The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(96)

Kay nods. “Afraid so.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t seem nervous.”

“I took a Xanax. You want one?”

“Oh . . . no, thanks.”

“I’m going to visit my fiancé. He’s in the Coast Guard down there, and as much as I hate flying, I’d do anything for him. How about you?”

“I’m going to spend the weekend with friends, and actually . . . I’d do anything for them, too.”

They smile at each other. Then the bride-to-be goes back to her magazine, and Kay breathes a little easier. Just a little.

Cory picks up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Where do you think?”

“Airport, I hope.”

“Yes. Where else would I be?” Jaycee keeps her voice low and her back turned to the other passengers milling around near the Starbucks. As soon as she finishes this call, she’s going to get a strong cup of coffee. Between her sleepless night, the flight, and what lies ahead, she’s going to need it.

“Just making sure you made it. I was afraid you were going to back out.”

So was I, she thinks, but she doesn’t tell Cory that. No reason to get him all worried for nothing. She’s going ahead with it, like she promised. She’s been resigned to doing what she has to do—well, to what Cory’s been telling her she has to do—for a while now.

Funny—the lyrics to the old “Going on a Lion Hunt” role play game she learned years ago in Girl Scouts are going through her head again lately.

Can’t go over it . . . can’t go under it . . . can’t go around it . . . gotta go through it.

The same refrain was endlessly on her mind when she was pregnant twenty-odd years ago, knowing there was no escaping the looming horror of childbirth, the trauma of adoption.

Gotta go through it.

She was going to have to deliver that baby, and she was going to have to give it up.

Funny, too . . . She’d initially resisted when Steven tried to talk her into terminating.

Years later, when the screaming, bloody human mess she’d delivered into this world left it in the same state, she wished she’d listened to him in the first place.

“Go ahead!” Olivia shrieked. “Do it! I dare you! I dare you!”

Jaycee squeezes her eyes shut for a moment to block out the memory.

Then she assures Cory, “I’m not backing out. Don’t worry.”

“Good. This is all in your best interest. You know that, right?”

“I’m not so sure I agree, but it’s too late to back out now anyway.”

“Call me when you get there so that I can give you a pep talk if you feel—”

“I said I’ll do it.”

“Good,” he says. “Because a big, bold move is your only way out of this. You know that, right?”

Of course she does. She’s known it for a while now. Eighteen months, to be exact. That was when he first approached her with this crazy idea.

Since then, the idea has morphed into an actual plan. Laying the groundwork has been a painstaking two-steps-forward, three-steps-back endeavor. But at last it’s time for full-blown execution.

It’s now or never, as they say.

“I’ve got to go,” she tells Cory. “I’m desperate for coffee.”

She glances again toward the Starbucks and locks eyes with a stranger at the end of the line. He doesn’t look away. Casual interest? Or did he somehow, despite her sunglasses and wig—this time an auburn one—recognize her?

Not taking any chances, she walks away, phone still pressed to her ear as Cory signs off with a benign—considering what she’s facing, “Good luck.”

“Good luck?” she echoes. “Gee, thanks.” She hangs up, shaking her head.

Good luck . . .

Hasn’t luck always been on her side? Ever since she left Minnesota and Johanna Hart behind, anyway. Even after she became Jenna Coeur . . . especially after she became Jenna Coeur.

By a stroke of luck, she became one of the biggest movie stars in the world; by a stroke of luck . . .

You basically got away with murder.

There’s no reason to think her luck is going to change now.

It’s going to be okay, Jaycee tells herself, turning off her phone and tucking it back into her pocket. You’ve got this. You can do it. Whatever it takes.

Sheri Lorton is jerked to consciousness by something wet swiping at her face. Startled, she opens her eyes to see that the puppy, Maggie, is licking her cheek.

She starts to laugh and call out to Roger, then remembers, and the laugh ends in a sob.

He’s gone.

She’s alone.

Alone, except for this crazy dog.

“I’m sorry, girl. You need to go out, don’t you? And I slept late.”

Ironic that she went from not sleeping at all last week, in the immediate aftermath of her husband’s death, to feeling as though all she’s wanted to do this week is sleep.

Probably because she forced herself to go back to work on Monday morning. It’s not as though they can’t get along without her at the campus admissions office where she works. They told her to take as much time off as she needed.

But what else was there for her to do? Sit around the house and cry?