Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(47)

“Tell my nose that.” I rub it dramatically, even though it doesn’t hurt at all.

“The huge new bump on it suits you. Adds some character to that otherwise perfect face.”

He’s trying to divert back into playful, friendly banter. The kind we do so well. The type that cropped up between us once everything was out on the table. After that night, I never hesitated to tell Jasper anything. Of course, as we got older, things changed, but we had this foundation of raw honesty I could always fall back on.

I trust him, and I think he trusts me. I don’t know why he trusted me that night. Perhaps, he just needed to unload, and I was the puppy-love-riddled girl who was already up watching him, who just “happened” to be out for a walk.

Either way, it connected us. For life, it would seem. Because I don’t think he’s told another soul the entire details of that day. That he held his hand up in that signal. That his family fell to shambles in the wake of it. That he feels responsible. That Beau found him living in a car in a field behind the school because his mom was missing and his shithead dad had started a fresh life and failed to keep coming home for him at all.

The mention of perfect face brings a hush back through the cab, and with all the quiet, my mind wanders.

My curiosity gets the best of me when I ask, “You hear from him at all?”

He knows I mean his dad without even saying it. Harvey has filled that void for him the best he can, but there’s no getting over a parent who leaves you by choice. A parent who blames you for the worst day of your life.

He clears his throat, glancing at me from under the brim of his cap. “No.”

I nod, tamping down the rage that his biological dad always stirs up in me.

“I drove there once, you know. Just to see. Parked on the street and watched his house for an entire day. His wife. His kids. A fucking cat. I always wanted a cat, and he wouldn’t let me get one.”

“Did he see you?”

“Eventually.”

“What did he say?”

His throat works in tandem with his hands on the wheel, and he shrugs.

“I could kill him,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my lips as though I can press back in the words I want to spew about this “man” who abandoned his only surviving child to start fresh without him. Grief twists us all in unusual ways, and I wish I could bring myself to be more forgiving considering what he went through.

But I just can’t. All I see is Jasper and what it did to him.

I know my dad can be a domineering dick, but he cares about me in his own way.

Jasper chuckles sadly. “That’s the thing, Sunny. He said nothing at all. He saw me. We made eye contact. And he just closed the door and flicked off the porch light. Went to bed.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks when I offer the apology, and I reach out to wrap my fingers around his shoulder, fingertips dusting the curls that trace the back of his neck.

He inclines his head toward me, and the pads of my fingers rasp over the bone at the top of his spine. I rub a slow circle there and feel his body relax under my touch.

It strikes me again that it isn’t enough to heal his wounds. But it’s what I’ve got.

I can be a person who really knows who he is rather than what he is. I can listen.

When he talks, I’ll always listen.

“Shit happens to the best of us, Sunny, and I am not the best of us.”

“To me you are,” is what I tell him.

My eyes catch on the diamond that sits on my finger, and I recoil at the sight. I need to take it off, but I’m stalling. And not because I miss Sterling.

It’s because I worry that if I take this ring off, I’ll do something stupid and desperate where Jasper is concerned. It’s like a mental seat belt for me at this point—one of the few things keeping me safe from myself and an impulsive decision.

But I reach out, take his nearest hand off the wheel, and link my fingers tightly with his over the center console.

And the ring doesn’t stop me.





18

Sloane


Dad: Sloane, it’s time for you to answer my calls. I raised you better than this. I know you can be highly emotional, but this is too far. Pull yourself together and behave like a Winthrop.




Harvey: How are you kids holding up?

Sloane: Good. Spent the night in Rose Hill. Should be in Ruby Creek this afternoon. Will keep you posted.

Harvey: How’s my boy?

Sloane: Good. Fine.

Harvey: And how are you?

Sloane: Hungover.

Harvey: He driving you to drink?

Sloane: Pretty much.




I turn my head back out the window as we crest the top of the mountain pass. Visibility has gotten worse. I can see the red taillights of the few vehicles around us and feel the truck straining to chug its way up the steep incline. In the side mirror, I can see the big round bales strapped to the flatbed, two layers fit together like puzzle pieces and covered with tied-down tarps to keep them from getting wet.

My ears pop as we hit the top altitude and start our descent, the front end of the truck pointing downward suddenly. A soft grunt comes from Jasper, and I turn to look at him. His thick brows are furrowed as he glances between the dash and the road.

“Turn the music down, Sloane.”

It’s already quiet, but I do it anyway because the tone of his voice jarring. There’s a note of anxiety, a note of authority, that has my hair standing on end.