She’s barely touched her food and is quieter than usual. And she keeps her gaze fixed on her plate.
Something’s wrong. This isn’t just about Vegas. This is something else.
Then Meesha uncovers the salmon, and Jasmine suddenly looks sick. She presses her hand to her mouth and bolts from the table.
“Is she okay?” Connor asks as the bathroom door slams.
“She hasn’t been feeling well,” Jessa says, exchanging worried looks with Meesha.
Five minutes later, Jasmine returns. “Sorry about that.” She slides back into her chair, avoiding my gaze.
“Here,” Connor offers, already pouring her a glass of wine. “This will settle your stomach.”
“Thank you, but no alcohol for me.”
Meesha laughs. “Oh my God, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pregnant.”
The table erupts in laughter.
I chuckle along with everyone else.
Then Jasmine’s eyes meet mine for the first time in months, and in that split second, I see panic. She refocuses on her plate, and I wonder if I imagined it.
“Jasmine?” Jessa’s voice cut through the laughter. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her hands shake as she sets down her fork. “I need some air.”
She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone patio.
“Jas, wait!” Meesha reaches for her, but Jasmine is already moving toward the porch steps.
I’m on my feet before conscious thought kicks in. “I’ll check on her.”
“Antonio—” Jaxon’s warning tone barely registers.
“What?” I’m already moving. “I’m just making sure she’s okay. You act like I’m going to kidnap her.”
“With you, anything’s possible,” Kamal mutters.
I ignore them and follow her down the steps and onto the driveway.
Jasmine is halfway to her car when I catch up. “Jasmine, wait!”
She spins around, keys clutched to her chest. “I need to get home.”
“Let me drive you.”
“No!” The word comes out almost hysterically. “No, I need...I need to be alone.”
She climbs into her car, and every instinct screams at me to stop her. But pushing Jasmine may make her run faster. Instead, I watch her back out, then jog to my car.
I slide in and pull out, following Jasmine’s taillights at a distance. I’m not following her exactly. I’m just... making sure she gets home safely. Like a totally normal, not-at-all-obsessed person.
My father would call this typical Da Rocha stubbornness.You get an idea in your head, Toni and God himself can’t talk you out of it. He’d said that the last time we spoke, two months ago. He wasn’t wrong then either.
At least my older brother, Tiago, inherited the same trait. His entire music career is built on that stubborn refusal to quit. Maybe it’s genetic.
Or maybe I’m just an idiot who can’t let go.
