chapter 30

Brighton worked for hours in the back room of the Naked Finger. The hot light and the dull ache in her shoulders as she hunched over the workbench served as welcome distractions. At closing time, she locked the doors and continued to polish a thin platinum band, taking the occasional break for junk food she’d bought in a fit of despair.

At eight o’clock, Jenna popped over from the Whinery to make sure she was okay.

At nine, Kira texted to check in.

At ten, Lila called to ask why on earth she was still at the store.

Brighton assured everyone she was fine and declined to leave the premises. She had made a commitment to deliver these rings before she left town. Besides, it wasn’t like she could sleep right now anyway. She kept thinking of the mixture of hope and despair she’d seen in Genevieve’s big blue eyes.

Brighton prayed that she wouldn’t still be getting over him a decade and a half later.

At ten thirty, she heard the metallic scrape of a key in the lock. She stashed the ring in a drawer and glanced up, expecting to see Lila.

Jake walked in, rumpled and unshaven and clearly exhausted. Her body responded instantly. She tried to look blasé as she picked up her plastic spoon and took a leisurely bite of Chef Boyardee’s finest.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Is this a trick question?” Brighton glanced down at her tank top, navy skirt, and bare feet. “I’m working and having a midnight snack. What are you doing here?”

“Lila gave me the keys.”

“Of course she did. You’re so charming and persuasive. But how’d you know I was here?”

He shifted his weight. “Genevieve mentioned you’d said you were going to work late.”

“Ah, yes. Genevieve.” Brighton pulled the ring back out of the drawer. “She and I had quite a conversation today.”

“She told me.”

Brighton studied the surface of the smooth platinum band for imperfections.

“Let’s go back to the house.” He took a step toward the door, expecting her to follow him.

She stayed right where she was.

He exhaled as he turned around to face her. “You know you’re more than welcome to stay there as long as you want.”

“I know. You made it very clear that you’d sign the deed to that house over to me right now if I asked.”

He nodded at her with evident relief. “You could stay here and work with Lila indefinitely. If you want, I’ll—”

“For the last time, Jake, I don’t want anything from you.” She peered through a magnifying lens at a tiny divot in the platinum. “I’m perfectly capable of providing for myself.”

“Eating SpaghettiOs out of a can?” He sounded angry, and she realized that this must be a sore spot. A throwback to the days when he was poor and struggling to be worthy of his bride.

Too bad. “I’d rather eat SpaghettiOs out of a can for the rest of my life than spend one more day eating twelve-dollar strawberries with you.” She spooned up another bite of pasta with an air of defiance.

A scratch at the door and a plaintive canine whine interrupted his reply. “Hang on.” He opened the door so that Rory, who’d been waiting outside, could come in. The giant brown dog padded over to Brighton, greeted her with drool-drenched kisses, and sprawled out across her bare toes.

Brighton reached down to pat his side. “Who needs fuzzy slippers when I’ve got you around?”

Rory’s tail thumped against the floor.

“Hey.” Jake frowned. “That’s my dog.”

Brighton patted Rory again. “Actually, he’s not your dog. He’s a dog. You said so yourself, remember?”

For once, Jake Sorensen had nothing to say.

Brighton cupped a hand to her ear. “Yes?”

“Maybe he’s not officially my dog, but he’s not yours, either.”

“Jake, I’m not going to argue with you about dog ownership. I’m too busy eating empty calories and working on what is probably the best piece of jewelry I’ve ever made in my life. So if you’re done—” She slipped on her safety goggles and flipped on her polishing machine. The humming noise drowned out further attempts at conversation.

He leaned over her shoulder until his cheek rested against hers. “Show me.”

She could feel, rather than hear, his voice. “No.”

He placed his fingers atop hers, his touch light but steady. “Brighton.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She switched off the polisher, put down Malcolm’s wedding band, and handed over the wax model of Clea Cole’s black diamond dog ring. “Behold, genius in the making.”

He studied her handiwork in silence.

“It’s a poison ring,” she informed him. “See the lid right there? There’ll be a tiny chamber under there that one could use to conceal poison that one might pour into one’s ex’s Gatorade. If one were so inclined.”

He peered at the intricate ridges and curves in the blue wax, the hollows that would be filled with precious metals. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not really. It’s just stone and metalwork.”

He kept studying the wax, and she knew that he could visualize the finished product based on the negative space. He could see what would be there based on what wasn’t there.

“The divorcée who commissioned it ordered three. One for her, two more for her friends. Because, you know, lots of marriages end in divorce.” Brighton used the spoon to gesture between them. “We’re not special. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do. With my trusty sidekick.” She leaned down to pet Rory again. “I’m not afraid to file some paperwork and make it official.”

“You’re bluffing.” But he didn’t sound certain.

“We’ll see.” She prepared to resume polishing.

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want Genevieve. Not anymore.” He started stroking her back, his hand warm and comforting.

She hadn’t realized how tense she was until she relaxed against him. “Then why is she still in town? If you don’t want her, tell her to go.”

“It’s not that simple.” His hand stilled on her back. “I can’t just turn her away.”

“Why not?”

He sat down next to Rory and scratched the dog’s ears. When he spoke, he sounded drained. Defeated. “I don’t love her. But I did. I won’t deny it.”

“She didn’t love you,” Brighton pointed out. “Nothing you did was ever good enough for her—until she got divorced and lost her trust fund.”

He acknowledged this with a wry smile.

“She doesn’t want you. She just wants to take the easy way out—again—by running back to you.”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Doesn’t that bother you? To know she just wants to use you?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . ?”

“She can’t do it, Brighton. She can’t earn her own money. She can’t survive without a safety net.”

Brighton just looked at him.

“I know you don’t understand.”

“You’re right—I don’t. Getting a job and shopping at Target is not some Greek tragedy. Everybody starts over sometime. Everybody has to struggle.”

“No. You do. I do. But Genevieve can’t. She doesn’t know how. I can’t walk away from her when she’s begging for help.”

“Because you still have feelings for her.”

“We have a history.”

Genevieve had said the same thing. She had a history with Jake and Brighton didn’t. No matter how she felt or what she did, she couldn’t alter that fact.

When Jake saw Brighton’s expression, he added, “If you called me fifteen years from now, I would help you, too.”

“I would never do that,” Brighton said softly.

He regarded her with a mix of affection and respect. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t throw money at this problem. If I give her money, no matter how much, she’ll run through it, and then she’ll be back.”

“Well, then, I guess that’s that. I can live without you and she can’t.” For a moment, Brighton cursed her own strength, the stubborn practicality that wouldn’t allow her to plead with him the way Genevieve would. She was too proud to compromise her principles, too independent to surrender her goals, and so she would lose out to a softer, suppliant woman. Again.

“I don’t want Genevieve,” he murmured, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “I want you.”

She could feel her anger melting away. It would be so easy to turn around and indulge in one more night. One more that she would convince herself would be the last. Even as she reached back to cover his hand with hers, she said, “Then tell her to go.”

He stilled. “I can’t.”

Brighton flinched at the raw regret in his voice, and she understood what he could not tell her: He had failed again. He knew that he had hurt her, but he could not heal her. Just as she could not heal him. “Then I don’t have anything else to say.”

He left without another word. Rory remained at Brighton’s feet, snoring softly. Brighton swiveled around in her chair and stared at the door, but all she could see was the glare of the fluorescent light reflected back in the gleaming plate glass.

Let him go. Work through it. She tucked her hair behind her ear and went back to polishing the platinum band.

Five minutes later, her resolve crumbled. She snatched up her phone and dialed. “Hey, it’s me. I changed my mind. Can I come over?”