Page 82 of The Jilted Lovers Club
One who’s experiencing trauma, that’s who.
Now I’m watching the same pattern play out all over again—with Jordy.
As much as I want to believe everything about this woman is a lie, I can’t let go of that moment when Jordy’s walls came down. She was falling, and she let me catch her. Even if everything else is a lie, the pain in her eyes was real. I felt her fear. It explained everything up to that moment—how she eyed my daughter, the wall she put up between her and a toddler—and when she mentioned all her feelings about losing her child, it clicked into place. Then to see her overcome her fears…
Would Sasha have moved past her own fears had she been given the chance to heal? If I’d only paid attention and gotten over my resentments, maybe The Till would still be ours. Maybe Sasha would still be here, and Jordy Gallo would have been no more than a stranger passing through Lahoma Springs.
Two figures cut across the field in the moonlight, headed straight for my porch. I stand, recognizing Bob and Bec by their gait—the way Bob ambles due to an arthritic knee, and how Bec still rushes to keep up with his long legs.
“Griffin called,” Bob explains when they reach the porch. He glances down, eyeing Jordy’s suitcase and bag of her stuff, then back at me. “He and Bernie wanted to talk with us about that Winslow fellow, I presume.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Though I wish they’d talked to us before she signed papers.”
“And what would you have said?” Bec asks, leading the way inside. “Bernie had to have been desperate before selling that hotel and her beloved antique shop, just like we were. You can’t talk someone out of something that seems like the only lifeline.”
“We can’t assume that’s what happened.” I open the fridge and grab a six-pack of beers, handing one to each of them before popping open one for myself.
“Come on, Ashton, that hotel is the heart of Lahoma Springs. Bernie’s great-great-grandfather helped build it stone by stone. Her handprints are in the garden path, her grandmother’s quilts hang on the lobby walls. She’s made cookies every day for guests, and she still works the front desk even though she owns the place. Bernie lives for that hotel. You really think she’d give it up unless she had no choice?”
Bec’s right, she has to be. It’s an echo of what happened to us, and the only reason Bernie would have folded.
“I still wish she’d come to us.”
Bec opens her mouth to argue, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Bob crosses the room and opens it, revealing Griffin and his mom. But when they cross the threshold, Jordy is behind them, standing in the doorway, her eyes at the floor.
“What the fuck?” I turn to Griffin, and he shrugs.
“I think you should listen to her,” he says, and I shake my head.
“I’ve been the only one listening to her,” I say. Then I sweep my hand toward Bob and Bec. “We all have. We took her in when the rest of the town shunned her, and apparently, we’re the idiots because we trusted her.” I look to Jordy, who at least has the decency to look sorry.
Weeks ago, she was a stranger to our town, tripping over her heels on the cobblestone road. Now, she’s a stranger again, wearing the face of someone I thought I could love.
“I wish I’d let you fall,” I hiss.
I feel Griffin’s hand on my shoulder, and I shake it off. Jordy never looks up, but she doesn’t leave either.
“Come in,” Bob says. “You’re letting all the cold in.”
I glare at him, but I don’t argue. I may be the one living here, but it’s still their house.
Jordy eyes her things on the porch, but leaves them there as she steps forward and Bob closes the door behind her. She gingerly sits at the far end of the kitchen island. Griffin helps himself to one of the three remaining beers, then hands one to his mom, and finally one to Jordy, who politely refuses. I snatch the bottle and crack it open, setting it down hard next to the unfinished beer in front of me. She’s not going to drink my beer. Not this night. Not ever.
“We’ve been doing some research, and we believe Alexander Winslow has some long-term goals for Lahoma Springs.” Griffin unlocks his phone, then shows me the screen. On it is a website for a town in Wisconsin called Maisieville. I’m confused at first, but then start reading the description.
Nestled in the heart of southern Wisconsin, Maisieville was founded in 1670 by early settler John Corgan Green and named in honor of his mother, Maisie. Originally a thriving agricultural community, Maisieville built its legacy on dairy farming, with local producers using the nearby Corgan Green River to transport milk and cheese to surrounding regions, earning the town its title as the unofficial cheese capital of the world.
Today, Maisieville blends its rich heritage with modern charm, evolving from a quiet farming town into a vibrant luxury shopping destination. While the roots of its farming legacy remain, Maisieville now welcomes visitors from near and far to experience its boutique shops, curated experiences, and timeless appeal.
I feel my heart seize as I read, then lurch as I scroll through the website. Luxury shop after luxury shop, so unlike anything a farming community would embrace. It’s almost like a mini mall, but with very expensive taste. Each photo shows shoppers wearing high end fashion, carrying tons of bags, or eating fancy food at one of the restaurants. All I can think is how none of these people look like they belong to a small agricultural town.
I open a new tab and search for Maisieville real estate, surprised to find nothing but high-priced rentals in sleek, mixed-use buildings. No farms. No properties with any significant land. Just a handful of homes scattered among what’s mostly a sea of businesses—cruise companies ferrying in shoppers, boutique hotels, upscale restaurants, and a luxury outlet mall.
I also find a Reddit article about Maisieville. After clicking on it, I read the headline, then look up at everyone.
“Listen to this guy,” I say, then read it aloud.
u/formerfarmkid94 • 2 years ago
