Page 143 of Wait for Him

Was he happy?

Did he like the card?

Did he look okay?

I swallow all three.

Jade knows me too well not to hear them anyway.

"I love you, Rose," she says after a moment. "I'll let you go. We're okay, I promise. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

We're okay.

Such a careful little sentence.

I let her keep it.

"Yeah. Of course. I love you too, babes. I'll catch you next month."

We hang up, and this time I shut my phone off completely instead of leaving it face-down beside me like temptation with a battery.

I turn toward the balcony and watch the waves from bed.

Somewhere out there, across all that dark water and distance, Jackson had a birthday.

I don't let myself wonder what he did with the card.

Not for very long, anyway.

Eventually, the sound of the waves pulls me under.

Chapter Thirteen

Jackson

April

"Look this way, Mr. Jackson. Myra! I need makeup."

I position my face as directed and the flashes resume. Somewhere between buying my father's failing companies out of spite and turning a profit doing it, my little firm caught the eye of the Los Angeles Times: 40 Under 40: Entrepreneurs to Watch.

So now I'm mid-photoshoot in the conference room while a woman named Myra dabs at my forehead, and after this, a reporter gets to shadow me for the rest of the day.

Bennet and Blaire have been giving me shit since eight a.m.

I made the mistake of walking to my office to drop my bag, dressed, I'll admit, to the nines, and immediately ran the gauntlet. "Strut that stuff, Mr. President!" from Blaire, cupping her hands around her mouth like she's at a game, followed by "Sashay away!" from my best friend, a grown man and CEO, in front of his own employees.

I've been whistled at twice, catcalled by name, and somewhere in the elevator crowd someone pinched my ass. I'm about ninety percent sure it was Bennet. The remaining ten percent is Blaire creating reasonable doubt on his behalf, because marriage has turned the two of them into a small crime syndicate.

"Chin down. Eyes to me. Think of something that makes you feel powerful."

The photographer keeps shouting direction like I'm a professional at this instead of a numbers guy who'd rather be anywhere else. I think of the look on Frank's face when I set my phone on his desk, and the flash pops.

"There it is. Perfect."

It's been nine months and six days since Rose left, and I've read her birthday card every night since it arrived like a fucking storybook before bed. I've genuinely contemplated laminating it because the card stock is starting to soften at the folds, which is probably information I should keep between myself and God.

I'll be on my balcony doing yoga at 5 a.m.