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“No, Mel—book talks about—your—don’t want you being surprised at all.”
I frown. “What? Judy, I can’t hear—”
“Father.”
I tense.
“What?”
“Book—leak—the truth—your father.”
My stomach drops.
“Whatdid you just say?” I whisper hoarsely.
By now, I’ve assumed that Judy’s cunty and cryptic shit back in that dressing room about me having to “buy a copy” of her book to find out who my dad is was typical Judy bullshit.
So why am I suddenly second guessing myself on that?
“Judy, you’re breaking up. What did you—”
“Don’t—you—caught off guard.”
“Okay? Judy?”
The reception fills with static.
“Judy?”
The line clicks off.
Shit.
I pause, frowning as I try and put the pieces together. But then I stop. Because this is what she does. She just sews these seeds of doubt and chaos, and then smiles as they grow tall.
Fuck you, Judy.
I’ve got enough to deal with and think about out here without her shit.
I boat backover under two clouds—one, an actual dark cloud up in the sky. The other is my mood—black, stormy, and cold.
Albert’s right. I have gotten better at boats. I tie off the line to Jackson’s dock, and then climb the stone steps up through the woods to the house carrying the bags of supplies from town. My hip pushes the front door open, and I sigh as I step inside, fully expecting to find Jackson still asleep on the couch.
I blink, freezing.
What I don’t expect is for the living room to beimmaculate. The kitchen, too. And the hallway, and…basically every room I step into.
Slowly, I make my way back to the kitchen, putting the groceries on the counter as my eyes sweep the clean sink.
“I want to do better.”
I gasp quietly, turning and flushing as my eyes lock with his. Jackson’s standing in the living room—his jaw clean-shaven, his shirt buttoned, and a pained but firm look on his face.
“Jackson—”
“Ineedto do better.”
I swallow, walking slowly towards him
