“I didn’t.”
I push up to my feet. “Oh, Christ, Jackson.”
“Listen to me. No,” he says, grabbing my hand as I start to walk away. “Listen.”
I turn to face him, but I don’t sit down. Instead, I stand with my arms crossed over my chest and my jaw tight.
He stands as well, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “I kept things from you, I did. Maybe more than I should.”
“Gee. You think? Like maybe you should have mentioned you were scheming with Jeremiah Stark?”
“I wasn’t. But I do know him. I’ve known him for a very long time.” He draws a breath and drags his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, Syl. Jeremiah Stark is my father.”
I stumble. I actually take a step backward, as if he’s shoved at me with the palm of his hand.
“What?” I finally say, even though I’m absolutely certain that I’ve heard him correctly.
“Damien’s my half-brother.” The words are flat, and it’s very obvious that he’s not particularly thrilled with his family tree.
I’m not really sure how to process that, and so I sit down on the edge of the fountain again. After a moment, Jackson sits beside me.
“Does Damien know?” I ask.
“No. I told you the truth about my dad. My family. I just didn’t tell you who.”
“You should have.” I try to organize my thoughts, but this news is out of left field. “All those times I asked you what your problem with Damien was, and you didn’t say a word.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have. I don’t know.” I can see the anguish on his face, but I don’t try to comfort him. I’m too hurt. Too numb. “Don’t you get it? It’s a secret I’ve lived with my entire life. It wasn’t something I could just shout out.”
“No,” I say tightly. “I wouldn’t know a thing about difficult secrets.”
“Is that what this is? Tit for tat? You told me about Bob and because I didn’t immediately toss my emotional garbage into the mix you’re punishing me?”
“Bob?” I repeat. “That’s all you have to say? Just some half-assed mention before we get back to your daddy issues?” His words are like a stiletto through my heart, because goddammit, Bob is what started all of this. Robert Cabot Reed, the asshole producer who wants to make the movie about Jackson’s Santa Fe house. Bob, the guy who has his claws in both of our lives, and all Jackson can think about is how I’m pissed that he didn’t tell me about Damien right then?
I say none of that, but the force of my emotions drives me to my feet again, and I’m about to lay it all out for him in harsh, clipped tones.
But he’s looking at me with such genuine confusion that I hold my tongue.
And that’s when I realize—Jackson has no idea about Robert Cabot Reed. He only knows that I was looking for him outside. He has no idea why. No idea that my mood, my fears, my entire meltdown wasn’t entirely driven by his little confab with Jeremiah Stark.
Suddenly, I feel very tired.
“I need to go home.” Right then, I need my condo. My patio. I need to curl up on my lounger and sleep. And with any luck, I’m exhausted enough that the dreams won’t come.
“Come back to the boat with me. Please, Syl. We need to talk more. I don’t want this to be the thing that breaks us. My father’s taken too much from me already.”
“He wasn’t the one who kept secrets from me,” I whisper. “That was you.”
I see the way my words make him flinch, and I almost take them back. But they are true, and so I simply shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe we do need to talk. But right now, I need to be alone.”
I don’t give him time to answer. Instead, I just walk away, even though doing so leaves a hole in my heart.
twenty-four
Exhaustion pulls me under, and I sleep through the rest of Saturday, and a good chunk of Sunday morning. The sun is high in the sky when I finally wake on the patio lounger, twisted up in the blanket that I’d pulled over myself.
I remember that there were nightmares, but I do not remember what they were. I only remember one, and in it I ran. Faster and faster, farther and farther. But I never escaped what was chasing me.
I don’t even know what I was running from. I can only assume it was everything.
I wrap the blanket around myself and stumble inside. I feel achy and old, as if my body doesn’t want to function anymore.
And I really don’t want to be alone.
I take a hot shower, and that relieves some of my aches, but not the one inside me.
The truth is that it’s Jackson I want, but I’m not ready for that.
And so I call the only other person I can.
“Can I stay with you?” I ask the moment Cass answers her phone.
“God, Syl, I should come over there and strangle you. Do you know how worried I’ve been? Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I’m sorry. I had it on silent. I just needed time.”
I hear her sigh. “Sorry. I know. I get it. Shit. Listen, are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll survive. But I really don’t want to be alone.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“I can drive.”
“Are you a complete emotional wreck?”
I actually laugh, which feels nice. “Duh.”
“Then you don’t need to be driving. Stay there. I’ll be right over to get you.”
True to her word, she’s at my door by the time I’ve tossed some clothes into a duffel bag.
“And you broke how many traffic laws?” I ask as I pull open the door.
She doesn’t answer. Instead she tosses her arms around me and locks me in a hug.
“Come on. I’ll take good care of you.”
“You sure it’s okay?” I ask as we head down to the street. “Zee doesn’t mind?”
Cass waves her hand. “Oh, please. Of course not.”
But I see a shadow on her face, and it worries me.
I don’t get the chance to ask her about it, though, because we’ve reached the parking area, and she is standing beside her bike.
I blink at her. “Seriously?”
“What? Traffic is a bitch this time of day on a Sunday, and I needed to get here fast. And you’ve only got a duffel.”
My smile is watery as I hug her. “I love you.”
“Well, yeah.” She grins. “I’m very lovable.” She unstraps the spare helmet she’s brought for me and hands it over. “Get on.”
I climb on the back of her ten-year-old Ducati, put on the helmet, and hook my arms around her waist.
“You should go to him,” she says as she starts the bike, but then she pulls out and takes off into traffic. If she says any more, I don’t hear it, because my face is buried in the back of her jacket, and I’m lost in the thoughts she has sparked.
Sixteen minutes later we pull up in front of her house. “Because he’s really kind of a wreck,” she says, as if the conversation hadn’t been interrupted at all.
“I’m kind of a wreck,” I correct. “And how do you know about Jackson, anyway?”
“I talked to him,” she says as she tugs off her helmet.
I freeze on her sidewalk. “When?”
“Yesterday. He came by the studio after you left the Getty Center.”
“He did?”
“He wanted my help.”
“To find me?”
She shoots me a quick glance. “To figure out what to do.”