Page 57 of The Price of Forever

The chef—named Gaston, which was the most French Chef thing I’d ever heard—brought out various courses, waiting dutifully until we completed each one before delighting us with the next round. We ooh-ed and aah-ed our way through French onion soup, a wild mushroom ravioli with shaved Parmesan on top, and beef short ribs with creamy polenta. Each course was a brand new flavor explosion that had never hit my palate before.

By the end, drunk more on the perfection of that polenta than on the wine, I was the one leading the applause for Gaston.

“You cooked this well because I stared at you upside down the whole time, isn’t that right?” I asked him as he came by to collect my plate.

He smirked but said nothing.

“He doesn’t speak much English,” Axel explained.

“I will learn his language to ask that exact question,” I told him.

“I can’t tell if that’s a promise or a threat,” Damian quipped.

“I think that depends on how responsive he is to her hanging like a bat in the corner again,” Seven added.

The rest of the table erupted into laughter, and I fought to hide a cheek-splitting smile. My chest split open, allowing that old, gaping hole to be filled anew with the genuine laughter, the delicious food, the way that people at this table, in some way, knew me. Not just my name, but my preferences. My habits. My quirks.

It was so heart-warming that it bordered on fire. And that type of warmth…I wasn’t used to. I craved it, but the cold was what I was familiar with. Comfortable with.

The warm chasm cooled as my logical mind fought to heal what it perceived as a sudden wound. Any opening in my heart space was an invitation for pain, infection, and hurt.

My tablemates continued talking, unaware of the emergency medical procedure I’d completed on the interior of my chest as the conversation turned to other things, like trips to the French countryside, learning new languages, and whether anyone had actually seen bobsledding in real life.

I participated as much as I could without allowing the warmth to take over the vulnerable inner parts. I needed to stay in a safe zone—I’d become so used to hacking it on my own, it felt wrong to be seduced by the allure of this so-called family.

We were connected, for better or for worse. But the only safe way forward was alone. Undisturbed. Distanced. In control. I’d learned this lesson enough times already.

I was ready to slip away on my own. The wine threatened to loosen me up again, and despite how much I reminded myself that distance was smart, my heart craved the closeness. Even if it was a ruse.

“Jordan.” Amid clinking glasses and dinner plates, Damian sat in the empty chair next to me and pulled out his wallet. “I almost forgot. I brought something for you.”

He fished out a small photo between thumb and forefinger. It looked old, like something from a real film camera. He offered it to me and I plucked it reluctantly from his fingers.

“I want you to have this,” he said quietly.

My gaze swept over the faded image. I recognized Damian’s young face first, tucked between the shoulders of two adults—our parents. Axel was at our father’s side, then Kaylee beside our mother, a bright-eyed four-year-old. I was a toddler in my mother’s arms.

A picture-perfect family.

A spear to my heart.

“It’s one of the last photos taken before the accident. Before…everything changed.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he looked like he wasn’t sure what to say next. His jaw flexed for a moment. “I wasn’t sure if you had anything from them.”

“No, I don’t.” My voice was hoarse as my gaze swept over the photo. When our parents had passed away from the Christmas Eve car crash, we’d only had one living grandma at the time. She was too feeble to take us in—destined for a nursing home herself—so all four of us were kicked to the foster system. I didn’t even have a memory of what my parents looked like. I had no baby pictures. Nothing but sadness that covered my mind like a thick quilt, and a longing for so much more than I’d received.

“You should definitely have this then.”

“But won’t you miss it?” I couldn’t rip my eyes from the picture.

“I’ve made a high-res copy. Besides, if I ever want to see it, I can just ask you.” He offered a smile and squeezed my wrist. The small gesture made my throat clamp. I had to get out of there. Immediately.

“Thank you,” I forced out past dry lips. I tried to smile, to say more, but I couldn’t. The tears were coming now, which meant I had to leave. I shot to my feet and silently retreated to my room.

Only in the dim light of the bedroom did I let the sob bubble up and out of my chest. I knew how to tamp it down—I’d been practicing the art of silent crying my entire life. I sank to the floor at the foot of the door and clutched the picture to my chest, tears streaming down my cheeks.

I’d been part of a family once. I’d been born into and raised with love—until it all changed.

Seeing the evidence of this truth felt unbearable. Heart-wrenching in a way that could only be expressed with jaw-breaking sobs. And while Damian’s gift was a sweet gesture, it was also a warning bell.

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