Page 142 of The Convict Gets His Girl

Destini wiped at her eyes, and her words registered in Jewel's mind.

Her daughter's voice carried a tremor of anger, fear, and emotion. Jewel recognized that tone. It was the same tone she herself used when cornered, when truth was more complicated than a simple explanation could capture. Genetic inheritance, she thought briefly—this reflexive defensiveness.

The smoke smell seemed to pulse between them, a silent witness to whatever had transpired. Jewel waited, her medical training kicking in. Observe, don't interrupt, let the patient—no, her daughter—speak.

"I was, but then Kayla wanted to go to a party and?—"

Jewel's fingers curled into her palms, fingernails pressing crescents into skin. She was losing control of this conversation, and she knew it.

"And what? If all your friends wanted to jump off a cliff, you'd go right along with them? I thought I raised you better than that."

Destini flung herself back onto the bed, sobbing anew.

Jewel winced, running a hand over Destini's calf. "Shit, I didn't mean that. You're amazing just the way you are. It's just, when Ana said?—"

Something inside Destini snapped. "Why don't you ever care about what I say?"

The shout erupted, sharp and wounded. Her voice rose, trembling with years of accumulated frustration even as she covered her face with her hands. "You're always so quick to think about what others think or feel but what about me? You never talk with me anymore."

Destini's last words came out like a knife—precise, cutting, barely a whisper. "God, I can't wait to go to college."

Those last words hung in the air, a declaration of escape. Jewel saw it then—not just the immediate rebellion, but the deeper fracture. Her daughter wasn't just fighting about tonight. She was fighting about years of unspoken distance, of conversations avoided, of emotional barriers carefully constructed.

Destini's eyes glinted—part anger, part something more vulnerable. Something that looked terrifyingly like loneliness.

Jewel leaned forward, seeking Destini's hand, her clothes still faintly smelling of the clinic, a barrier between her and her daughter. "What do you mean? We talk."

The words sounded hollow even as they left her mouth. She knew they were more reflex than truth.

Destini's laugh was sharp, brittle. "Not about real stuff, Mom." Each word landed like a precisely placed punch. "Talking is not your strength. It took you a year to tell me you had Lyme. An entire year of me watching you struggle, of me wondering why you were so tired, so distant. And fifteen years—fifteen—before you admitted you didn't know who my father was."

Her gaze was laser-focused, cutting through Jewel's practiced calm. This wasn't just about tonight's party. This was about every conversation they'd never had, every truth left unspoken.

Jewel felt the weight of those years—the secrets, the half-truths, the careful choreography of avoiding real emotional intimacy. Her daughter had learned her lessons well: how to deflect, how to hide, how to create distance with a carefully chosen word or silence.

The accusation hung between them, a mirror reflecting every uncomfortable truth Jewel had spent years avoiding.

Destini hugged a pillow to her chest, a tiny movement that spoke volumes. One hand swiped quickly across her cheek—a tear, swift and silent. She turned, presenting Jewel with her back. The rejection was total, complete, and it hurt like hell.

Jewel felt the moment viscerally. Her daughter was right. She'd spent years building emotional walls, teaching Destini through example how to hide, how to protect oneself by revealing nothing. Each secret kept, each feeling buried had been a silent lesson. Vulnerability is dangerous.

The realization crashed over her like an icy wave. She wasn't just hiding from others. She'd been hiding from herself. And now, she'd successfully taught her daughter to do exactly the same thing.

She didn't know how to talk about her feelings, but perhaps asking questions would help.

"Ana said that Chase helped save the kids from the fire and was there to pick y'all up. He rescued you." The words came out softer than she intended, a defensive edge cutting through her own shame. A spark of jealousy flickered—hot and unexpected. "Why did you call him and not me? You knew I was awake at the clinic."

The question hung in the air, part accusation, part wounded maternal vulnerability.

Destini's voice came back, sharp and clear. "Dad understands me. You're too busy running from everything to listen to me. I knew he'd come, no questions asked." She twisted slightly, just enough to catch Jewel's eye. "You never listen to me, but Dad does."

The words landed like precise knife cuts. Jewel felt each one, understanding now how her own patterns of avoidance had created this moment. Chase talked. Chase listened. Chase showed up. She recognized the painful truth in her daughter's words.

Her mind raced through memories—her own teenage years, the reckless choices born from silence and unspoken fears. Destini's party tonight was a mirror image of her own past, if the mirror was a circus mirror, distorting key details.

Sixteen years ago, Jewel had been a young woman making a choice in isolation, without real conversation, without true understanding. She and Chase hadn't really talked back then, either.

Well, Chase had. She'd listened, but not engaged, not shared her hidden fears or worries about their future together. She'd decided on her own that she knew what the best course of action was, without talking with anyone about it.

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