He deflates a bit, shoulders slumping in his sweatshirt. “I called the auto shop where he’s been working. His boss said he hasn’t come in for his shifts the past two weeks.”
Her hand reaches for the cross around her neck. “Maybe he’s found another job…”
“It’s possible. Try not to panic, Flora. We don’t know for sure that he’s gotten himself into trouble again.”
Their anxiety is palpable. I place my hands on my lap beneath the table, so they won’t see them tightening into fists.
“I’m sure he’s okay. It’s just… I worry.” Ma sighs. “Maybe we should call his P.O. to see if he’s heard anything—”
“No,” Pa interjects. “If we do that, we might as well send Jaxon straight back to prison. He’s supposed to be staying with us, remember?”
My mother grips her cross harder. “I only wish we knew where he was.”
“Maybe he met a girl. Two years is a long time… “
“Miguel!”
Pa shrugs. “It’s true! Now, eat your breakfast and try not to worry so much. I’m sure Jaxon will come home soon. He wouldn’t risk violating his parole.”
“If he fails his drug test—”
“He won’t! I know my son. He’s sober and he is going to stay that way.”
“But Miguel—”
Before my mother can finish, I rise to my feet, slamming my hands down on the tabletop hard enough to make the dishes jump.
“Mijo! What on earth—”
“You know what I want most for my birthday?” I growl, glaring from one face to the other. They’re both wearing stunned expressions. “To not think about Jaxon. To not talk about Jaxon. To not have every fucking minute of every fucking day revolve around the selfish prick also known as Jaxon!” I lean forward, eyes narrowing. “You truly think he’s off somewhere being a productive member of society? You’re delusional. Jaxon is capable of one thing: self-destruction. And no matter how many times you try… you can’t save him from himself.”
“Mijo…”
Exasperated, I run my hands through my hair as I mutter, “You can’t even save yourselves.”
They say nothing.
My angry words seem to have sucked every ounce of air out of the room. In heavy silence, my parents watch as I storm across the kitchen and shove open the front door. It slams behind me with a bang that makes several birds take flight from a nearby tree.
The guilt I feel is a faint trickle in comparison to the flood of rage and resentment swirling inside me. I’m too worked up to get behind the wheel. I walk the property instead, the grass dewy against my bare feet.
This early on a Friday morning, the grounds are even quieter than usual. I can hear the Tesla’s tires rolling down the driveway from across the lawn — Jo’s parents, heading into the VALENT headquarters in Boston bright and early.
Even when they’re home, they’re barely here.
I give the main house wide berth as I walk down toward the water. Jo is probably inside, getting ready for school. All week, I’ve seen her only from a distance. She walks the halls with her nose buried in a book, rushing between AP tests.
Biology, Physics, Chemistry, Calculus.
I’m sure she’ll ace them all. Good grades are the only way to capture her parents’ attention. They trade affirmations for straight-A report cards, expressions of love for academic excellence. And Jo complies, working herself to the bone for a condescending pat on the head.
It’s sickening to witness.
When I reach the boathouse, I jog down the steps to the dock. My thoughts are a mile away — zig-zagging between a dozen pressing concerns. Which is probably why I don’t see the girl lying flat on her back at the far end of the dock until I’m a handful of paces away.
My steps falter.
She’s fast asleep, snoozing in the sunshine like a cat in a picture window. As soon as I see her, all the anger I’ve been harboring bleeds out of me in a rush, pooling in a puddle at my feet.
For a moment, I can only stare — at the morning light on her face, slanting across the upturned bridge of her nose. At the billowed length of blonde hair, pillowed beneath her bare shoulders. At the glow of her skin, kissed by the start of a summer tan.
I barely breathe, not wanting to disturb her slumber. I’m not sure how long I stand there watching her. Probably long enough for it to be creepy.
I don’t give a shit.
These unguarded moments with Jo are precious to me now.
Who knows how many more I’ll get?
I wish I could stretch each fleeting second I spend in her presence into an hour, a day, a lifetime. I wish I could hold her soft exhales in the palms of my hands, cradle their warmth against my chest to ward off the cold realities that have taken up residence inside my heart.
Her effortless beauty grabs me by the throat. That smart-talking mouth, currently slack with sleep. Those ridiculous dimples, dents of joy in rosy cheeks. I study her intently. Every freckle, every eyelash. Every perceived flaw she sees when she looks in the mirror.
I want to run my fingertips over them. To trace her imperfections with my hands until she realizes they were never imperfections at all.
God, I need to kiss her.
It’s an impulse I’ve had forever. One I’ve spent a lifetime tamping down, trying to ignore. Unsuccessfully, as it turns out.
I can’t help it. Since the moment I first learned what kissing was, I’ve wanted to do it with Jo. I’ve dreamed about it. Ached for it. Just once, I want to feel the press of her mouth on mine. To lose myself in the riptide of her lips until I’m lost at sea, too far out to ever turn back.
Her blue eyes blink open without warning.
Shit.
I barely have time to wipe the longing look off my face, to reassemble my features into an indifferent mask before she sits up and spots me standing there, ten feet away.
“You.” She starts, eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow roughly. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Clearly.” She climbs to her feet, brushing sea-salt off her bare legs. Her dark blue pajama set perfectly matches the color of the cove surrounding us. “If you’d known, you wouldn’t be standing there, would you?”
I don’t react; I don’t say a word in my own defense.
Unfortunately, my silence seems to piss her off even more, judging by the way her brows pinch together. “I saw Jax the other night,” she says, an accusation in her voice. I didn’t even know he was out.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I should’ve told you.”
She takes a step toward me. Her whole frame is shaking — not with cold, but with fury. “No. You don’t owe me anything. We aren’t even friends. We’re nothing. Right?”
My mouth opens. “Jo—”
“I heard you,” she snarls. “The other night. I heard exactly what you said to Jaxon. I tolerate her for exactly one reason: her parents paid my tuition.” She steps even closer. “As soon as I walk across that graduation stage, I plan to keep on walking, right out of her life.” Another step. We’re only a pace apart, now. “Jo Valentine means nothing to me.”
The blood drains from my face. “Jo—”
“Don’t bother.” Her mouth twists. “I don’t need to hear whatever excuse you’re going to come up with to justify your behavior. I don’t want to listen to whatever lie you’ll use to make me feel better about this.”
“But—”
“No! No. Don’t you understand? I don’t care anymore, Archer. I can’t. I don’t have it in me. For weeks, I’ve done everything I can think of to reach you, to make things better between us…” She blinks rapidly, fighting back tears. “Silly me for thinking we were ever something worth fixing.“
I flinch.
She takes a shaky breath. “So I’m done now. Done caring. Done trying. Just… done.” There’s a loaded pause, stretching in the space between us. “But before I go, I need you to tell me one thing. I think you owe me that much.”
&n
bsp; My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure she can hear it. Still, my voice comes out remarkably level. “What is it?”
“If you were truly just pretending to be my friend for all this time… Why did you have to do it so damn convincingly?” Her voice cracks, and I feel my heart crack right along with it. “Why did you let me believe it was real for all this time?”
Right now, even if I had an answer for her, I wouldn’t be able to give it. My throat is so blocked with emotion, speaking is impossible.
Her eyes hold mine for a small forever. They are infinitely blue, unfathomably blue. The kind of blue that can’t be captured. It’s the same hue you see at the point where sea meets sky on a distant horizon.
Forever out of reach.
“Happy birthday, Archer,” Jo whispers haltingly. “I hope you got everything you wanted.”
She darts around me and walks away — down the dock, up the lawn, into the house. I stand there like a man carved from stone, listening as her footsteps fade, staring out at the ocean. I don’t bother reaching up to brush away the tears that drop like rain onto my cheeks.
There’s no one around to see.
Before I finally go, I reach into my pocket and place the jewelry box at the end of the dock — like an offering left to the sea gods of olden times. I can’t bear to throw the necklace out. Better to let it be swept away by the wind or swallowed up by a rogue wave.
“You’re not nothing, Jo,” I whisper thickly as my fingers stroke the small velvet box one last time. “You’re the only thing.”
Chapter Nineteen
JOSEPHINE
Just as it has for the past seventeen years of my life on this particular day… at 8:00AM on the dot, the song begins to play.
“Joesphine” by The Wallflowers.
I burst out of bed when I hear the opening strains and run down the stairs in my pajamas, barely slowing my pace as I race across the first floor. Excitement churns inside my veins. I wonder what my parents have planned for me this year.
A picnic on the Hinckley out at Misery Island? Lunch at my favorite restaurant in Rockport, with a harbor view featuring the famous Motif #1? A drive down the coast, into the city, for dinner and a show?
Frankly, I don’t care what we do. I’m just eager for a full day with them.
A day not about work.
A day only about their daughter.
In light of recent events, I’ve never felt more in need of their love. Perhaps they can fill a sliver of the chasm Archer has opened up inside my chest.
Skidding to a stop in the entrance to the kitchen, my head swivels around in search of them. Except… I only see Flora and Miguel standing by the marble island, smiling at me as The Wallflowers whisper their final refrain.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” they sing together, their voices off-key. They’re each wearing a cheap paper party hat. “Happy birthday, dear Josephine. Happy birthday to you.”
“Thanks, guys…” My brows are arched. “But… where are my parents?”
Miguel and Flora glance at each other. “The thing is, mija—“
“They’re gone, aren’t they?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Miguel scratches the back of his neck. “They left this morning.”
“Ah.”
Flora wrings her hands. “There was an urgent issue with VALENT.”
I try to smile, but can’t quite manage it. The excitement inside me had deflated like a week-old birthday balloon. “Urgent. Of course. It always is, when it comes to their company.”
Never to their daughter.
“They left you a note.” Flora gestures at the piece of paper sitting on the countertop. “I’m sure it explains everything better than we could.”
With a nod, I walk forward and snatch up the stationary. It’s a thick, creamy cardstock, embossed with the name BLAIR VALENTINE at the top. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t use the company letterhead; this feels more like an internal memo from Management than a love note between mother and child.
My eyes scan the handwriting — an immaculate, sloping script, each letter crafted with utmost care. Almost like calligraphy. If Blair had been the kind of mother who’d left cute notes in my school lunchboxes, they’d surely have been the envy of the elementary cafeteria.
I was always fascinated by the kids whose mother’s tucked colorful post-its beside their sandwiches and thermoses, desperately curious about the messages scribbled there. Probably something trivial, I assured myself.
Have a great day, sweetie pie!
I love you to the moon and back!
Those who were lucky enough to receive notes would roll their eyes in exasperation, but they could never quite conceal their smiles. An undeniable glow of security seemed to emanate from their pores as they bit into peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts thoughtfully cut off.
I am loved, their posture broadcasted smugly. My parents love me.
At the end of every lunch period, I’d watch those same kids crumple up their post-its and toss them away along with their granola bar wrappers and empty juice boxes. The temptation to fish them out of the garbage, simply to understand what I was missing, only faded as I moved on to middle school.
No one packs their lunch at a private academy.
Dearest Josephine,
By the time you read this, your father and I will be at 35,000 feet, halfway across the Atlantic. Though it pains us to leave you, we had no choice in the matter. A catastrophic packaging issue has arisen at our distribution center in Geneva. We must deal with it at once, otherwise risk delaying next month’s relief shipments.
I am certain you understand the importance of our trip, for we have raised you to value the lives of many over the happiness of one. On this, the first day of your eighteenth year, may you step into adulthood with all the poise and purpose we have instilled in you since your birth.
We will make every effort to return in time for your graduation next week. Until then, know we are in a state of utmost suspense, awaiting the brilliance of your valedictorian speech.
Happy birthday, darling.
Hugs!
Blair & Vincent Valentine
PS: There are several gifts awaiting you on the dining room table. We do hope you put them to good use in our absence. xx
My mother always signs her notes with their full names. It’s as though she’s preparing them for a future museum exhibit chronicling their lives, or perhaps a PBS special on the glorious existence of two modern-day saints.
Here, you’ll see correspondance between Blair Valentine and her daughter, written on Josephine’s eighteenth birthday. A tireless human rights advocate, Blair prioritized her work above even her own family obligations.
I hope I’m long dead by the time the powers-that-be determine our family’s historical relevance should be displayed behind glass.
When I set down the stationary, I’m immediately enveloped in a double embrace. Flora and Miguel hold me tight for far longer than five regimented seconds. Trying not to cry, I allow myself to bask in their warmth until my pulse slows its furious pace.
“Are you okay?” Flora asks when I finally pull back.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “Of course.”
“If you want, we can spend the day with you,” Miguel offers. “Maybe take you out for lunch at that pizza place you like—”
“No, that’s all right.” I force a stiff smile. “If anything, I should be grateful they were here as long as they were. Five full days, this time — that’s practically a record. And they’ll be back for graduation next week.”
I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince them or myself.
Flora frowns. “But, mija—“
“I’m okay. I promise.” I take a deep breath. “Who cares about a stupid birthday, anyway? It’s just a regular old Saturday, as far as I’m concerned.”
Miguel crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re sure you don’t want to
do anything to celebrate?”
My lips twist. “I have a speech to write.”
“You can’t sit alone, doing schoolwork on your birthday.” Flora’s brows pull together. “At least say you’ll come to the baseball game with us tonight.”
“State Championship.” Miguel nods. “Should be an intense game. Xaverian is also undefeated this season.”
“Oh, um…” I trail off, not knowing how to explain that seeing their son is the last way on earth I want to spend my birthday.
“Can you believe it’s Archer’s final high school game?” Flora plops down onto a stool, shaking her head in disbelief. “Next time he steps onto a pitching mound, he’ll be a collegiate athlete.”
“Go Bulldogs!” Miguel cheers.
“Bulldogs?” My eyes go wide. My breath catches. “As in… the Bryant Bulldogs?”
They glance at one another.
“Surely, Archer told you?” Miguel asks hesitantly.
“No.” I shake my head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Dios mío, we’ve ruined his surprise.” Flora smacks her palm against her forehead. “I’m sure he was planning to tell you tonight. Oh, Josephine, promise you’ll act like you don’t know when he tells you.”
“If he tells me,” I mutter.
“Of course he will.” Miguel waves my words away. “You’re his best friend.”
Flora is staring at me, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Is everything okay between you and Archer?”
“Sure,” I lie brightly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I’m not upset at all by the fact he didn’t tell me about his college decision. I’m not remotely confused that he’s chosen to attend a school mere minutes away from mine, despite having offers from better baseball programs across the country. And I’m certainly not still reeling from our confrontation yesterday.
Nope.
Not at all.
Not one bit.
“You just seem…” Flora trails off.
“Leave the girl alone.” Miguel shoots her a look.
“Fine, fine.” Flora lifts her hands in surrender. “Josephine, would you like your presents, now? They’re in the dining room.”
We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1) Page 18
