“You’re not rushing back into that environment, Jade. Not until you’re steady again. Not until you decide what comes next.”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t know what comes next.”
She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers.
“You don’t need to know today,” she says. “Today you just need to shower, maybe eat a real breakfast, and then let Irene fuss over you with whatever eyebrow torture she’s planning.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me.
A real one.
The first since homecoming.
“Irene did say she wants to make me look like I own a European art gallery,” I murmur.
“She will,” Aunt Susan says with a smile. “And for what it’s worth, she’s the best at this kind of thing. Reinvention is her love language.”
I breathe out, letting the ocean fill the silence between us.
Maybe I can’t fix the world today.
Maybe I can’t fix myself today.
But I can sit here, in this kitchen, with the smell of coffee and eggs and sea air, and feel… something other than broken.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
Irene’s spa sits right in the middle of downtown Chatham, wedged between a bakery that smells like heaven and an art gallery full of ocean watercolors. The sign out front is hand-painted:Seacliff Sanctuary.
Inside, everything is white, gold, and soft blue. The air smells like eucalyptus and expensive candles. Women in matching black uniforms stop what they’re doing when Irene walks in.
“Boss!” one of them calls. “You’re early!”
“I brought a guest,” Irene announces, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Full treatment. Head to toe. Don’t hold back.”
My cheeks heat.
“Aunt Susan, I don’t?—”
Susan waves a hand. “Let her.”
Before I know it, I’m sitting in a pedicure chair while a woman massages my calves. Another starts on my nails with some pale neutral polish that makes my hands look way more elegant than they have any right to. Someone else brings warm water and citrus for a hand soak. A masseuse appears, all serenity and soft voice, and works the knots out of my shoulders until something unclenches in my chest.
I don’t feel good.
But I feel… held.
And that’s something.
Then Irene appears at my side, clapping once.
“Time for your hair, sweetheart.”
She leads me back to a private room with tall mirrors and bright lighting. My wet, short hair clings to my jawline. I still barely recognize myself.
Irene runs her fingers through it.
