Page 45 of The Convict Gets His Girl

"The specialist doctor I need is in Dallas, remember?" Jewel asked softly, her stomach dropping with dread.

Destini crossed her arms. "But there are doctors in Houston too. Why do we have to uproot everything now?" Her voice rose, frustration bubbling over. "I thought our plan was for you to move back once I went to college. Why can't we just stick to the fucking plan?"

The kitchen went silent. Joe and Liz exchanged a quick glance. The other kids froze, forks suspended midair.

Jewel frowned. "Destini, language."

"Don't language me when you're the one changing everything, and I'm just trying to keep my head above water."

Destini pushed away from the table, her chair screeching across the floor. It rocked precariously in her wake as she stormed upstairs, footsteps thundering against the wooden stairs.

Jewel rubbed her forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache bloom behind her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered to her family.

Frankie, their precocious ten-year-old, broke the silence. "She's been really moody this week," he offered, a mixture of explanation and apology.

Jewel stood, murmuring another apology to Joe and Liz. Her legs felt heavy, each step a deliberate movement toward the inevitable confrontation. They should've talked this out before she moved to Crimson Creek. She shouldn't have left the way she did.

The upstairs hallway stretched before her, lined with family photos and childhood artwork. The guest bedroom door was closed—a barrier both physical and emotional. Jewel knocked softly, then pushed the door open.

Destini was a whirlwind of motion, pacing from window to dresser, hands cutting through the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra of frustration. Her hazel eyes—so like her father's, whichever one he was—blazed with a mixture of anger and hurt.

"I'm not a child anymore," Destini burst out before Jewel could speak, her hands still moving. "I can handle change. It just takes me a while to understand. Help me understand because I still don't know why we have to do this now."

Jewel sank onto the bed, feeling the soft comforter beneath her, her body aching from the long drive. The weight of years—of secrets, of decisions, of missed moments—pressed down on her shoulders. Her daughter's restless energy filled the room, electric and uncontainable.

"Destini," she said quietly, "I think it's time we talked about some very real-world things. You're right. You're not a child anymore. You're almost sixteen, and it might help you understand."

The pacing stopped. For a moment, only breathing filled the space between them.

Destini crossed her arms, her stance defensive, a mirror of teenage rebellion as she cocked a hip and faced Jewel. Her eyes narrowed, challenging. "Is this where you tell me all the things you promised to tell me when I get older?"

The words hung in the air, laden with years of unspoken conversations, of moments delayed and truths held back. Jewel felt the weight of each unsaid word, each postponed revelation.

She winced, a subtle movement that betrayed more vulnerability than she intended. "Something like that," she whispered.

A flicker of something—anticipation, fear—crossed Destini's face. Her arms remained crossed, but the rigid tension in her shoulders softened almost imperceptibly. She was listening now, truly listening, in a way she hadn't before.

Jewel recognized that look. It was the same look she'd had at Destini's age—hungry for truth, terrified of what that truth might reveal, but unable to look away.

The room seemed to contract, the space between mother and daughter suddenly charged with potential energy, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

"Remember the infection I told you about a few months ago? It's called Lyme disease," Jewel began, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "For almost two years, I've been seeing doctor after doctor, trying to understand why my body felt like it was constantly betraying me."

Destini's defensive posture softened as her arms dropped, and she sat on her computer chair. "The migraines," she said, almost to herself. "And those long bubble baths you'd take when you were hurting. The extra paperwork at the office when you'd complain about being too tired to move."

Jewel nodded, surprised by her daughter's perceptiveness. The years of hiding, of trying to appear strong, had been more transparent than she'd realized.

"Houston has great medical facilities," Destini argued, a hint of desperation in her voice. "Why do we have to move to Dallas?"

Jewel sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and years of frustration. "I've been driving to Dallas once a month for six months. This specialist—he's the best. I didn't make this decision lightly, sweetie, and I'm so sorry it's a rather abrupt decision. You only had a few weeks during the summer to get used to the idea, and for that, I'm sorry."

Her fingers traced an absent pattern on the bedspread, a nervous habit Destini had inherited. The room felt smaller, the weight of years of unspoken struggle pressing down between them.

Destini's eyes softened, just a fraction. Maybe she'd finally not just see her mother as an inconvenience, but as a person fighting a silent battle.

Destini's shoulders slumped, her teenage defiance momentarily deflating. "But it's just two more years, Mom," she said, her voice a mixture of frustration and vulnerability. "Two more years until I graduate. Why now?"

Jewel looked up, her stinging, burning eyes meeting Destini's. "I can't wait another two years to get better, and the monthly drives to Dallas were too exhausting," she said softly, a tremor of desperation threading through her words. "I'm sorry."

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