The moment we land, Axe escorts me off the plane, his grip gentle and yet strong, and guides me to the car that will drop me off at home. Still no questions, no pressure, no demands—just that quiet I’ve-got-you vibe.
He somehow knows exactly what I need.
At no point do I feel like I have to pretend to be okay. He will not be shaken by the real me.
When we’re at my door, Axe finally turns and cups my face in his hands. He’s careful. Like I’m precious but not in any way fragile.
“Do you want me to be there with you while you do whatever you have to do, or do you need to do this alone?” he asks.
“Alone,” I say. He nods in full understanding.
“I love you, Josie Greene,” he says, and I’m overcome with so much joy and gratitude and sadness all at the same time. Axe MacKenzielovesme. Nothing else matters, and all I want to do is pull him inside and let him hold me and fuck me and love me till the sun comes up on another day. But there’s still business to finish.
He kisses my lips with the softest peck. “I’m going to trust you to let me know when you need me.”
Then he walks away and takes my whole heart with him.
—
Thirty minutes later, I march into Spa-la-la, because according to Alan, my mom is here using my free gift certificate from Axe’s dead brother. The irony in this is so obvious, I’d giggle if I wasn’t already so overcome with rage.
The air reeks of lemongrass with an undertone of useless rich ladies, and when I blow past the woman at the desk, she hits me with a raised eyebrow but doesn’t stop me.
I must look deranged enough that she doesn’t want to.
I find Mom in a treatment room, reclined in a plush chair, getting a facial, cucumbers over her eyes like a parody of the good life. Old instincts kick in—some sick, deep-rooted reflex that almost makes mewantto tell her about my adventures. About how I flew on not one but two private jets in the last three days. About how I saw Scotland. About how I slept in a motherfucking castle.
But I don’t, of course.
“Hi, Mom.” Something in my tone makes the aesthetician scuttle out the door.
Slowly, my mother pulls the cucumbers off her eyes and looks at me.
Does she know that I know?
Nonna always had a way of speaking through the cards. Like she was weaving together a story from the symbols only she could understand. The Moon, the Star, and the Ten of Pentacles. At the time, they seemed like abstract ideas. Some kind of invisible-ink fortune cookie I couldn’t quite read.
But now—oh, Nonna—I so fucking get it.
“What are you doing here, sweetheart? I’ve tried you a hundred times, and you didn’t return my calls!” Her voice is warm, wounded, and so deeply concerned. She has never broken character. Not once. In all these years.
“I lost my phone,” I say, and feel a rush of satisfaction knowing I will never have to see her increasingly desperate calls and guilt-trip texts again. Will never have to feel even a shred of obligation to call her back. After today, I won’t have a mother.
“You look tired. You should be in bed,” Mom says.
And this time, I can’t help it. I bark out a bitter laugh.
I think of the Moon card, with its hidden truths and deception, Nonna’s way of warning me that something wasn’t right. That what I saw wasn’t the whole picture.
“I feel great, Mom. Actually, I’ve been away, and I left my health kit at home. Didn’t need it.”
“Josie!” She sits up, horror in her eyes.
The Moon card: all her lies.
And next the Star: hope and healing.Nonna, I hear you loud and clear.
“I was never sick, was I?” I fire the words like a bullet. No warning.
