Page 242 of Cross the Line
“Austen never called to me. I always preferred the darker gothic offerings from Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker. Even then,Rebeccawas my favorite classic. The perfect mix of mystery, crime, and romance. None of the frivolous drama Austen constantly harped on about.”
“Are you kidding me? Austen is the quintessential feminist.” I turn to glare at him as he flicks through the novel in his hand and puts it down on the kitchen counter with a pained grimace.
“Come on, JJ, the Brontë sisters were the real feminists. In comparison, Austen was a romantic with big dreams for a changing world.”
Ugh!Why is he goading me right now? I’m already riled up as it is.
“Are you going to stand there thinking about the ice cream, or are we going to eat some? Are you going to be the Austen dreaming about it or the Brontë eating it?”
“Your analogy sucks,” I mutter, turning back to the refrigerator when he grins at me.
Once I’ve got the different tubs of gelato—Fin’s favorite from the parlor at the mall—I source the chocolate fudge sauce along with the salted caramel and sit at the breakfast bar while he makes us each a sundae.
I can’t even go back to reading because he’s shat on that escape with his annoying anti-romanticism snark. Now I have nothing to focus on but the war in my head.
“You did the right thing, Jayden,” is all he says as he drizzles a generous amount of chocolate sauce into our bowls.
In my heart, I know that. In my head… there’s an endless stream of doubt. From what I did, to what I didn’t do, to what I could’ve done.
After adding a scoop of each gelato to our bowls, Dad slathers onmore sauce and adds a maraschino cherry on top like it’s the magic trick to making it a healthy snack—just like he used to do when I was a kid. Then he drizzles on some of the cherry syrup because… “It would be rude not to.”
“Obviously,” I chuckle back, taking the bowl he holds out to me and licking some of the sauce trickling down the sides.
I don’t know how he eats the ice cream so fast, or how he made so much mess making the sundaes. It fills me with dread for the day he and Eli are in the kitchen together, because that would be an apocalyptic disaster.
“Do not tell The Sire about this. He’s been a sucky dictator about the whole no-sugar resolution.” Like the chocolate-and-caramel fiend he is, he spoons more sauce into his bowl before he smooshes it around what’s left of his ice cream.
From previous experience, it’s obvious he’s trying to disarm me. Neutralize my hot mess of a brain. It’s why he was goading me about my reading preferences, too—giving me something other than the voice in my head to focus on.
“Do you remember those boatload sundaes we used to get at the Bear Valley piste?”
“Yup.” It was one of the main reasons that the skiing tournament was my favorite to watch Kailey at.
“The warm cookie boat packed with the brownie ice cream…”
“And marshmallow fluff.”
“Don’t forget the homemade salted caramel.”
“And the almond butter…”
“My God, my mouth is watering right now.” He makes for the sauces again, and I snatch the jars away. “What are you doing?”
“Looking out for your cholesterol,” I say, even though I push my untouched sundae his way.
Dad doesn’t touch it, either. The bowl sits between us, melting into a sad puddle of cold custard swirled with more chocolate sauce than any reasonable person should eat.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask tentatively, knowing that unless Eli gave him the A-okay to talk to me, there’s nothing Dad can tell me.
“JJ…” Dad gives me an apologetic smile. “The situation isn’t straightforward. It’s been a long time since the assault. There’s no physical proof, and our only witness is hostile. Any judge will throw this out as hearsay.”
“There has to be something you can do.”
“Of course, and I will do everything in my power for Eli. I’ve already contacted the DA here in L.A., and Natasha is one of the best prosecutors in the country.”
“But?”
“The burden of proof is substantial and, like I told Eli, cases like this—especially when a victim asserts their right to withhold their name from public record—can get…messy,” Dad says between gritted teeth. “Under the California penal code, there are at least eleven charges we can make for sexual assault. Then there are hate-crime charges, which we can prove, given that the linesman from the game overheard what Tomes called you both. Not to mention statements we can get from other players and the fact that the Comets’ GM already filed a complaint about his behavior months ago.”
