I stop, halfway between him and the clock. “I need to keep moving or I’ll explode,” I say, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well.
He unfolds his arms and closes the distance, slow but steady, until he’s a foot away. His hand comes up, soft on my cheek, thumb tracing the orbit of my eye.
“You haven’t slept,” he murmurs.
“Neither have you.”
He doesn’t deny it.
For a minute, we just stand there, two statues trying to remember how to be human. The clock ticks. His thumb moves to my lips, pausing at the corner where I bite whenever I’m nervous. I want him to kiss me, but I’m also afraid. What if she shows up and sees us?What if… what if … what if?
He senses this, as always, and his mouth brushes mine with all the gentleness of a secret. The kiss is slow, deliberate, more anchor than hunger. His hands cup my face, and I let him hold me up.
When he pulls back, I look up at him, trying to find some shape for the question that’s been eating me alive.
“Are you really—” I start, but the words run away, afraid of their own sound. I try again, jaw trembling. “Are you really on my side, Kent? No matter what?”
His eyes don’t blink. The blue is colder than glacier, but I know that color now—it’s not cruelty, it’s clarity.
“Yes,” he says, and it is an oath, not an answer. “Completely. There’s nothing in this world that would ever make me leave you, Mary Kate. I told you that. You’re mine.”
I want to believe him, but something inside still quivers, a little animal refusing to come out of its burrow.
“You’re not just saying that?” I whisper. “You’re not going to wake up tomorrow and think I’m?—”
He stops me with a finger, gentle on my lips. “No. You’re my life. If the world burns down around us, I’ll make a new world for you.”
The way he says it makes me think he could, actually, and I swallow back a sob.
I press my face into his chest and breathe him in—cologne, coffee, the metallic tang of anxiety, sweat, and under all of it, the stubborn warmth I’ve always needed. He holds me there, and the clock ticks out three more seconds before the next storm hits.
First: the click of high heels on the front steps. Then a rattle as she inserts her old key, a slide, and the deadbolt rolls open. The door swings inward, and Jeannine Ashton materializes in the entryway, trailing a rollerboard suitcase and a long shadow.
She stands there for a second, blinking in the brightness, a trench coat knotted around her waist and a pair of sunglasses perched at the crown of her hair like she’s late for a photoshoot.The coat is beige and too light for the temperature; her cheeks are wind-burned, and her mouth is chapped at the corners. Her hair is pulled back in a neat little bun, a couple of blonde strands breaking free and sticking to her jaw. The look on her face is half-exhaustion, half-performance, but even with the puffy eyes and the pale skin, she’s still beautiful—fine bones, surgical nose, the kind of smile you pay extra for.
She sees me and immediately rushes over, rollerboard forgotten by the door. My mom envelops me in a perfumed hug that smells like the duty-free aisle at an airport, plus a hint of burned coffee and dry shampoo. Her arms are stiff around my back, and when she kisses my cheek, her lips feel thin and papery.
“Oh, honey, I got your message and came as soon as I could. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.” She pulls back, searching my face for tears. “Are you okay? You must be traumatized. Who would do this? Who would make such disgusting videos of my baby?”
The word “baby” is a poison dart. I try to keep my face blank, but I can feel the bile rushing up my throat.
“Thanks for coming,” I manage, voice flat as printer paper. “Sorry it’s because of such bad news.”
Jeannine steps back and appraises me again. For a second, there’s real softness in her expression, but then she clicks back into business mode.
She rounds on Kent, who’s lurking by the fireplace, and gives him a look sharp enough to slice bread.
“Is there a reason you’re just standing there?” she says. “You let this happen, Kent. You promised me you’d protect her, and nowlook—her life is ruined. She’ll never get a job, never get married, never have a normal life?—”
“That’s enough,” Kent says, the words dropping like bricks.
She raises an eyebrow, mouth curling in surprise. “Excuse me? My daughter’s been victimized, and you’re saying ‘that’s enough’? I’m sorry, but I’m the parent here?—”
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s enough fake concern. We know all about it, Jeannine.”
I feel the air in the room snap tight, like a violin string ready to break.
Jeannine lets out a brittle laugh. “You think this is about me? You think I want to be here, in this mausoleum, cleaning up after your mess? You were supposed to protect my daughter, and now look what’s happened!”
