Page 200 of The Exit Strategy

Hudson did some digging and found out that she had lost her architecture license and was appealing it, but it didn’t look good. He also confirmed that Marcus was in a new facility and was thriving, thanks in part to Junie’s ministrations.

We lost interest in Natalie after that because Junie decided it was time for her to move forward and let go of the past.

I still wanted to go after Natalie for the blackmail, but Junie has suffered enough, and I’m not willing to put her through a trial that would expose her even more. It doesn’t mean I like it though.

Now Junie has her headphones in to “block out the boy noise” that happens when all the guys are here visiting, and I have a pencil between my teeth as I stare at the library blueprints.

My mother was twenty-three when she designed this library for her hometown.

I’m twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty when the renovation is complete. There’s a math in that I can’t say out loud without sounding like a man who has finally forgiven himself for being alive.

Junie pulls out one earbud. “Don’t overthink it. She’d be proud of you, Cole.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You think I don’t see you, but news flash, Whittaker, I made an art of seeing you without being caught before you could even drive. I see you. Be proud of what you’ve done and who you are. I am.”

Perfectly Viper.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a mock salute.

“And make sure you’re ready for dinner at Nana Mae’s tonight. She wants everyone to be on time.”

“On it.”

“I’m heading over to Bea’s.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.” I’ve learned not to make these departures emotional. She’ll have all she can handle during tea with Bea. Instead, I keep my head down and pretend that I don’t hurt when she does.

At four thirty, Junie’s back with red eyes. It’s a routine we’ve mastered. She walks in, drops her phone, sits at her desk, and I wait for her to make a move. Sometimes she wants to talk, and other times, she doesn’t.

This is her journey, and I’m learning to support her the best I can.

“I told her about kindergarten today,” she says quietly.

My pencil slips from my fingers. We’ve discussed this multiple times, and each time, I’ve gently nudged her to talk to Bea about it. She hasn’t been ready.

Today, I guess she was.

I’m hesitant to speak, but finally ask, “All of it?”

“All of it.”

Holy shit. That’s a big step for her. Really big.

I’ve had my own sessions with Bea, but I went in and laid everything on the table, so my sessions are different than Junie’s. Mine are like digging through a junkyard, while hers are more like…excavating a cemetery.

“It was okay,” she says. Her eyes are glassy, and her voice is the one she uses for things she’s not sure about yet—the small, careful tone she’s been using for the last six months when she’s actively choosing thoughtfulness over spite. “I think I might possibly be almost done with that ghost.” Herhands fly up in a defensive move. “Don’t quote me on it. I’ll let you know next week.”

Junie’s hands hover over her keyboard, but she doesn’t type a word. She doesn’t even attack her mouse. Instead, she falls back against her chair and stares at the ceiling. “I told Bea what I’ve always told myself—that my mother forgot me.”

Daggers to my eyeballs would hurt less than watching my girl process these feelings.

“And I told her the thing I never allowed myself to hear, which is that I sat on that curb and decided no one was ever going to forget me again because no one would be allowed close enough to hurt me.” Slowly, her sad gaze crashes into mine. “I made a deal with my five-year-old self, and I’ve been honoring it ever since. I think I’m—” She crinkles her nose. “I think I’m un-honoring it. Or, you know, whatever the verb is. Bea will tell me the verb next week.”

“Okay,” I say, knowing she’ll process this information for a day or two, and then, when we’re tucked safely into our darkened bedroom, she’ll tell me.

And that’s more than I ever thought I’d have.