He thinks I’m his possession. That he owns me.
After that, it was as if Nick was moving in slow motion: As he put one leg in front of the other, his distressed jeans grazing the ground, the tips of his boots peeking out. As he turned his back to her, his leather jacket catching an air pocket. As he walked toward his bike, his arms out in the air like he was about to take flight. A panicked feeling coursed through her. She felt behind her seat for her purse, then reached around to grab it. She had to get to her phone. She had to try to get help.
Suddenly there was a thud against the roof of the car. Dylan screamed and dropped her purse. She was staring into Nick’s abdomen, his belt buckle pressed up against her window. Then he stepped back and lifted his arm over his head, and she saw it. A tire iron. He yanked it over his shoulder. Dylan ducked and covered her head, bracing herself for the blow against the glass. Tears poured out of her as she lay against the seat, praying for her safety, trying to make sense of what was happening to her. Trying to understand how Nick could turn into this man.
But the window never shattered. Instead, she heard sirens. She hadn’t called the police, but maybe he thought she had, because he ran to his bike and took off so fast she wondered if she could convince herself he’d never been there at all.
Then she saw the tire iron on the pavement.
I’m finally home and in bed, and my heart still won’t settle. Each heavy beat reminding me of what a fool I am—how blind I was to who Nick really is. My skin crawls when I think of the look in his eyes as he pressed the ring against the glass. Like nothing was wrong. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Like me getting back together with him would have been the most natural thing in the world. It makes me think my relationship with James isn’t so unusual. He might be married, but at least he’s sane. And we’re leaving for Maui tomorrow—something that I need now more than ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JACKS—AFTER
Breathe, Jacks. Just breathe.
My gaze falls on Dylan’s driver’s license resting in my cup holder as I pull into Nick’s parking garage, my breaths shallow. I let my car idle and scan the area for Nick’s bike just in case. But it’s not here. A ripple of guilt snakes through me. Sneaking into his place. Going through his things. James had been a liar. Telling me he was in one city when he was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Was my behavior now only a symptom of being deceived by my husband? I really didn’t have much proof—other than the ID. Was that enough of a justification to lie to Nick and go into his apartment without his consent? I look at Dylan’s face again—her pouty lips. Her rosy cheeks. But the thing is, I need to figure out the truth. If we have any future, I have to know.
My phone dings. It’s Beth.
Where are you? Thought we were meeting here.
I glance around. There’s no time to explain to her what’s going on.
At Nick’s, looking for something. Call you after.
I park and push the button for the elevator, remembering my first time here when I tentatively entered through the lobby, noticing the Peet’s coffee shop, the dry cleaner’s.
I had been a widow, still so raw from everything I’d learned about the husband I thought I knew. I never predicted I’d return here in a very different role—a girlfriend with questions about another man she thought she knew.
When Nick showed up on my doorstep the first time, I never asked him how he knew how to find me. Had he stalked me too? Or had digging into Dylan’s double life simply led him to me? Looking back, I don’t see Nick ever acting obsessed with her. He’d just seemed like a man grieving for the woman he loved, the same way I had been dealing with losing James.
As my finger hovers over the number for Nick’s floor, I think about getting off on the one below and trying to find Briana. Ask her more questions. I could show her Dylan’s driver’s license. Ask her what she thinks it means that Nick has it. I shake my head and punch the button for the floor that Nick lives on, worrying my own insecurities may be causing me to jump to the wrong conclusion.
So I head to Nick’s place. I walk down the hall and stop at his door, staring at it. Fumble for my key in my purse, remembering him giving it to me on a keychain with a red heart. I’d been wide eyed at first and asked, “Are you sure?” Then he nodded and said, “Of course, you belong here.” I giggled in response, twirling the key around my finger.
I think about how I never had any of James’s passwords, not even to his cell phone. Nick wouldn’t have given me a key if he had something to hide.
I run my thumb over the red heart and slide the key into the lock. “Nick,” I call out, just in case he’s home. I wait to step inside. “Nick?” I say again. Slowly I make my way into the condo and let the door close behind me. I stand in the middle of the living room, waiting. For what, I don’t know. Despite my plan to give him the benefit of the doubt, to let him be innocent until proven guilty, his place looks different with Briana’s accusations swirling inside of me. The Ikea furniture now seems too sterile. The stack of magazines on the coffee table looks too perfect. The glow of the time on the microwave is eerie. The hair on my arms shoots up, and I feel a strange sensation, as if I’m being watched. As if I’m not alone. If he is a stalker, he could have cameras set up. I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. That’s something Beth would say after watching too many episodes of Law & Order: SVU.
I finger Dylan’s ID in my pocket, making sure it’s still there, which somehow makes me feel sane. Like I have a reason to be here. To make sure everything is okay. That I didn’t go from one liar to another. I glance around me. The espresso maker parts are rinsed out and in the dish rack where I put them, the magazine I was reading still open to the page I stopped on—an article about how to make a face mask out of avocado. I’m standing here, not sure not where to start or what I’m trying to find, when a booming sound rips through the condo, and I scream.
I realize it’s just the air conditioner kicking on. My racing heart settles. And I roll my eyes. What’s got me so jittery?
I almost leave, deciding to simply ask Nick about the ID and take it from there. But then I think of James. How hard it had been to make sense not only of his death, but of the whys—the affair, the deceit, the other woman. And I decide I have to search Nick’s place so I can prove to myself that he’s not James.
I start in the kitchen, opening cupboards, pulling out drawers. I move to the linen closet in the hall, but I only find towels and a surplus of soap, deodorant, and body wash.
Maybe his biggest flaw is that he’s too clean.
I open the medicine cabinet in the guest bath, look under the sink. But there’s nothing suspicious.
I hesitate outside the threshold of his bedroom. Somehow looking in here feels worse, more invasive.
Nick’s bed is still just as I left it, the comforter longer on one side than the other, the pillows thrown on top of it casually. I’ve never been a great bed maker. James used to laugh at me because I struggled with the whole process—especially the fitted sheet.
Inside his bathroom, there’s also nothing out of the ordinary, his smell still lingering from his morning shower. I’m feeling foolish for snooping on him. What did I think I was going to find? I’m standing in front of his walk-in closet, debating what to do, and finally decide I might as well finish what I started. Then I’ll talk to him face-to-face so he can explain the ID. I check the time on my phone and see two missed calls and several texts from Nick.
Hi, my love!
Just got back from a call and thinking of you and missing your gorgeous face.
The last message has a picture attached. I click on it. He’s wearing his navy-blue Long Beach Fire Department T-shirt and hanging from a pole. His lopsided grin makes me feel even guiltier. I send a quick text.
Sorry, just got these. Miss you too!