I nod, wiping down the already-clean bar surface. Myhands need something to do while I work up the courage to tell her what I've decided.
"Liza, I need to tell you something."
She stops mid-motion, a bottle of whiskey halfway to the shelf. "Oh God. What now?"
"I'm leaving."
"Leaving me here alone with Greg and his conspiracy theories and constant bitching?" She sets the bottle down hard. "Jenna, no."
"I'm going back to school. Art therapy program starts in the fall."
Her face cycles through emotions—shock, sadness, then something that might be pride. "That's... that's amazing. But how can you afford it? Tuition's expensive, and with Liam's school..."
"Caine's helping me." The words come out in a rush. "With school, with Liam's therapy. Everything. It was his idea. I fought it at first, but he can be very persuasive.”
Liza raises an eyebrow. "Everything?"
"I'm selling the house too. It was always too much for us anyway—we only bought it because Reeves wanted to impress people. I'll get a small condo, something manageable. And I'll find another bartending job, just part-time. Somewhere I'm not also the office manager and accountant and working fifty hours a week."
She leans against the bar, studying my face. "You've really thought this through."
"I have to. For Liam. For me." I pause, meeting her eyes. "I can't keep living in this cycle, waiting for the next crisis. The gambling, the debts, the fights. I want something better."
"I'm happy for you," she says finally, though her voice wavers. "Scared shitless about being stuck here without you, but happy."
I reach across and squeeze her hand. "You'll be fine. You're stronger than you think."
She grins. "Plus, now I get to live vicariously through your hot billionaire boyfriend."
Heat floods my cheeks. "It's not like that."
"Sure it's not."
"Are you calling me a gold digger?"
"If the shoe fits." She laughs. "No, seriously… I am happy for you. If anyone deserves this, it's you."
I lean in for a hug, and it feels so good. No matter what, I know I'll always have Liza on my side.
The teacher's words hit me like a physical blow. "Oh, his father picked him up about an hour ago. He said you'd called and asked him to."
My legs nearly give out. "I never... I didn't call anyone."
Mrs. Patterson's face shifts from casual to concerned. "Mrs. Sullivan, is everything alright?"
My hands shake as I fumble for my phone and call Reeves. Straight to voicemail. Of course.
"Hi, you've reached Reeves..."
I hang up and dial again. Same thing.
The next hour blurs together—frantic calls to Greg, to Reeves’s father, to anyone who might know where he'd take Liam. My mind races through terrible scenarios. What if he's drinking? What if he's desperate about the gambling debts? What if he's planning to disappear with our son?
Twenty hours pass with no signs of Reeves or Liam, and I'm losing my mind. The officer on the phone is calm, professional. "Given your current domestic situation, we can issue an Amber Alert within the hour."
I'm about to say yes when something tickles the back of my memory.
Last month, Liam was bubbling over with excitement as he told me about the fishing trip he and his daddy were planning, his words tumbling together in that sweet, slightly unclear way he speaks when he gets worked up.
