He’s about to close my door when one of the photographers asks out a question Jake deigns to answer.
“Jake! How long have you known you had feelings for Scottie?”
Jake looks down at me, and for a split second, I see the guy who just helped a stranger. “Officially? Not long enough. I’ve known Scottie since we were kids. I was an idiot not to realize what was right in front of me.”
“What made you finally make a move?”
Jake’s thumb brushes against the door frame. “Life’s short. When you know, you know.”
“She’s your best friend’s younger sister. That’s gotta be complicated for a guy who burns every relationship he’s ever had. Aren’t you afraid of screwing up and losing the whole family?”
A stab of offense drives me out of the car and to my feet. I grab Jake’s arm, and turn on the man, barely containing my anger. “We know Jake in a way the press and fans never will. Nothing could make him lose my family. No matter what happens with us, he’s an honorary Quinn. Forever.”
The reporter chuckles. “If you say so.”
I want to throw his camera to the ground, but instead, I turn and put a hand on Jake’s cheek, my eyes burning. “Come on, Jake. Take me home.”
Jake helps me in the car, closes the door, and I hear him say, “That’s all for tonight, fellas. We’re calling it.”
A moment later, Jake gets into the car and peels out. Normally, I’d chide him for it.
But after that reporter’s question, I’m too firmlyTeam Jaketo mind.
After all my family has been through with him, after all the ways we’ve sacrificed to make sure he felt at home, it’s unconscionable for that two-bit hack to imply that something could jeopardize Jake’s standing with the only real family he’s ever had.
Jake turns on his favorite sports podcast—The Long Gamewith former NFL superstar Sonny Luciano—and we listen insilence. Outside the window, Charleston’s historic homes blur into streaks of light as Jake accelerates onto the highway. Sonny’s voice fills the car, too hopeful for the weight settling in my chest.
Tonight’s guest is a former linebacker who started a foundation for kids in foster care. The conversation is about chosen family, about the kind of trauma that doesn’t heal with time, the kind of pain kids just get better at hiding.
“You know what messes with these kids the most?” the guest says. “It’s not always the big stuff. It’s knowing that if they disappeared tomorrow, no one would notice for days. No one would call to check in. That’s the kind of wound that never really heals—you just learn how to cover it.”
For a second, I think about what Jake did back at the restaurant—how fast he moved, how he didn’t question a thing.
He just … helped. Like it’s in him.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows it’s there at all.
His jaw tenses, and he switches to music, and I’m as relieved as he is when the darker thoughts are drowned out.
Some people disappear and a search party goes out to find them.
Others disappear even when everyone’s watching.
The drive from Charleston to Mullet Ridge is two hours, so by the time we get to my place, he’s gone through Guns N’ Roses’ greatest hits and has moved on to AC/DC. Meanwhile, I’ve watched way too many of Lucas’s videos while I should have been reading.
“All right,” Jake says when he parks in front of my condo. “I’ll be back out next weekend. Agent says we need to milk this every chance we get.”
“Are you sure you need to be back that soon?” I ask.
“Don’t sound so excited,” Jake says.
“How could I not be excited?” I ask, unbuckling. “I’m dating my brother’s best friend.”
He chuckles. “Living the dream. Later, kid.”
“Take it easy,” I say.
I’m about to get out of the car when I spot a man walking his dog and ogling Jake’s ride. I sigh. “Someone’s watching.”
