Page 49 of Return to the Island

26

Juliet

I was getting married. I still had trouble believing he’d asked, and I said yes. Next, he wanted to take me to meet his parents.

“I don’t care if they approve or not, but I’d still like to introduce you,” he said, the following morning.

“Don’t approve?” I questioned, my forehead furrowing. “There’s going to be an issue because it’s me, right?”

“My mother couldn’t forgive me, but she didn’t disown me, either. She wouldn’t risk displeasing my father by giving her opinion. However, I think she’s noticed I haven’t been on an actual date in nearly two years. My father doesn’t care about love, but he does care about prestige. The Goodwins are that type of family, but I’ve already explained Abby. She’s a friend.”

“She’s not going to like this arrangement. She’s not going to like me,” I clarified, picking at my breakfast. He reached across the table and took my hand.

“I don’t care if she likes you. I know that seems harsh, but true. The only one who needs to like you is me.” He chuckled. “We aren’t living near them. We don’t have to interact with them, but I think meeting you would smooth things over a bit.”

“But I’m the girl,” I said, lowering my voice and looking out the window. Another sunny, blue sky greeted us, but I felt cloudy inside. A storm brewed under my skin. I didn’t want to meet these people he distrusted, but were still important to him.

“And I’ll explain that, too,” he said, not sounding as confident as he typically did.

“We could elope,” I offered, knowing I didn’t want a big wedding, and I definitely couldn’t tell Miller yet, or he’d go all wedding planner crazy on me.

“I already have a plan.” He winked. “But we see them first.”

+ +

As the plane landed, my hand gripped Tack’s. Sweat suctioned our palms together. My nerves caused my heart to skip a beat. After collecting our bags, we were met by a driver. The division I feared upon returning to the physical States was happening. Minute by minute, he slipped away from me, like one of those dreams where you are reaching for something, and it’s sliding just out of reach. Tack sat a little farther from me in the backseat. He still had my hand, but it was my palm placed on his thigh with his hand over mine. He stared out the window as we passed through the city. To my surprise, he took me to my home in St. Michael’s.

“It’s been a long day. Get some rest. I’ll have a driver pick you up tomorrow and meet you at the club.” The information seemed rather dismissive and that divide grew. He carried my bag up to my apartment above The Mouse Trap, hardly taking note of the place, and kissing me briefly before he left. I wanted to ask him to stay, to reassure me that the dream wasn’t going to crash. But I didn’t. He seemed as out of sorts as me.

It felt odd to sleep without him, although I’d done it for nearly two years. I’d grown as comfortable sleeping with him in the last weeks as I had easily fallen into sleeping next to him two years ago in a warm tent. The separation left me with an eerie feeling. My skin prickled with negative thoughts of things to come.

The next night, I dressed in a gorgeous dress he’d sent by messenger, stating he’d taken the liberty because he loved me in white. The dress was beautiful, with a low-cut lace bodice and a short skirt. I worried it was a bit risqué to meet his parents in something so high cut. I pulled my hair up and added more make-up than I’d normally wear. My hands shook as the driver pulled up before at an address I recognized, even if the building looked different.

The location was the spot of the original Front Door. My breath hitched as I stared at the dark green doors to the newer club. Despite Tack telling me he’d burned the building to the ground, the location alone made me tremble. I stared out the window a moment longer.

“Are you certain this is the address?” I asked the driver, Henry.

“Yep. Everyone knows Mr. Corbin owns the finest club in town.”

Consequences. The ironic name was stated in bold letters over the double doors. The valet opened my door and assisted me in exiting the backseat. I continued to stare at the club with its cold glass panels, three stories tall, the hint of low lights within. Irritation grew that Tack hadn’t met me at the curb. I entered and waited as I texted Tack. Trepidation was spreading through me like a wild vine.

A text returned. Introduce yourself to the hostess, she will direct you upstairs.

I didn’t like this response. I wanted him to come down and walk with me. With trembling hands, I stepped toward the hostess stand.

“Juliet Monte,” I introduced. The young girl in a skin-tight black dress which hardly covered her backside nodded and directed me to follow her. We walked up three flights of stairs, and my heart raced as I realized we would be entering the third floor. The scene of the crime might have been redressed, updated, renovated, but I felt sick being here. Tack stood outside the door of a small room and boisterously announced, “Here she is!” The pitch of his voice was too high. His tone false. He held out a hand, and his green eyes looked wild. He’d already been drinking.

Shaky fingers reached for his, and he tugged me to him. The motion was so sharp I stumbled in my heels and fell against his chest.

“You look beautiful,” he mumbled into my hair before placing his lips against my forehead. The greeting was so unlike him, the touch of his lips no more than a brush of air. I pulled back and looked at him. Once again, he had transformed into a Tack I didn’t know. Wild eyes. Crisp suit. False smile. He looked more like the man I saw when I entered a private room over two years ago—disconnected and dispassionate.

“Different but the same,” I muttered almost a question.

“What?” he snapped at me, as if I’d insulted him. I let his tone slide as he led me inside, feeling myself slip into a role as well. The one where I was quiet and reserved, and observing my surroundings but not part of them. A mouse.

The first introduction was to a woman who looked frail from drug use. Prescription or not, the look was the same. Her appearance matched the occasional woman my uncle brought home. Her skin was a pale gray color, heavily disguised with make-up. Her lipstick a touch too bright, contrasting the thick pearls at her neck. She was too thin.

“Mother,” Tack addressed her, kissing her cheek. “This is my Juliet.” His mother eyed me before stepping forward and air-brushing my cheek.