Page 12 of Somewhere Without You
“No, it’s fine,”Isaid, forcing a smile, my gaze flicking past him to Natasha. She offered me a sympathetic tilt of the head, but her eyes narrowed a second later—like she’d already written me off.
“You stay,”Iadded, each word laced with restraint.“I don’t want to ruin your evening.”
The lie stung as it left my mouth. But I knew better than to cause a scene, not here, not now.
“If you’re sure,”Jacksonsaid, relief softening his features. He liked when I didn’t make things difficult.“I’ll have the car brought around.”
He leaned in and brushed a kiss across my cheek. I turned just enough for it to miss my skin, pretending I hadn’t.
The ride home passed in silence and shadows. The lights of the city blurred through the windows as tears slid down my face—quiet and unchecked. Not because of Natasha, or Jackson’s obvious wandering interest.
But because I no longer recognized the woman I’d become.
I used to have dreams, edge, fire. Now, all I had was silence.
And as the car wound through the hills toward the house I called home, I realized something far more painful than anger or heartbreak.
I hadn’t just lost myself. I’d surrendered.
Piece by piece. Smile by smile. Until there was nothing left but a name.
And even that was starting to feel like a stranger.
Six
Thenextmorning,Ifound Jackson sitting at the kitchen table, absorbed in the newspaper, a cup of black coffee beside him.
“Goodmorning,”I said, taking a seat across from him.
Jackson didn’t bother looking up.
I rubbed my eyes, still fighting sleep, as memories of the previous night drifted through my mind. A plate offreshlybaked banana muffins sat in the center of the table.
“Quite the party last night,”I remarked, reaching for a muffin.
“How would youknow? You left early,”he said, shifting the newspaper. I braced for the usual tension butwastakenaback when he added,“How are youfeeling?”
“Great,”I lied, stealing a bite.“Never better.”
“Hmm,”he hummed over a sip of coffee. The steam curled upward, lingering between us like an unspoken question.Washe waiting for something? A confession,maybe?
“Natashaseems. . . lovely,”I ventured, knowing Iwaswalking a fine line.
Jackson lowered the paper, his gaze locking onto mine. His eyeswerelike stained glass, catching the first light of morning filtering through the dining room window.
“I give it six months,”he said, picking up his paper again.“Stanley’s already bored of her. Poor girl—dragged away from everything sheknew, only to end up with someone like him.”
I bit back a retort,feelingthe sting of his jealousy.
“About New York. . .whenare you leaving?”I asked, pulling my robe tighter around me.
“Two weeks. Maybesooner, if necessary,” he replied flatly.
Relief flooded through me. At least a month,maybemore, of freedom.
“Do you think you’ll visit often?”I asked, watching himcarefully.
He exhaled through his nose. “I don’tknow. Depends on work, I guess.”
