I don’t go to him that night.

Or the next.

And things might have gone on like that forever. With me serving my time and pretending my employer in the main house doesn’t exist.

But the following Monday as I jog down the school steps after dropping Wes off, a large man steps in front of me. He is swarthy and olive-skinned. Definitely not a black man. But for some reason, he reminds me a lot of Javon. Other than the difference in skin color, their overall vibes feel the same. This guy is big and bulky, with a suit so tailored, it somehow reads like a uniform.

I freeze, my throat filling with fear.

And then, as if to confirm my suspicions of whose payroll he’s on, the man says, “Got someone who wants to talk to you.”

I blink, not understanding. Also… “Um, I am expected back home in ten minutes.” Which is sort of true. Barron only has a single afternoon lecture today, and I was planning to stop at Starbucks, but now I really, really want to go straight home.

“Won’t take long,” the man says, cupping my elbow and leading me to an idling Bentley.

I would like to say I am surprised to find Jack Calson waiting for me in the back seat when I climb in, but I am not. The truth is, I have been expecting him to show up ever since I stepped foot onto Holt’s estate. And if we are speaking truth, I’m only surprised it took him this long to make an appearance.

“This ain’t what we agreed to, girlie,” Jack says after his guard shuts the car door behind me.

There’s no small talk or even a hello, how are you doing since the last time I threatened you?

But again, I am not surprised. There wasn’t any small talk the first time we met, either. Just Javon all but shoving me into a car a few hours after I came down in Holt’s apartment elevator, screaming for help.

Holt’s father had been in the backseat of that car, too. Along with a lawyer in thin black glasses who repeatedly wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked me through the contract Jack Calson wanted me to sign. It was one of the hottest summers on record in Connecticut. And even that fancy car’s air conditioning couldn’t keep up.

But this time, Jack Calson sits alone. This time, I am not a scared girl whose would-be fiancé just overdosed. And this time, it is chilly in the car, with a fall wind swirling dead leaves outside the car windows in an ominous reminder of how easy it is for beautiful things to die.

“I am not in breach of contract,” I answer. “I still haven’t told him what really happened that night and I won’t.”

Big Jack gives me a look so assessing, I’m instantly reminded of Holt. “I’m talking about our verbal agreement.”

I shake my head. “I stayed away from him. Holt moved on and married like you wanted. I had no idea Wes was his son when I met him.”

“And how about fucking him in that restaurant bathroom?” Jack asks. “Is that what you consider staying away?”

I take a deep breath, not interested in or feeling capable of explaining my very complicated sex life with Jack’s son. Instead I say, “I am leaving in January. I won’t be a problem after that, and he will never find out.”

Jack’s jaw tightens and though I don’t smell tobacco on him, it sure looks like he’s chewing on a wad as he considers my words. “What’s keeping you from giving your two-week notice today?”

“Holt is,” I answer. “He poisoned the waters at my last job so I would be forced to accept his offer to become Wes’s nanny. I am still not sure if he really needed the childcare or if this is his idea of revenge.”

“Probably both, knowing my boy,” Jack answers, his Arkansas accent as loose-jawed as Holt’s is Connecticut tight. “You shouldn’t never let yourself cross paths with a Calson twice, if you escaped the first time. And that boy of his is a handful. Which is why I ain’t none too happy about you ruining his chances with my first-round pick for his next wife.”

I am not happy about it either. And I also wonder if Holt realizes his father was part of the vetting process for Holt’s most recent date.

I fold my hands in my lap and quietly wait to hear what Jack will say next. There’d been a big speech ten years ago.

“You’ve got a choice, girlie,” he told me. “Holt will be all right without you, more than all right. But if you stay with him, I will not hesitate to ruin the lives of those you care about the way you will ruin his future if you continue with this relationship. You are young and might not think you need money to be happy. But let me tell you, your mama does. From what I have found out, her and your sick daddy are swimming in bills. Bills I can pay, nice and discreet. A charitable donation from a Christian organization that heard her story and wants to help. After your daddy dies, she’ll be sad but she won’t have any more money worries. Not like the kind she’ll have if I decided to punish her for her daughter’s crimes.”

Jack, as it turned out, had been the answer to repairing the rift that had driven me straight into Holt’s arms in the first place. I showed up with a check at my mother’s door just as she was coming home from the hospital with the worst news of her life. Daddy could not survive any longer without a ventilator, but in a moment of pride she had no idea he had been keeping in reserve, he refused to be fitted for one. So instead of sending him home with a ventilator, Daddy was sent to a hospice where he would die. Sooner than any of us expected.

My mother needed me and the check I told her I’d secured from a Christian organization. And Holt…well, he didn’t. The paramedics who attended to him had said he would recover, and in the few minutes I had to consider Jack Calson’s offer, I realized the truth of things.

Not only did Holt not need me, I had cushioned his freefall into drugs by not insisting he go to rehab. It was because of me that he was vulnerable to an overdose. Back then, I didn’t have a word for how I felt about myself during those four hours after receiving the news that Holt would make a full recovery. But in the years that followed, I encountered it time and time again as I attempted to parse what had happened that summer.

I was an enabler. I had enabled him, and this meant Jack Calson was right. Holt and I were bad together. Then and now. All we do is ruin each other.

So, though I loathed Holt’s father for always being the devil in the backseat offering me impossible choices, I found myself nodding at him and asking, “What do you want me to do?”