacho's supervisor called. Pedro lost patients. Carlos lost that commission. Every day I stay, your lives get harder, and I can't..."
"Stop."
He crosses the room in four strides and takes the suitcase handle from my grip. His fingers brush mine, rough and warm, and electricity shoots up my arm.
"Give that back."
"No."
"Sergio."
"Jessica." He sets the suitcase against the wall and turns to face me, blocking my path to the door. "You're not leaving."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "You can't keep me prisoner."
"I'm not keeping you prisoner." He takes a step closer. I take a step back. My shoulders hit the dresser. "I'm keeping you safe."
"Safe from what? The internet trolls? The Morrison family lawyers?" Another hysterical laugh escapes. "Newsflash, Sergio. You can't protect me from public opinion. You can't sue Twitter into submission. You can't fix this."
"I can try."
"You'll fail." My voice cracks. "And you'll lose everything in the process. Your reputation. Your business. Your hockey team." The tears I've been fighting all day finally break free, streaming down my cheeks. "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth any of it."
Something shifts in his expression. The rigid control cracks, just for a moment, and underneath I see fury. Not at me. For me.
He closes the distance between us until his chest nearly touches mine. Until I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Until his scent wraps around me like a physical embrace.
"Say that again." His voice is low. Dangerous.
"What?"
"Say you're not worth it." His hands land on the dresser behind me, caging me in. "Look me in the eye and say it."
I open my mouth. The words stick in my throat.
"You can't." He leans closer, his nose almost brushing mine. "Because you know it's a lie. You know what you are."
"A disaster." The word comes out small. Broken. "A scandal. A liability."
"A gift." His breath warms my lips. "A miracle. The best thing that's walked through my door in twenty years."
"You don't mean that."
"I don't say things I don't mean." His hands leave the dresser and cup my face instead, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I don't waste words. So when I tell you that you've made this family whole for the first time since my parents died, I need you to believe me."
"Sergio..."
"When I tell you that Carlos laughs more than he has in years. That Pedro talks about his feelings instead of burying them in work. That Nacho came home from a shift last week and smiled at me. Smiled, Jessica. My stoic, silent brother who hasn't smiled since he was seventeen."