My phone sits on the coffee table. I've not looked at it in days—the cabin's signal is garbage, which is usually the point, but I'd put it in airplane mode anyway after the first night. Now I find myself glancing at it, wondering what's accumulated in my absence.
I don't pick it up.
Jamie emerges from the bathroom in loose sweats and a t-shirt, toweling his hair. He looks soft like this.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing." I turn back to the fire. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
He settles onto the couch, tucking his feet under him, and I watch the flames for another minute before joining him. Not too close. We're both coming back to what we are outside this bubble.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Better. Clearer." He tilts his head back against the cushions, exposing the column of his throat with its map of bruises. "I think the worst has passed."
"Good."
The fire pops and crackles. Outside, the wind has picked up, sending branches scraping against the windows. It's late afternoon and dark already.
The days are short this time of year.
The silence stretches. I stare at the fire, and my mind drifts to one of Jamie’s many media interviews.
It aired two weeks ago. I’d watched it alone in my apartment, bourbon in hand, trying to prepare myself for whatever damage control would be needed. Jamie filled the frame, in the studio of a show that skews toward our critics. He was wearing a blue shirt I'd never seen before, and his hair was slightly disheveled in a way that looked artless but wasn't.
He looked good. He always looks good.
"Let's talk about the Crane family specifically," the interviewer had said. "You've faced a lot of criticism for your coverage. People saying it's really about your obsession with Carter Crane the Third, especially after your scent match on the David Glass show."
Jamie's smile was sharp as a blade. "Carter Crane Senior built his career on backroom deals. Carter Crane the Secondexpanded that into shell companies and offshore accounts. And Carter Crane the Third—"
He paused. His eyes flicked away from the camera for just a second. It was a tell so small I doubt anyone else would catch it.
"Carter Crane the Third is poised to continue the family tradition. Unless someone stops him. And he needs to be stopped."
I remember how my heart stopped.
I know exactly when that interview was recorded. I know because I had Jamie pressed against a bathroom counter less than an hour before it happened, my hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds he was making while I fucked him from behind. I dropped him off two blocks from the studio. I watched him walk away, still flushed, still catching his breath.
And then he went on television and said that.
I’d needed to hear it. I needed the reminder that Jamie Dean was still the ambitious journalist who didn't care how much damage he inflicted on the way to the top.
But now, watching him curled on the couch in my grandmother's cabin, it’s hard to reconcile this soft, heat-dazed Jamie with the one who looks into a camera and speaks with such certainty about my family's supposed crimes.
We’ve not spoken about his supposed expose. Not once since Point of Contention, but I know we’re both feeling the constant heavy awareness that comes with constantly and carefully avoiding a difficult subject.
Maybe I shouldn’t be such a coward.
"Jamie."
He opens his eyes. "Yeah?"
"That interview you did. For the Sophia Artemis Show. A couple weeks ago."
His expression shifts. Just slightly. "What about it?"
