Page 103 of Every Step She Takes
“Either’s fine.”
He lifts his free arm, as if for a hug. I step into it, and he gives me a quick squeeze. He smells of dew-damp puppy, and clean aftershave and Jamison. Mostly of Jamison, and my eyes fill with tears.
As I swipe away a tear, he shakes his head. “None of that. Also, please don’t tell me I look good. I trust you can do better than that. ‘God, Jamie, for a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, you look awesome.’ ”
I smile through the tears. “I won’t say it, but if I did, I wouldn’t mean it like that.”
He does look good, strong and healthy. A younger, slighter-built version of his father with his mother’s smile and keen gaze. He’s absurdly handsome, as one might expect, given his genetic inheritance. But there’s none of Colt’s arrogance or even Isabella’s confidence. He isn’t the diffident boy I remember, but there’s a quietness to him, a gentle maturity.
I remember meeting Tiana at ten and thinking how much older she seemed. Now it’s Jamison who acts andfeelsso much older. Unnecessarily older. He’s keeping this conversation calm, light even, putting a good face on his grief, but there’s an unmistakable melancholy.
“Can we take this conversation inside?” he asks.
“May I carry the puppy?” I ask.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he passes her over. “Definitely. Her name is Molly, by the way.” He falls in step beside me. “It’s good to see you, Lucy. I won’t add ‘despite the circumstances.’ It’s just good to see you, and before you tell me that you didn’t kill my mother, I know that. I thinkeveryoneknows that, really. It’s just…” He shrugs. “It’ll be resolved soon. You have nothing to worry about.”
Because he knows Colt went to New York on Sunday night. He knows his father’s secret, and that firm certainty in his voice says he won’t let me be scapegoated for this.
I loop my arm through his. He stiffens, as if in surprise, but when I go to pull away, he keeps me there.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Obviously, for your mom. That goes without saying.”
“It does.”
“But the… rest, too. I know what happened… the way I left and the fallout from that for your family…”
He slows at the edge of the forest and glances over. “Do you think you’re responsible for this?” He gestures around the grounds of the rehab facility.
“Not entirely, but what happened didn’t help.”
“What happened at the beach party wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about you and me, either. It was my dad being…” He makes a face, as if hating to speak against his father. “Dad being Dad. I was upset and angry. At the time, I only understood that you’d done something wrong and were sent away for it, and you weren’t coming back next year, like Mom had promised. That’s what I cared about. That you weren’t coming back.”
He opens the door to his cottage and ushers us inside. I put down Molly, and she scrambles for her bowl, careening over the hardwood floor. Jamison chuckles as he fills her water. Marco silently passes us to take a seat in the living room. I stay in the kitchen with Jamison as he feeds the puppy.
Then he says, “You aren’t responsible for me being here, Lucy. That’s poor life choices and even poorer DNA. Addiction runs in the family. Dad’s had problems, but Mom kept him on the right path. His mother, though, was a total mess. Seems I take after her.”
He waves toward the coffee maker. I nod, and he grabs three pods and pops in the first.
“Fortunately,” he continues, “I seem to have inherited – or learned – a little of Mom’s common sense, too. Enough for me to see the path I’m on and switch to a better one. I wasn’t quite so clear-headed at eighteen. I blame testosterone.” A wry smile my way. “I had my fun – and my screw-ups – but I’m clean and planning to stay that way.”
I nod, saying nothing.
He searches my face and says, “You read about the suicide attempt. Or is itattemptsnow? One is far too dull.” He sets out cream and sugar. “Even one overstates the matter. Technically, I suppose getting coked up and hopping behind the wheel of a friend’s new Ferrariissuicidal, but I didn’t intend to kill myself.”
As he hands me the first coffee, I say, “I saw you on a movie poster at the airport. That’s what you want, is it?”
He smiles. “You still have a knack for that. What you really mean is ‘Do you actually want to be an actor, Jamie, or are you feeling pressured into it?’ ”
He hands me a second cup with a nod toward Marco. Then he says, “The answer is that I want it. Acting, yes. Action movies…?” He makes a face. “That’s a longer discussion. But the short one is that I really am okay, Lucy.” He pauses, fingers tightening around the third mug. “Or I was last week, but again, that goes without saying.”
He ushers me into the living room, where I hand Marco his coffee. The puppy gallops after us, and when Jamison sits, she vaults onto him. He absently pats her head, as if lost in his thoughts.
On the coffee table, his cell phone vibrates. He shoots it a glance of annoyance. Karla’s name pops up on a text. It looks as if it isn’t the first from her this morning. Notifications fill the lock screen. Jamison turns the phone facedown.
“You didn’t come here to talk about me,” he says.
“I do want to know how you’re doing. I would have loved to see you before now. Long before now. It just wasn’t appropriate.”
