“Well,” Mrs. Duffy said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“You’re not?”
“I always saw what was between you. That’s why I didn’t understand why you ever looked at Brent. Perhaps the first name didn’t matter as much as the last.”
Jazz pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle the cry that nearly escaped. I won’t cry. No matter what. “I never ‘looked at’ Brent. He scared the hell out of me from the first day I met him. No, actually he scared me the first time I saw his picture. He needs help, and I hope he got it.” She blew out a breath. “Not for him as much as for you and your husband. And for Gray. I know you all love him. But—”
“Brent committed suicide last month. So no, Jasmine, he didn’t get the help he needed, if he needed any at all. I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” Mrs. Duffy let out a sound that bordered on a sob. “Thanks to you, I’ve lost both of my sons.”
The dialtone blared in her ear until Jazz pressed hard on the End button to make it stop.
She glanced blearily around her luxurious suite, the details bleeding together. The thousand thread count sheets underneath her didn’t register. The silk draperies hiding a slice of bright morning sun didn’t intrude on the darkness that had overtaken her mind. She’d been staying there for the better part of two weeks, and she’d barely noticed any of the high-end amenities because she’d been so full of Gray. The suite had just been a place to crash in between spa visits and working with Deak and Simon. Now their sabbatical was almost over and she and Gray were about to go back to their regular lives.
What could ever be regular again?
Oh God, she had to tell him about Brent. Which meant she’d have to tell him about calling his mother. She’d planned to encourage Mrs. Duffy to push for a visit without actually saying why Gray needed his family back in his life, and she hadn’t even managed to.
Instead she’d discovered something that might shatter Gray’s newfound sobriety.
She knew the man as well as she knew herself—and his recent admission hadn’t changed her conviction on that score—and she had no doubt about his response to what had happened. He wouldn’t react favorably to her contacting his mother. No matter her reasons, he’d view it as a betrayal. And that wasn’t even including what she’d learned about Brent.
Sucking in a deep breath, she gripped her phone as a text message came through. She nearly smiled at Simon’s note.
Yo, purple pandemic. We are steaming out our impurities and you iz not here. Get a move on, luscious. xoxo
Only Simon could say xoxo and retain his over-the-top masculinity. The kissy face cat sticker he sent next turned her smile from tentative to real, at least until she headed into the bathroom to face her stark reflection. The mascara she’d put on made her eyes look sunken and morose. The streaks of green eyeshadow she’d chosen to go with her kicky new red hair color seemed garish.
Clown on the outside, crying on the inside. Isn’t that always the way?
She couldn’t tell Gray yet. It wasn’t that she wanted to jealously guard their new coupledom for a bit longer. Yes, she’d waited forever to be with him, but that wasn’t the point. His family mattered more. But she wasn’t about to say anything so soon after he’d vowed not to touch any substances again. She’d be damned if she caused him to relapse.
Somehow she’d find a way to tell him. Soon. Once he had a bit better handle on things.
God, she’d just wanted him to have his family’s support. He needed that. He deserved it. If she’d believed that telling him about Brent would push him to get closer to his family again, she would’ve hopped on it in a second. Despite how Mrs. Duffy felt about Jazz, she was Gray’s mother. Jazz would never ask him to choose. He’d already chosen for too long.
But that wouldn’t happen. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she’d broken his confidence. He’d hear “I called your mom” and immediately assume she’d gone to tattle about his drug problem. He’d made it clear years ago that he was done with his family, and he expected her to respect that decision.
At the knock on the suite door, she sighed. Probably Simon or Deak had come to collect her. She hurried to open it. On the other side stood a deliveryman with an enormous bouquet of wildflowers. She couldn’t even identify all of the scents and colors.
“Ms. Jasmine Edwards?”
“Yes, that’s me.” She blinked, more than a little knocked off-kilter, and held out her arms for the bouquet. “Whoa, wow. These are incredible.”