The Bodyguard (71)

Poor Doc and Connie. They had a lot to take in.

And that’s when I decided to go ahead and say something real. “I know the timing’s very odd,” I said. “But since it’s my last chance to say it, I want you to know that this was a highly atypical assignment for me. I never, ever get attached to clients. But I got very attached to you.”

“To me?” Connie asked.

“To all of you. In different ways,” I said—and then I hadn’t planned to say this, but before I knew it, it was happening: “My mom died this year, and being with you has been very … meaningful for me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Connie said, reaching for my hand and pressing it between hers.

“She wasn’t anything like you,” I found myself saying. “She was troubled. And difficult. And she always made things worse instead of better. You don’t remind me of her, but…” My throat felt thick, but I kept going. “I guess you remind me of the mom I always wished I had.”

Connie met my eyes. “I’m glad I could be that for you.”

“While I was here,” I went on, “I felt like I had a family.” I took a breath. “My childhood wasn’t…” I didn’t know what to say. “I guess I never knew what a loving family felt like. And even though…” I felt my voice starting to tremble. “Even though I won’t be able to be a part of this one in the future, I loved being with you. And I’m just so grateful to know that families like yours even exist.”

I took a deep breath and held it, trying to settle myself. But there was one more thing.

“I’ll miss you, is what I’m trying to say. Genuinely.”

“What about Jack?” Connie asked. “Will you miss him?”

I debated how much to confess. “I will,” I said. That seemed like plenty.

“He likes you. I can tell.”

But here we were, at the end. I wouldn’t even let myself wish that were true. Instead, I shook my head. “I think maybe,” I said, “he’s a much better actor than you think.”





Twenty-Five


AMADI SHOWED UP to take me back to town before Jack and Hank came back.

“You’re a little early,” I said, checking my phone.

“Yeah,” Amadi said. “We’ve got a sick little one at home, so my wife…”

“Got it.” I nodded.

It hadn’t taken long to pack up my things. There wasn’t all that much to do. I even put Jack’s toothpaste cap back on for him.

I thought, for a second, about leaving a note or taking a picture. How else would I remember the sight of Jack’s unmade bed, or the Jack-shaped piles of his clothes scattered around like bearskin rugs?

But I fell back on professionalism. There was a leave-no-trace protocol for these things. I was never there.

Amadi loaded my suitcase into our black, secret-servicey company Tahoe, and then, without breaking stride, he opened the passenger door for me and walked around to the driver’s seat.

He was ready to move.

I walked to my door, but I hesitated.

I looked around for signs of either brother, but nothing—just trees rustling, the faint beginnings of stars, a clump of cows by the fence watching us with their sad eyes.

“I’m sorry—” I said. “Can I just have a minute?”

Amadi checked his watch, but he said, “Okay.”

There was a light on in the barn. Maybe they were there?

But the barn was empty.

I walked back slowly, scanning the fields. I could see Clipper in the paddock. I blew him a kiss.

The idea of not saying goodbye to Jack made me feel … panicky—even though I never said goodbye to clients. Would saying goodbye even matter? It wouldn’t change anything. But I felt like I had a hundred urgent messages for Jack—and all I wanted was to convey them all. Whatever they were.

Back at the Tahoe, I stood by the open door for another minute, scanning the yard and waiting.

And then it was time to quit stalling.

I climbed in, swung the door closed, and buckled up.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Amadi pulled onto the gravel drive and steered us out of the yard, over the cattle guard, and down the long road where Jack had fake hugged me so many times.

It was fine. It was better this way. Probably.

I took a breath and held it tight in my chest. I was not going to cry. Not in front of a colleague. Not over a client. That was something to focus on, at least: holding it together. I could do this. I could do this.

But then Amadi braked. He slowed, then stopped, in the road.

He was checking the rearview mirror. “Is that the principal?”

I twisted around to look out the back.

Yep. It was Jack. Running after us down the gravel lane.

“Give me a minute,” I said, climbing out.

Jack met me, stopping barely two feet away, out of breath. “You left,” he panted, “without saying goodbye.”

“I waited,” I said. “But we had to go.”

Jack tried to let his breath catch up. “I thought we had more time.”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Hank had some things to say.”

I nodded.