Page 108 of Jane Deyre

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I shake my head again. “I don’t know. It was all so sudden and unexpected. And complicated.” I look at her wistfully. “Would you have understood?”

She repeats my words. “I don’t know.” Anger creeps back into her voice. “But you could have called or texted me to let me know you were okay. I tried to reach you every which way, but it was futile. Do you know how hard that was? I thought you ghosted me. That you were never coming back.”

A ribbon of guilt unfurls inside me. I let out a breath. “I’m sorry, Jane. I left my damn phone on the plane. And honestly, I didn’t have the time to buy another one. Straight from DeGaulle, a car took me to the asylum. It was in the rural countryside three hundred kilometers away, and there wasn’t an Apple store anywhere en route. With all the bureaucratic red tape, it took me over a week to get Céline cremated. I had her ashes sent to her cousin. I don’t give a shit what she does with them. Céline is dead. I’m free of her.”

After blinking once, Jane stares at me, her face again a mask hiding all emotions. It’s a lot to take in. She changes the subject, reverting to an earlier chapter of my story. “What did you do in New York, right after you left Paris?”

“Nothing. I stayed a couple of weeks and split. Blanche was all over me and I couldn’t go back to that life. Or to her. So I moved to LA. To be closer to my godmother. But LA wasn’t right for me either. More of the same. Booze. Drugs. Women. And sex. After a short stint in rehab, I realized I needed arealchange...”

Jane’s brows lift. Is she judging me?

“To make a long story short, I came across an ad for a secluded cottage up in Oregon. Coos Bay. Overlooking the Pacific with over 5000 feet of beachfront property. And the irony of it was it belonged to a recently deceased writer. It was in foreclosure and I got it for a song, including a pickup truck and all the furnishings.”

Jane’s eyes widen. “You don’t live in LA?”

“No, I live there. I love my life in Oregon. It’s simple. It’s clean. I own it. I rise early every morning, ride my bike for a few miles, and sometimes go for a swim in the ocean. Then, I have coffee and hit my computer. Take my pickup into town to run a few errands and grab a bite. I see very few people. And the gloomy weather is conducive to writing.”

Jane remains quiet, an uncertain look falling over her face. She tugs at her bottom lip with her thumb as my stomach knots. I need to tell her.

“I miss Oregon. After Edwina’s gala, I’m going back up there.”

Jane gulps past the bandage on her neck. Her eyes blink several times. “You are? With Adele?”

I nod. “Yes. With Adele. I think it’s a good place for her to grow up. The schools are good. The crime rate is low. And the people aren’t pretentious. LA fucks kids up. I know from personal experience.”

We share a long stretch of silence until I break it.

“Jane, I want you to come with me. You were all I thought about when I was away. All I wanted. My darling, you are my better self... my angel... I love you more now than I thought was possible.”

I cup her cheeks, cradle her face in my hands. “Do you know what your name means?”

She stares at me, her face pale and expressionless.

“Jane means ‘a gift from God,’ and you are. You are my muse. My inspiration. My everything. I can’t be without you. And now I’m a free man. Free to marry whomever I choose.”

A tear leaks from her eye. I brush it away.

“Jane, what’s the matter?” She should be happy. I practically proposed to her.

She looks at me harshly. “I am not a bird. A creature you can cage. Transport wherever you want. No net ensnares me. I’m a free spirit and I have a dream. One I want to pursue. I need to be in LA, not Coos Bay.”

I process her words. A shudder runs through me as they sink in. “Jane, are you saying you’re leaving me?”

She rises from the water like a phoenix. And glares at me. “No, Mr. Rochester. It’syouwho’s leaving me.”

And with that, she steps out of the tub.

“I will spend tonight with you, and then I will continue to live in the guesthouse until you leave for Oregon.”

I jump out of the tub, my body dripping wet with water, rose-petals clinging to my skin like Band-Aids, and grab her by her shoulders. Sucking in a breath, I spin her around to face me. “Jane, I can’t live without you. Adele needs you. I need you. I’ll give you everything.”

“Please let go of me, Mr. Rochester.”

I can’t let go of her. Physically or emotionally. I pull her into me, and her eyes drill a hole into mine.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” The crushing finality of her words packs more punch than a thousand blows. My hands slide off her.