Page 105 of These Summer Storms

Elisabeth cut him off. “We’re perfectly fine, Jack. You needn’t chase along after us all day. We’re not Franklin; you don’t work for us.”

His gaze flickered to Elisabeth, and back to Alice. “No, ma’am.”

“We’ve lingered long enough,” Elisabeth said. “I’m returning to the guests.” She pushed past Jack and into the house with a smooth grace that Alice had never mastered, and certainly wasn’t able to even approximate in that moment.

As Elisabeth disappeared down the dark hallway, Alice looked to the floor, wishing she were anywhere but there, on that island.

“Alice—”

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

He was already moving, though, coming for her. And she thought he might close the distance this time, for a wild moment, she imagined he’d reach for her. Pull her into his arms.

She played out the fantasy, imagining what it would be like if she let him. If she leaned in to his embrace and let him keep the world at bay.

It did not escape her that she’d told Claudia to get him. Not Tony. Not Sam. Not half a dozen Storm Inc. security guards. Jack.

And he’d come. And he’d stayed.

But even now, he kept himself at a distance. “You always do that,” she said, “come for me like you have no intention of stopping, and then…you stop.”

Silence fell between them, and he ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “I have to.”

“I understand. Maybe someday you’ll realize that he doesn’t control you anymore.”

A long silence. “Yeah. You too.” There was no rebuke in the words, instead, only comfort. Like they’d walked through the same fire. He exhaled harshly and unbuttoned his jacket. “It’s hot in here.”

“We don’t have to be here,” she said, tilting her head toward the door. “We can go back.”

He didn’t move. “Why did you send them to get me?”

“My mom was—” She stopped. Restarted. “There was someone—” Another pause. A shake of her head, feeling like she shouldn’t say. Like it was a secret. Just like everything else. “I don’t know; I shouldn’t have.”

After a long moment, she looked up to find him staring at her, his gaze heavy on hers, as though if only he looked hard enough, he would be able to see her thoughts.

“Nothing about this makes sense, you know.” She flinched at the words, even as he added, “The day, the week. The future. And nothing about how you’re feeling is wrong, either.”

“That doesn’t feel true,” she said. “It feels like it should make more sense. Like I should understand it better. Nothing about this is special. Everyone dies. Shouldn’t we all be better at it?”

He shook his head. “We don’t get better at it. It doesn’t get easier.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve done it.” He said it so simply, the way someone might sayI’ve been to ParisorI play tennis.

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry.”

Maybe that was obligatory, but it didn’t feel that way. And when he nodded and said, “Thank you,” that felt real.

She clung to it. “Can I ask—”

“My father.” He said the words carefully, as though, if he didn’t, they would come out mangled and strange. She understood that. “He died eight years ago.”

“Oh.” It was all she could find as she searched for the right thing to say—struggling to imagine that other people had experienced this strange, uncomfortable sensation.

“I wasn’t there,” he said.

She hadn’t been, either.“That’s hard.”