Page 59 of Jasper

He raises an eyebrow. “A deal?”

I nod. “If you promise to help me with my problem… by touching my plate or my food, easing me into it, I’ll help you with yours. I’ll touch you gently when I think it might not be as scary. And we’ll help each other get better.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Deal.”

He pauses, then adds, “Can I… can I hug you?”

Something stutters in my chest. “I’d like that. Can I hug you back?”

He grins and nods, then opens his arms.

I launch forward, wrapping mine around him tightly, burying my face in his shoulder as his arms fold around me in return.

And as we comfort each other, all I can think about is how much I never want to leave here, but one day I’m going to have to.

* * *

Jasper’s house is warm and cozy like always. It’s become my happy place. That and the playroom in the main house. But it doesn’t seem to matter how comfortable I get today, it doesn’t reach the ache in my chest. Doesn’t soothe the weight pressing heavy on my ribs.

Everything inside me feels brittle—like the smallest pressure might make me crack.

Because this morning, he told me my car was fixed.

Running smoothly. Reliable again.

Which can only mean one thing.

I’m going to have to leave soon.

Jasper hasn’t said it, hasn’t looked me in the eye and told me it’s time. But I know how this goes. I know what happens when something broken gets patched back together—people expect you to move on. To disappear.

And girls like me? We don’t get to stay. Not forever.

So I’ve spent the whole day fighting back tears. Quiet and distant. Trying not to let my voice shake every time I speak. I can feel the goodbye lurking behind every corner, and it’s making it hard to breathe.

I’m sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, knees tucked to my chest, a picture book open in my lap. One that Jasper bought me. I’m not reading it. I don’t even know what page I’m on. I just keep flipping, pretending I’m okay. Pretending I’m not unraveling.

Jasper walks in from the kitchen. He’s wearing one of those soft, fitted shirts that stretches across his chest and makes him look annoyingly perfect.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he states.

“Just tired,” I mumble, eyes fixed on the book. I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll fall apart.

He sits on the couch behind me, his presence large and steady, and I feel him watching me. His voice is careful, probing.

“You’ve been going back and forth from the main house a lot lately,” he begin. “You want to move your stuff over here? Make this more permanent so you don’t have to haul everything?”

The question hits me like a slap.

I flinch, fingers clenching around the book.

“There’s no point,” I reply, barely above a whisper.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I blurt out too quickly. Too defensively.

His voice drops an octave, firmer now. “Ariana. Lose the attitude and tell me what you meant.”

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