“Bought me a pair of ice skates. Signed me up for hockey. And something clicked. Finally had an outlet. Finally felt… capable.”
A gust of wind brushes against us.
He continues.
“Once I hit puberty and got serious—protein shakes, workouts, practices—it all burned off. Then suddenly I was six foot two and jacked and everyone acted like I’d always been that guy.”
He shakes his head.
“It wasn’t easy, though. I trained like a bitch. Ask my basement. Still has my old dumbbell set. I also might have a very expensive bottle of stretch mark cream still in my bathroom cupboard. Not that I’d ever admit it…”
I look over at him.
Not pitying.
Not impressed.
Just… seeing him.
He sees me too, I realize.
Not the girl from the news stories.
Not the deepfake victim.
Not the crown dipped in slime.
Just Jade.
A girl with short hair, a broken heart, and no idea how to be a person right now.
By the time we get back to the house, the sky is almost black, the only light coming from the porch lanterns and the glow spilling from the living room windows.
Inside, Irene immediately pulls out a bottle of red.
“Well,” she says, “if there was ever a day that needed it…”
Thom raises his eyebrows.
“Moderation,” he murmurs.
“I’m fifty-three, Thom,” she says. “I’ll moderate when I’m dead.”
Mason laughs, grabbing a jacket from the hook by the door.
“I’m heading out,” he announces. “Ben and Raj are at the bar at the Chatham Bars Inn. Karoake night.”
Thom gives him one of those father stares—the kind that carries decades of practice.
“No drinking and driving. And don’t bring anyone home.”
Mason groans. “Pops, please.”
Irene snorts into her wine.
Mason shoots me a grin, pushing curls off his forehead.
“You wanna come? It’s a mellow crowd. Old money, tourists, bored locals pretending they have hobbies.”
