"We could talk," I try instead. "That's why we're here. So we can actually communicate without?—"
"Without what? Without me having the option to leave when I've heard enough?" She laughs bitterly. "That's not communication, Phoenix. That's a hostage negotiation."
"You're not a hostage."
"Then give me my phone and let me walk out that door."
I don't answer. We both know what my silence means.
Jade shakes her head slowly. "That's what I thought."
She sets her coffee mug on the small table beside the bed and rises, padding across the cold floor to the bookshelf that lines one wall of the cabin. She runs her fingers along the spines before pulling out a battered copy of something I can't see the title of.
Then she curls up on the sofa, tucks her bare feet beneath her, and opens the book.
For hours, she doesn't look at me. Not when I make breakfast and set a plate beside her that she ignores for twenty minutes before finally eating. Not when I get my own book and lay down on the bed reading the same sentence over and over again.
A few times, I catch her watching me. I see it in the corner of my eye. She glances up as I pour another cup of coffee and start a fire. But every time I turn to look at her directly, her gaze snaps back to the book.
I feel her studying me and I study her back. I watch the way she turns the pages. I watch the way she shifts on the sofa,trying to get comfortable. I watch the way she plays with a loose thread on the sleeve of her flannel.
The tension between us builds with nowhere to go. By midday, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin. By late afternoon, I have to restrain myself from pacing back and forth.
Standing at the stove and stirring a pot of soup, I feel her behind me. I didn’t hear her move or walk on the creaky floorboards, but suddenly she’s behind me.
"Why me?"
Her voice is quiet. Stripped of the anger and sarcasm.
I don't turn around. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there are thousands of women you could have chosen for your little charade. Rich women. Connected women. Women who would have been thrilled to play the adoring girlfriend for a room full of investors." I hear her take a shaky breath. "So why me? Why go to all the trouble of paying off my debts and flying me across the country when you could have just hired an actress?"
I turn off the burner and set down the spoon. When I face her, she's standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, looking up at me with those dark eyes that have haunted me for longer than she knows.
"Because I didn't want an actress," I say. "I wantedyou."
"But why?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything I haven't told her. Reading her blog. The years of watching. The obsession that started long before Marcus ever mentioned needing a girlfriend for the investors.
I could tell her now. Could confess all of it and let the chips fall where they may.
But I look at her standing there, so fragile, and I know that truth would break whatever thin thread still connects us.
"Because you're real," I say instead. "Because every other woman I've ever met has wanted something from me. Because when I'm with you, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life."
Her eyes search my face, looking for the lie. "That's a pretty speech."
"It's the truth."
"Is it? Because I don't know what the truth looks like coming from you anymore."
The words hit harder than I expect. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but liar was never one of them. I've always prided myself on being direct and on saying exactly what I mean.
But she's right. I have lied to her.
"Jade—"
