Jacqueline The train ride from Scotland to London should’ve been relaxing. That was what my sister had said when she’d booked the tickets, that we’d have countryside views and quiet to reset after the wedding. Instead, I sat rigid in my seat with my arms crossed tightly, staring out the window at a blur of green and trying very hard not to let my irritation simmer over, but it wasn’t really working. “Don’t start,” Jessica said from her seat across from mine, not even looking up from her phone. “I haven’t said anything,” I r eplied. Her eyes rolled before she finally lifted them to mine. “Maybe not, but you’re thinking very loudly.” “Fine,” I said. “I’m starting.” Jessica laughed, locking her phone and dropping it on the empty seat beside her. “Alright, then. Let’s go. Ready, steady, vent. You have until we reach the city.” “Well, if you insist,” I joked, but the rant came spilling out of me moments later. “It’s just that I’m quite sure that invitation was nothing more than a formality, extended out of obligation instead of any real desire to see us.” Jessica sighed. “That’s not entirely fair, Jacque. Sterling and his wife were very kind.” “What you call kind, I see as condescending. We’re not their blood, so they’ll never really see us as family, no matter how much they pretend. History has made that perfectly clear.” I shifted to look out the window and savored the warmth of the sun on my cheeks. “They always made Mom feel excluded after she was adopted by Gran and Pops. It broke Mom’s heart when she was a kid, even though she says things are better now.” I felt a rush of protectiveness over our mother. She was way quicker to forgive her adopted siblings than I was. Mom just said it was dumb kid stuff. I wasn’t convinced. The Westwoods always seemed stuck up to me, obsessed with their own lineage. I k ept the peace for Mom’s sake, but I had no interest in spending any more time with Westwoods than was absolutely necessary. “They got us all together, didn’t they?” Jessica countered gently. “The European Westwoods are spread out, Jacque, and I know many of them are lofty and well off, but none are nearly as well off as the American branch of the family. It was lovely of them to
host us all for a little reunion.” “They just like to rub it in our faces that they own things like private jets and castles,” I retorted. “They made it abundantly clear exactly where we fall in their hierarchy.” Jessica studied me for a moment, then shook her head. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not like they made us wash the dishes. We weren’t treated like nobodies while we were there.” I sniffed. “Jessica.” “We weren’t,” she insisted. “Laney and I had some lovely conversations about the joys of motherhood and the challenges too.” “Laney isn’t a Westwood, though. She married into the family, remember? Most of the actual Westwoods didn’t even know who we were.” “That doesn’t make us nobodies,” she said, still maddeningly calm. “It just makes them rude.” No, it makes them intentional about reminding us that we’re the black she ep. There was a difference and I refused to pretend there wasn’t. I could practically feel it under the weight of their stares during the wedding. There are those sisters. Stacy’s daughters. The Calhouns. I shifted in my seat, tucking one leg underneath me as I leaned forward, my mind made up. “I will not be attending any more ‘family’ functions.” Jessica sighed. “You’re overreacting. It wasn’t so bad. I think you’re seeing malice where there isn’t any.” “Perhaps I am, but you’re being forgiving to a fault, just like Mom. Those people don’t deserve it, Jessica. There’s a reason Mom chose to stay home.” Her easy dismissal finally gave way to thoughtfulness. “Okay, maybe. They weren’t wonderful to her, but I still think you’re bitter.” My eyes narrowed. “I am not bitter.” “You are and it’s souring your perspective on them,” she said. A humorless laugh bubbled out of me before I could stop it. “What possible reason do I have to be bitter?” She looked me right in the eyes. “You’re bitter about the wedding itself. This has nothing to do with ancient family history and everything to do with the fact that you’ve been engaged for two years and there hasn’t been a whisper of a wedding date.” I scoffed but ice froze my veins. “It’s not that unusual.” “It’s not that typical either.” “You’re wrong. Thomas and I have known each other for almost a decade and we’ve been together nearly that long. We’re not youngsters needing to race to the altar trying to ke ep up with society.”
Jessica hummed, apparently unconvinced. “I know you’re both busy, but it’s weird.” “It’s not.” As a solicitor for an upper-class firm in London, it wasn’t like I had time to run around scouting for a venue and daydreaming about dresses. Thomas, my fiancé, was in a similar position, away for work so often that we’d barely even had time to discuss a date, let alone plan a wedding. “Archaeologists travel a lot,” I said, r epeating the same old line that was as washed out as an old jumper by now. “You can’t blame us for just wanting to spend time together while he’s in town rather than to spend every minute planning a party.” “It’s more than a party, Jaque. It’s a wedding. Your wedding. One of the most important days of a person’s life.” I sighed, knowing she was right, but I would rather launch myself out the window of this moving train than admit it. The truth was that Thomas and I used to work. In a way, we still did, especially when one factored in that we were both professionals in extremely competitive careers. However, we’d become more like roommates than lovers, ships passing in the night even when he was home. Back when we met, we’d both been students at Harvard with big dreams, truckloads of ambition, and more importantly, the belief that we had time. Time to settle into our careers before we finally got married and started the family we both wanted. Time was a funny thing, though. It went by much faster than planned, and somehow, it seemed to be slipping right by us at an astonishing rate. “Have you given any more thought to the job?” Jessica asked gently, her voice interrupting my thoughts. “Yes,” I said after a beat, refocusing on her before I shook my head. “I’m not taking it.” She sat up straighter, her calm facade instantly slipping right off. “Jacque, no.” “No, what?” “You can’t just pretend this doesn’t matter. I won’t buy it.” She lifted her chin, steadily holding my gaze. “You wanted to stay in the States after law school, remember? Now your mentor from Harvard is positively begging you to become a partner in Chicago and you’re just passing it up? No.” “Yes.” I looked right back at her, not even flinching. “People change, Jessica. So do plans. Mine have.” She stared at me like I’d just said something genuinely incomprehensible. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.” “But why?” She pressed, then shook her head before I’d even responded. “Don’t you dare give me that bollocks about people changing. It’s not that. I know you and I know that no matter what else has changed, your desire to go back to America to work there has not.” I inhaled slowly, attempting to steady myself before admitting the truth I knew she wouldn’t let me get away from. “Thomas doesn’t want to move back there. He doesn’t want to move at all unless it’s back home, to France.” “Well, that’s Thomas,” she said dismissively. “What about you?” I hesitated. “It’s irrelevant, isn’t it? He and I have barely talked about the future at all lately. He’s gone too often to have a real conversation about it, but the last time I brought it up, he was firmly opposed, so that’s it, isn’t it?” “No, that’s not it. You deserve to chase the future you want and have worked hard for.” “I know, and that’s what I’m doing,” I said easily, though I k ept my gaze fixed out the window, watching the countryside blur into civilization the closer we got to London. “I like my job. I like my flat. My life is fine.” Jessica didn’t respond right away, which was never a good sign. Ever since she’d become a mother, she’d developed a talent for letting silence do the work for her, stretching it long enough that you started filling it yourself. “Drop it, Jessica. I’m happy.” “I didn’t say you weren’t. I simply implied that you were happier before you moved back here. You were thriving in the States. All those offers—” “I moved back to London because it made sense. Thomas got a position here that was a good opportunity and it’s not like Ambrose and Pembroke is a firm to scoff at. It’s incredibly prestigious. I’m lucky to be there.” I held her gaze, refusing to back down even as discomfort pressed at the edges of my thoughts. For years, I’d been avoiding examining the truth too closely, but she was pressing those buttons, and it was working because I truly hadn’t moved back to London because I’d lacked options. I’d had ample opportunities in the States, arguably even better ones than the prestigious Ambrose and Pembroke, but Thomas had received precisely one offer—and it had been here. Jessica’s mouth curved into a smile. “You are lucky to be there, but that doesn’t have to mean that it’s where you want to be. It’s fine, though. We’ll circle back to your existential crisis later, once you’ve had an opportunity to ponder some of the fantastic points I’ve made.”
“I’m not having an existential crisis.” “Of course not.” I narrowed my eyes at her, but her attention had already shifted back to her phone, inevitably updating her husband on our progress back to the city. Her family would be bursting at the seams to have her back. “How are the kids?” I asked, partly because I did actually want to know, and partly because redirecting was a skill I’d perfected over years of arguments. Jessica perked up immediately. “Well, Oliver is convinced he’s going to be a professional athlete despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” I laughed. “He’s seven. Let him dream. The Olympics are a long way off for him either way.” She launched into stories about them, telling me all about how her saint of a husband had st epped in at a recent football match for her younger son before effortlessly pivoting to a ballet recital for their daughter. “You’ll see them this week,” she said once she’d finished singing his praises. “If you survive your outing with Mom.” I groaned softly, tipping my head back against the seat. “The garden exhibition. I forgot.” “Well, now you remember.” I dragged a hand over my face. “I’ll never understand why she collects tea towels.” “It’s a perfectly harmless hobby.” “Collecting tea towels from large estates like they’re historical artifacts?” “They are historical artifacts,” Jessica argued. “Just practical ones.” “Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? She must have several drawers filled with them by now, and how many tea towels could one person reasonably need?” She laughed. “We support her interests. That’s what daughters do.” “At least we can support her together.” Jessica winced slightly. “About that.” My eyes widened. “No. You cannot leave me alone with her.” “I can’t go. Oliver’s been invited to a birthday party and I have to take him.” I wanted to argue, but logically, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on. Her children were her first priority and rightfully so. “Fine. I’ll go alone.” “Mom will love that.” “No, she’s going to love interrogating me to death about why, exactly, there hasn’t been a whisper of a wedding date, to quote you.” “That’s also true, but hey, at least you’ve had some practice for that interrogation now.”
I sighed, leaning my head back again as the train carried us steadily closer to London, and mentally went through the drawers in my kitchen, knowing full well I would have to find room for at least a dozen more tea towels by Christmas. By the time I made it back to my flat that night, it was late. It had been a full day of travel and I was exhausted, fumbling with my keys for a second before pushing the door open, st epping inside, and kicking it shut behind me with a soft exhale. “I’m home,” I called out, already slipping off my boots. “Tom, did you hear me? I’m home.” I frowned as I strode into the empty living area, expecting to find him on the couch in front of the telly. It was odd that he wasn’t here. He was supposed to be home, finally coming off a long stint in the Middle East. For once, he was meant to be in London for more than a handful of days at a time. I moved further into the flat, shrugging out of my coat as I went. “You will not believe this weekend,” I said, assuming he was probably in the bedroom. “The wedding was beautiful, but my snobby family—” I stopped talking suddenly when I realized the flat was much too quiet. Even Hubert, our four-year-old, brown American Labrador hadn’t come to say hi. “Hubert?” I called then. “Are you here, baby?” For a long moment, I paused, listening for the sound of his nails clicking against the floors, but there was nothing. My chest tightened as I checked the bedroom, but they weren’t there either. “They’re probably on a walk,” I muttered to myself, coming to the logical conclusion. It was late, sure, but... No. Something feels off. I couldn’t place it at first. It felt like a subtle shift in the space, like something had been disturbed. Flipping on lights, I headed to the kitchen. My gaze sw ept over the counters until I finally put my finger on it. The apartment wasn’t just quiet. It was empty. Not completely but enough that with all the lights now blazing, I could see the spots where certain things had been. Spots that were now vacant. Thomas’s grandmother’s vase was no longer on the mantel. None of his coats hung on the rack behind the door. The tea kettle he’d bought in Istanbul and had treasured for years wasn’t on the stove.
Cold, sharp awareness slid down my spine. My eyes landed on a single piece of paper resting on the kitchen counter, a set of keys beside it. Thomas’s keys. I st epped closer slowly, each movement deliberate. I reached for the note and picked it up, quickly scanning the few words he’d left behind. J— I think we both know it’s been over for a while. Best, T. I read it once, then turned over the paper, searching for more because surely there had to be more. After eight years, he couldn’t have left me with only one sentence, and yet, it seemed he had. My gaze dropped back to the keys, then shot to the space where Hubert’s bed should’ve been, but it was gone. He’d taken the dog—my dog—to France. I let out a soft, disbelieving scoff. Of course. Of fucking course, this would be how it ends. Not with a conversation, a fight, or even with the decency of a proper goodbye. Just a note. A note and the sudden, unmistakable realization that I’d put my entire life on hold for a man who’d vanished from my life with a single sentence, but not before stealing my beloved dog.