I actually laugh, which feels nice. “Duh.”
“Then you don’t need to be driving. Stay there. I’ll be right over to get you.”
True to her word, she’s at my door by the time I’ve tossed some clothes into a duffel bag.
“And you broke how many traffic laws?” I ask as I pull open the door.
She doesn’t answer. Instead she tosses her arms around me and locks me in a hug.
“Come on. I’ll take good care of you.”
“You sure it’s okay?” I ask as we head down to the street. “Zee doesn’t mind?”
Cass waves her hand. “Oh, please. Of course not.”
But I see a shadow on her face, and it worries me.
I don’t get the chance to ask her about it, though, because we’ve reached the parking area, and she is standing beside her bike.
I blink at her. “Seriously?”
“What? Traffic is a bitch this time of day on a Sunday, and I needed to get here fast. And you’ve only got a duffel.”
My smile is watery as I hug her. “I love you.”
“Well, yeah.” She grins. “I’m very lovable.” She unstraps the spare helmet she’s brought for me and hands it over. “Get on.”
I climb on the back of her ten-year-old Ducati, put on the helmet, and hook my arms around her waist.
“You should go to him,” she says as she starts the bike, but then she pulls out and takes off into traffic. If she says any more, I don’t hear it, because my face is buried in the back of her jacket, and I’m lost in the thoughts she has sparked.
Sixteen minutes later we pull up in front of her house. “Because he’s really kind of a wreck,” she says, as if the conversation hadn’t been interrupted at all.
“I’m kind of a wreck,” I correct. “And how do you know about Jackson, anyway?”
“I talked to him,” she says as she tugs off her helmet.
I freeze on her sidewalk. “When?”
“Yesterday. He came by the studio after you left the Getty Center.”
“He did?”
“He wanted my help.”
“To find me?”
She shoots me a quick glance. “To figure out what to do.”
“I—really?”
She unlocks the door and we step inside. The place is small—only six hundred square feet—but cute. Cass believes clutter is the devil, so the place is as tidy as the stations at Totally Tattoo. Because I know her quirks, I put my duffel in the small coat closet before heading to the convertible sofa—currently closed—and taking a seat.
“Why are you so surprised?” Cass asks from the kitchen just a few feet away. She’s uncorking some wine, and she brings it over along with two glasses.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I guess because he’s so self-sufficient.”
She lifts a shoulder. “But he’s not,” she says. “From where I’m standing, I’d say he needs you.”
My heart twists a little, then a little bit more when Cass reaches out and grabs my hand. “He loves you, you know.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Nope. But I’ve got eyes.”
The truth is, so do I. And before all of this, I would have said he loved me, too.
Now, knowing what he kept from me, I don’t know what to think.
“He’s Damien’s half-brother,” I blurt, surprising myself with my words.
“I know,” she says, and that surprises me even more. “He told me.”
She hands me my glass of wine. “He screwed up, Syl, I’ll grant you that. With all the stuff that happened between you two, he should have told you about his dad when you asked if he knew him.”
“He really did tell you everything.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said, he’s gone on you.” She plops down on the couch. “And since I happen to know it’s mutual, I figured I should be a good little intermediary.”
Mutual.
She’s right, of course. It is.
“He hurt me,” I say. “He should have told me. Should have trusted me.” But even as I say the words, I think about the things I’ve yet to tell him, and I know that I’m not being fair. True, he hasn’t asked me point-blank, but that’s just my own stupid justification.
The secret was his to keep, and it was huge. And how arrogant is it of me to believe that just because I ask, he has to shift his entire life around and spill everything to me?
“I need to see him,” I say softly. “I do need to talk to him.” I look at Cass. “He hurt me, and he pissed me off, but you’re right. I love him. And I want to fix this.”