Page 16 of Five Stolen Rings
I am such a wimp.
But Jack’s not; that same businesslike look is still on hisface, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his hands steady, and sure, and so unnecessarily gentle.
“There,” he finally says several minutes later, pressing a large bandage over the cut. He leans back and lets go of my foot, looking up at me. “That okay?”
And something about the words sparks a memory—years old but vivid in my mind. My pulse jumps like a flame, a flicker of recognition and excitement.
“It was you,” I say before I’ve even thought it through.
Jack raises his brow at me, looking nonplussed. “Sorry?”
“The phone call,” I say as my gaze catalogs his reaction, searching for any hint of the truth. “Two years ago. I got a phone call.” It was after the earthquake that hit my little California city, a panicked voice down the line—a man who wouldn’t identify himself.
But Jack just shakes his head and snorts. “You think I have nothing better to do than call you, Princess?” Then he gets to his feet and looks down at me. “Must be nice to have such a high opinion of yourself.”
“I—you—” I break off, my heart falling. “It really wasn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “but I haven’t tried to get in touch with you, no.”
Duh. Of course he hasn’t. That wouldn’t have been him—I’m being stupid.
But then who was it?
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Of course. Uh”—I point to my foot—“thanks.”
He grunts and gathers up the first aid kit, heading toward the kitchen without a backward glance.
“What are you looking for here?” I call to him.
“I’ll tell you that,” he says, returning to the room a moment later, “if you tell me why you moved back to Lucky.”
“Not in a million years,” I find myself saying.
And this was always the problem with Jack: I had no filter. I had nowhere to hide; he always saw me for exactly who I was, and he never let me forget it.
Even when I wanted to forget.
He was right, of course. My stupid teenage self was ashamed of her small house, her family’s market, her hand-me-down clothes. She was scared of being an outsider. And so she hid herself, pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
This isn’t the same, is it?
That thought sends a little jolt of anxiety through me. I was miserable in high school, trying to fit in, lying to be liked—even though I was successful. I don’t want to be like that again, ever. Especially not to Jack, who—despite his utter disdain at my attempts to fit in then, and despite his clear dislike of me now—was one of the only ones who ever truly knew me.
“I don’t want to tell you,” I say, swallowing thickly. It’s the only concession I can make, the only truth I’m ready to offer. “Because it’s embarrassing and I’m ashamed.”
I don’t miss the surprised, curious look Jack gives me, his black eyes darting over my face, but he just shrugs.
“Fine,” he says. “I won’t tell you either, then. You should go home if you’re done here.”
I clear my throat. “I’m decorating for Christmas.”
“No, you’re not,” he says. He points to my foot. “You’re going home and keeping your weight off of that, hopefully well enough that it will heal without splitting open.”
I frown at him, and he sighs.
“It’s late. Go home and get your beauty sleep,” he says, his voice faintly mocking. Then he spins on his heel.
“You said I was beautiful,” I say to his retreating back.
