Page 115 of Under Southern Stars
Me: Thanks, mate. That actually helps. I can do that. I owe you.
I set the phone down, Nate’s words reverberating in my head.She doesn’t do games. You better just own it.
Wasn’t that what Charlotte had just been saying, albeit less bluntly? Own it. Take responsibility. No excuses.
I look down at my dirt-streaked hands, calloused from the vineyard work my family had done for generations. No more hiding either part of myself; not the paramedic who worked with his hands, not the heir who benefited from privilege.Bothare real.Bothare me.
Now I just need Sophia to give me a chance to show her all of it.
I trudge back toward the main house, muscles aching from the physical labor. In my cottage, I shower away the sweat and grime, watching the dirt swirl down the drain and wishing my mistakes could be as easily washed away.
Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I sit at my small desk and pull out a sheet of paper. If I can’t speak to Sophia yet, Ican at least prepare. Write down everything I need to say. Leave nothing unexamined.
Dear Sophia,I begin, then immediately cross it out. No letters. No distance. This has to be direct, raw, real.
Instead, I simply write:What I hid and why. No excuses.
And below it, I begin listing every instance, every moment where I’d deliberately concealed the truth about my background. Every opportunity I’d had to come clean but chose deception instead. Every rationalization I’d told myself to justify my cowardice.
By the time I’ve filled three pages, my hand is cramping and my eyes are burning. But I keep going, determined to unearth every buried truth, every hidden fear. If I am going to have any chance with Sophia, I need to understand myself first.
Pages later, exhausted and emotionally drained, I finally see the pattern. It isn’t just fear of being valued for my money. It is deeper, a fundamental belief that I just am not enough on my own. That without the McKenzie name and fortune, I’m not worthy of someone like Sophia.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I’ve projected my own insecurities onto her, assuming she would judge me the way I judge myself.
Nate was right. I am fucked. But maybe not permanently.
I folded the pages and tuck them away. Not as a script to follow, but as a reminder of the work I’d done today. The clarity I’ve found.
Tonight at dinner will be the first time I’ll see Sophia since she’d walked away with that devastating “Goodnight,Jackson.”I have no idea if she will even be willing to talk to me, let alone forgive me. But I will be there, respecting her space while making it clear I am not giving up.
And then, as Nate had suggested, I will pray harder than I ever have before.
Because a life without Sophia Mitchell isn’t a life I want to contemplate.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
SOPHIA
“Can we please go see the kiwi birds?” Madison pleads for the third time since dinner. “Emma says they come out at dusk, and Jack’s sister Lily can take us to the sanctuary right now.”
I set down my tea, carefully avoiding eye contact with Jack across the dining room. The meal has been excruciating—Helen’s pointed glances, Michael’s sympathetic ones, the sisters’ attempts at normal conversation that only highlight the tension.
“Madison, I’m not sure tonight is—”
“Please, Mom?” Her enthusiasm is the only bright spot in this mess. “It’s not like we can see kiwi birds back home. Jack says they’re super rare, even in New Zealand.”
At the mention of his name, I finally risk a glance at Jack. He has been quiet throughout dinner, speaking only when addressed directly. Now he looks up, his expression carefully neutral.
“Lily’s an excellent guide,” he says, his voice lacking its usual warmth. “I can stay behind if that would be more comfortable.”
