He shakes his head. “I already told work I needed to take a personal day. That’s why I came home.”
“Uh … why is that, exactly?”
He reaches up and strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Because life is short, CJ. And I realized what I really wanted today was more time with you,” he tells me. My heart melts, and I press a kiss into his palm. “I didn’t think it would end up quite like this, but honestly, in a way, I’m kind of relieved.”
“Is it weird to say I am too?” I admit. “And I’m sorry I was so wrong about her. I swear, I saw her getting married.”
He shrugs. “Maybe she still does. I’m sure her parents will do everything in their power to get her out of this mess. They sure did last time.”
“Yes, well, she was a minor last time,” I point out. “And I guess sometimes futures really do change.”
“Do they?” he asks, giving me a pointed look.
I glance nervously at the officer driving. “Now?”
His eyes pleads with me, offering his hand.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not sure if I’m ready for this. But I get why he needs to know now.
I don’t coach him this time, simply letting my ability do its thing. And when a vision of Drew and I kissing under the mistletoe that always hangs next to my aunt and uncle’s Christmas tree fills my mind, I start to cry. I pull away and open my eyes, trying to control myself so as not to draw any attention. I put my hand over my mouth and sniff deeply, trying to regain composure.
When I look at Drew, he’s got a look of absolute terror on his face.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “No, you’re going to be fine. I was just … so relieved.”
He lets out a huge breath. “Thank fuck,” he says matter-of-factly. He looks up and blinks back tears, then reaches out to squeeze my hand.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, as I realize the implications of what just happened. “But … if your future can change, maybe hers can too? What if she gets off again because there’s no real proof besides our word?”
Drew shakes his head. “No way. The app recorded the whole thing.”
“Holy shit. I’m never going to make fun of your voice command apps again.”
Drew chuckles, then gives me a scrutinizing look. “I just have one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Why didn’t you just let her die?”
I lean back, not quite sure myself.
“I guess … I didn’t think. I just acted on instinct. So I guess my natural reaction isn’t to hurt anyone, no matter how awful they are. I just hope now she gets more help than her parents were willing to give her.”
Drew shakes his head. “Don’t count on it. I’m sure they’ll be there to brush this under the rug as fast as they can. They’ll do the bare minimum the system requires. You’ll see.”
The idea that they value their image more than their daughter’s mental health makes me sad. Unfortunately, he’s probably not wrong.
Drew was right about one thing: Amber’s parents are at the police station when we arrive. We’re shown to a small desk just off reception where an officer will take our official statements. We watch them try to make headway at the desk, but they’ve barely even processed Amber, so they’re told all they can do is to call her lawyer to let them know Amber has been arrested.
After that, it doesn’t take long for Bronwyn Fisher’s sharp eyes to land on Drew. When they do, she marches straight up to him.
“You,” she hisses. “I should have known. What did she do?”
Drew gives her a bemused look. “Even if I could talk to you about it, I wouldn’t. You made my life a living hell last year, Mrs. Fisher.”
“Well, if you hadn’t dated a seventeen-year-old, Mr. Davies, then it wouldn’t have been a problem. But that’s neither here nor there. I hear the press were at your apartment today. What’s it going to take for you to sign an NDA for all of this?” She waves her perfectly manicured hands around in a sweeping gesture.
Drew scoffs. “We’ve been down this road before too. I don’t want your money.”
She leans down so their faces are inches apart. “You listen here, young man. I’ve spent the past year making sure my daughter was watched twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because of you. I finally managed to convince someone to marry her and move her to another country just so she could have a chance at a normal life. And you are not going to ruin that for her.”
This time I scoff, starting to understand why Amber was so desperate to end it all. She’s mentally ill and has been treated like a prisoner by her own mother, then sold off into marriage, as if that would magically solve everyone’s problems.
“Lady, I didn’t save your daughter’s life just so you could ignore the fact that this was a cry for help. She needs professional care, not an arranged marriage.”
Her calculating gaze shifts to me. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether or not to believe me. “I don’t know who you are, but you have no business telling me what my daughter needs.”
I roll my eyes and make to respond, but an officer arrives at the desk and gives Bronwyn Fisher a stern look. She flounces off and we’re shown into a private room. But I doubt it’s the last we’ll hear from her.
Our relief after the unfolding of the mystery of Drew’s assailant is short lived when our pictures and names are leaked online as the “Amber Fisher scandal” unfolds. I was only part of one picture, but Drew gets featured in plenty of other speculation, with gossip sites managing to unearth information from last year’s debacle and making connections between the two that goes well beyond the information released by the police department.
Drew’s personal time is extended through the end of the year, as his sous chef has taken over to give him time to lay low. Read: The restaurant doesn’t want their reputation affected by this mess, at least until they figure out whether it’s going to play out in their favor or not.
I have the whole week off for the holidays, so we end up spending much of the early part of it together, dodging the press and ignoring phone calls asking for interviews with Drew. He’s even more averse to the limelight than I am.
On Tuesday evening, we’re trying to decide what to do for dinner.
“I’m not going out,” Drew insists.
“I know. But I miss going to restaurants,” I say with a sigh.
“I am a chef,” he reminds me. “I can make us something.”
“There’s nothing in your apartment. Or mine, for that matter,” I point out.
“Then let’s order groceries,” he suggests.
I flop backward on the couch and groan. That would take way too long. “How about pizza?”
He cocks his head. “I can live with pizza.”
“You know we can’t do this for the rest of the week,” I grumble, pulling up the app to order.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he admits with a sigh.
I hadn’t meant to make the opening, but I realize if I’m going to invite him to my family’s house for Christmas, I need to do it soon. And even though I know he’ll say yes, for some reason I’m extremely nervous about asking.