I inhale sharply like I’ve been struck. On the back of the shock comes outrage. How dare she bring Noah into this? How fucking dare she?
‘Ruby …’ Ada’s tone is reproachful and beneath my anger, there’s a smudge of respect for my sister.
‘What?’ she asks, all innocence. ‘He did though.’
‘It was a hit and run.’
‘Did they ever find the driver?’
‘No.’
I wish my big sister would turn around and slap Ruby instead of handing her dresses. Ada was there after the accident; she came over the day I got the call from Noah’s mum to tell me he’d died. She was there the days that followed too, ones that passed by in a dark blur of sympathy and hushed voices, in tears and the black burn of too many bourbons to get me to sleep at night. And on the day of the funeral, she helped me off my bedroom floor and into the shower where she washed my hair and cleaned my skin. She fed me lasagne from Tupperware and dressed me too – fresh underwear, thick tights, a black velvet number she must’ve bought because she lifted it from tissue paper in a glossy box on the end of the bed. There was something soothing about her soft hands on my skin, putting me back together, taking care of me in the same, precise way she did with her dolls when we were children. She slept in my bed every night for a week after the funeral, and one morning, when the haze of grief was lifting enough that I could wash and dress myself, I woke up and she was gone, and that cool detachment with which we treated one another returned. I didn’t understand but the chasm of distance between us meant I never felt I could ask.
Hurt by Mum’s lies, Ruby’s attack and Ada’s complicity, I turn and hurry down the stairs. When I get to the front door, I yank it open. And there’s Jack, all tall and broad-shouldered, his hand raised, ready to knock. We stare at each other, both surprised, but the second Jack sees my tears, his eyes darken and he steps inside. ‘What’s happened?’ He dumps his champagne offering on the side table by the door and pulls me into a hug. I breathe him in – sandalwood and leather – and some of the hurt and humiliation eases.
He leans back so he can see my face. There’s a line of concern creasing his brow. He wipes away my tears with his thumb. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Laughter glitters down the hallway, drifting in from the party in the garden. He glances up in the direction of the noise and scowls, then takes my hand and pulls me into the dining room. When the door closes behind him, it’s just the two of us. For a while, I can’t speak, too afraid that if I do, I’ll cry again. Jack sits opposite me, leaning forward, eager to help, but not knowing how.
After a few deep breaths, I tell him everything. He listens, face carefully blank, but his eyes betray him. They’re blue and remind me of Icelandic oceans, and right now, anger swirls in their depths. Jack is nothing if not fiercely protective. He thrusts his fingers back through his hair. ‘What the fuck do they know? Jesus Christ, at least you’re trying for something. Getting published isn’t as easy as marrying rich.’
‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ I say, feeling guilty for riling him.
‘They’re just jealous.’
‘That’s what people tell themselves to feel better. What do Ruby or Ada have to be jealous of?’
‘You’re talented, and brave, and ambitious. You’re everything they’re not—’
‘Jack …’
‘I’m serious.’ He takes my hands in his; his skin is warm, and his long fingers make me think of tree roots in earth. They were hands which held my hair back after too many tequilas, broke Chris Flynn’s nose when he called me ‘frigid’ because I wouldn’t put out, and built my bookshelf after I moved back to Crosshaven and into my little one-bedroom house. ‘Ruby’s a cheap copy of Ada, and the only thing going on in her life is pregnancy. She’s going to spend the next few months swelling up like a balloon and complaining about her fat ankles until Tim—’
‘Tom,’ I correct.
‘Tom, gets bored of it and starts fucking his PA.’
‘Jack,’ I scold, secretly delighted.
He smiles. ‘And Ada’s jealous because she left school at sixteen, bounced from one pointless job to another until she stumbled into the right place at the right time and met a guy with the right amount of cash in his account. And now what? She spends her days lunching with the girls, doing yoga and rearranging furniture.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Sounds directionless.’
‘Well, at least we have that in common.’
He squeezes my hands. ‘You are not directionless. You know what you want and you’re going after it and fuck them if they can’t respect that. As for your parents … I love Martin and Meredith, but their whole lives have followed a traditional trajectory: job, house, marriage, kids. Boring if you ask me. Not you, though – you’re doing things your way and they don’t like it, but that’ll change when they walk into that bookshop and see your name on the shelf.’
I love the way he sees me: talented, ambitious and brave. Like I can do anything. Like I should do anything. Sometimes I think Ada needs a Jack in her life.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper.
‘It’s true,’ he states matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I smile because he’s always been so sure of himself.
‘It’s been a long day,’ I say, exhausted. ‘I just want my bed.’
‘Sure. Let me drop the champagne with your sister and we can go.’
‘No, stay. I’ll get a taxi,’ I lie, not wanting him to know I plan on walking home because then he’ll feel obligated to give me a lift.
‘Nah, I’m not in the party mood anyway. Come on.’ He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. I take it.
‘Where’s your mum – I thought she was coming?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Mum will be disappointed.’ She and Kathryn have been best friends since they were children. They’re so close, it’s hard to believe Kathryn’s husband Jeffrey ever convinced her to move to America for all those years, just before Jack was born.
‘She isn’t well. Migraine. I was late because we couldn’t find her pills.’
She’s been getting migraines for thirteen years, ever since Jeffrey died. I shiver the way I always do when I think of Jack’s father, of the smell that hit us like a concrete block as we walked into their house on our return from Wisteria, carrying lilos and beach bags, sand still between our toes.
‘Just give me five minutes and I’ll take you back,’ says Jack.
‘Can I wait in the car?’
He gives me a look. ‘Don’t be a coward. Go say goodbye to them.’