Chapter 2 — Three Years Later
1012 Words
May’s POV
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to John F. Kennedy International Airport. Local time is 10:12 a.m. and the temperature is 64 degrees Fahrenheit. On behalf of the crew, thank you for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon.”
The crackle of the announcement jolted me awake. Sunlight streamed fiercely through the oval window, reminding me I was no longer floating above the clouds, safe in a cocoon of silence and numbness. My neck protested after hours in a cramped position.
I sat up slowly, pulling the coat tighter over my lap. Around me, other passengers stirred—stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes, reaching overhead for bags, blinking down at glowing screens. I reached for my suitcase too.
By the time I pushed through immigration and grabbed my single suitcase, it was already four-thirty. The sharp New York air hit my face like a slap. Horns blared outside, ads flickered on massive screens, and footsteps echoed chaotically all around.
But I walked through it all like the world owed me a welcome.
I walked through the terminal in my black belted coat, the fabric fitting snugly around my frame. My dark curls fell loosely over my shoulders, still surprisingly smooth after the long flight. I slid on my oversized sunglasses, a shield against curious eyes. The sharp click of my heels echoed behind me, drawing a few looks—but I wasn’t bothered. I was used to it.
I was no longer the broken girl who’d fled to London three years ago with tear-streaked cheeks and a shattered heart. No. This was a different me.
“Would you look at that. Miss London herself.”
The familiar voice made me pause, lips twitching in spite of myself.
Jeff Carter was striding toward me with the easy swagger of a runway model gone rogue. Tall and lean, still rocking that vintage denim jacket over a black tee, the same dimples flashing like a secret.
“Still hate hugs?” he grinned, arms wide.
I groaned. “Don’t start.”
“Too late.”
He swept me into a quick, warm hug that smelled faintly of spearmint and home. For a moment, the heaviness eased.
“You’re ten minutes late,” I muttered, adjusting my carry-on strap.
“You’re seven hundred and thirty-six days late,” he shot back. “Let’s not talk punctuality.”
A silly smile tugged at my lips.
Jeff had always been my soft place to land—my rock with a side of sarcasm. My senior in college who somehow became my most loyal friend. Now a rising star in New York’s fashion scene, he belonged in every room—and yet, with me, he was just Jeff.
He grabbed my suitcase like it was the most natural thing to do and rolled it toward his Tesla.
“I was starting to think you got adopted by the Queen or something.”
I laughed. “Miss me much?”
He didn’t respond. Just snorted, cranked up the music, and eased us into traffic.
Old-school soul wrapped around us like a warm blanket.
I was finally home.
⸻
Jeff’s Brooklyn villa matched him—understated but undeniably expensive. The black gate slid open silently, revealing sleek glass and stone that whispered money without shouting it.
Inside, I kicked off my heels, relief flooding my feet. My suitcase dropped by the stairs.
“You still like that minimalist crap, huh?” I called.
Jeff popped his head from the kitchen. “Don’t insult my taste. This minimalist crap cost a fortune.”
I laughed softly.
He returned with a tall glass of juice. “Here. You look like you need it.”
I drank gratefully. “You have no idea.”
He sank onto the couch, phone in hand. “By the way… I noticed you unfollowed Eddie on i********:. That your way of announcing a breakup?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t mention that clown.”
He laughed. “I knew you two wouldn’t last. You never did like guys who loved mirrors more than you.”
“The moment I caught him filming shirtless skits in the bathroom, I knew I had to repent for ever texting him back.”
Jeff nearly fell over. “Not the skits!”
Our laughter filled the villa, warm and easy.
Then my phone lit up on the table.
My smile died.
Jeff glanced at the screen. “Lauren?”
The phone rang again. And again.
I let it go to voicemail.
“She probably misses you, you know,” Jeff said softly.
I scoffed flatly. “She’s too busy playing sugar mommy to her latest midlife crisis.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I still can’t believe you’re someone’s stepdaughter.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t have to.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Jeff stretched and stood. “Alright. Shower’s upstairs. First door on the right. I’ll make us something good.”
I didn’t argue.
⸻
The smell of grilled citrus chicken and buttered corn hit me before I even stepped back into the living room. Hair damp and tied loosely, I’d changed into soft loungewear—comfortable. Safe.
I sat at the table, took a bite.
“God,” I moaned. “This… this is what healing tastes like.”
Jeff smirked. “You’re welcome.”
I devoured another forkful. “Hmmm I really missed you.”
“You mean you missed my cooking?” he chuckled.
I laughed. I couldn’t deny it. Jeff was a great cook.
His phone buzzed. He checked it, then shot me a mischievous look. “Trane and the others are throwing a welcome party tonight.”
I groaned. “Jeff—”
“Nope. You’re coming.”
“I hate parties.”
“The only thing you hate in this world—is your mother,” he said, standing. “And your stepfather”, he added.
I scoffed.
“Do I get to say no?”
Jeff just grinned.
Which, of course, meant no.
⸻
- Writer
