8. Jolie #2
I curl up on the bed, the bindings digging into my ribs without adjusting them. I deserve this pain, because I chose it. I chose to be alone because alone is safe, and alone doesn't disappoint anyone. Alone is what I've always been best at.
The room gets darker, and I don't turn on the lights. I lie there in the gray afternoon, listening to the hum of the neon sign outside my window, counting the cars that pass, and wondering if any of them are looking for me.
I imagine Jarvis finding the note, reading my three stupid sentences with his jaw tightening and his dark eyes going flat. I imagine Jett cursing and throwing something, his sharp face furious. I imagine them arguing about who should go where, how to track me, whether I'm worth the chase.
Stop it, I tell myself. They aren't chasing you. They're relieved. They have the restaurant and each other. They don't need a girl who leaks milk and runs when things get hard.
But then I remember Jarvis's voice at dinner. "Your real life is here. And we're done pretending you're leaving."
I remember Jett's hand on my face. "You are not leaving. You are not signing anything."
They meant it. They meant it, and I still ran.
The shame crawls up my throat as I press my face into the pillow and scream, muffled and pathetic.
I don't know how long I lie there. The room gets darker, my body throbbing with my heartbeat while the milk builds with nowhere to go.
I feel feverish and clammy. I know the signs.
I've had mastitis before. If I don't drain soon, I'll get sick.
I don't care.
Let me get sick. Let me hurt. At least if I'm alone, the only person I'm inconveniencing is myself.
Then, there's a knock at the door.
I freeze. My heart stops. Then it starts again, hammering against my ribs.
"Miss Parker?" A man's voice calls through the door. Not Jarvis or Jett. The clerk, maybe. "Someone called and asked us to check on you. Are you alright in there?"
I don't answer. I hold my breath.
They must have called the front desk. Of course they did. They tracked me here, and they weren't going to wait.
"Ma'am?"
Go away, I think. Please go away.
Footsteps retreat, and I exhale, my lungs burning.
Then, minutes later, I hear engines—two of them, big ones, SUVs.
I sit up, the room spinning, and stumble to the window to pull back the curtain. A black Escalade is parked sideways in front of my door, blocking my car, while another pulls in behind it. The doors open.
Jarvis steps out of the first SUV, still wearing the same black t-shirt and jeans from yesterday. He looks enormous, terrifying, and furious as his eyes scan the motel and land on my window. I drop the curtain like it burned me.
Not now. Not like this. Not when I've finally convinced myself they're better off without me.
I hear boots on the pavement, heavy and fast, multiple sets of them.
Another knock comes at the door.
"Jolie." Jarvis's voice. Low and steady. "Open the door."
I don't move. I can't. I press myself against the wall with my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"Jolie. I know you're in there. Open the door."
I don't answer.
A minute passes before I hear keys jingling, the doorknob turning, and the lock clicking as the door swings open.
A motel staff member steps inside, then moves aside. Jarvis enters first, filling the doorway, his dark eyes finding me immediately. Jett follows close behind him, his jaw tight, his gaze scanning the room like he's cataloging every detail.
I open my mouth to tell them to leave me alone, to shout at them to go back home and forget about me, but then I see them.
My grandparents are standing at the door. They look tired and sad, their faces lined with worry. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just... worried.
I pause, my voice dying in my throat.
Jarvis sighs, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Come home with us, Jolie."
Jett nods. "We've been so worried. Especially your grandparents."
My grandmother steps forward, her lavender cardigan wrinkled, her eyes red but steady. She walks toward me slowly, her hand reaching out. "Have you eaten, sweetheart?"
The question is so simple, so soft and grandmotherly, that something inside me breaks. I lunge forward and wrap my arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder as I mumble apologies. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to?—"
"Shh," she murmurs, rubbing my back. "It's okay. It's okay."
My grandfather steps closer, his hand coming up to wipe my tears. His fingers are rough and warm against my cheek. "Let's go back now," he says gently. "Your grandmother made your favorite soup. We can talk after."
I nod, unable to speak.
Jett moves past us, grabbing my bag from the corner of the room. Jarvis steps outside to talk to the motel staff, his voice low and calm. My grandmother wraps her arm around me and guides me toward the door, and I let her.
The drive back is silent.
No one speaks. The interior of the SUV is heavy with something that isn't relief—it's the weight of everything I broke, pressing down on all of us.
I sit in the back seat between my grandparents, my head on my grandmother's lap like when I was small, but her hand on my hair is trembling.
She strokes it anyway, over and over, like she's reminding herself I'm real.
My grandfather sits on my other side, his body rigid, his face turned to the window. He doesn't look at me. He stares out at the dark highway, at the trees rushing past, at nothing at all. His jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle working. He hasn't said a word since we left the motel.
Jarvis drives. His eyes stay on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, but his knuckles are white.
I want to say something. I want to apologize until my voice gives out, to explain that I was trying to save them from me.
But the silence is a wall, and I don't know how to break it. So I close my eyes and let the car's motion rock me into a shallow, guilty sleep.