“Exactly,” she whispers, tossing some notebooks around carelessly. “We want you to look like aperson,not a man with a textbook case of OCD.”
“Hey—!” I protest, frowning. “I don’thaveOCD.”
“And hell is just a sauna,” Emma fires back, that wicked spark in her eyes lighting up.
The camera gets positioned right in front of me, and I watch the guy behind it doing test shots. The director starts giving me instructions—how to pretend I’m working, where I can move, what the frame allows—and that’s when I catch Emma opening one of my drawers.
Thatdrawer.
“Hey!” I snap, swatting her hand away. But I’m too late.
She freezes, staring inside with wide eyes. I slam it shut.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, stepping back—not just from the desk, but fromme.
“Emma…”
“Mr. Walker, whenever you're ready,” the producer says, standing on the other side of the desk. She and the cameraman block Emma from view, but between their arms and gear, I catch sight of her wiping a tear from her cheek.
I don’t get it. Why is she crying? Embarrassment? Guilt? How can she be this shaken whenshe’sthe one who left me standing there?
“Mr. Walker…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, jaw clenched. I want to kick everyone out of this damn room. I need to talk to her. Alone. “I’m ready.”
We go through the motions—fake typing, fake phone call, fake life—and I notice Emma’s gone. Not just out of frame. Out of the room.
I would’ve left too, if I’d opened that drawer.
It’s like a damn time capsule. A perfectly preserved version of who I used to be—who we used to be. I haven’t opened it in ages. But I’vewantedto. More times than I’ll ever admit.
And now she’s seen it.
The black-and-white bandana she wore back in high school. The woven bracelets she used to make. That picture Killian snapped of us laughing at a party. And the ring.
That stupid ring I never threw out—because apparently, I enjoy self-torture.
Shit.
How did I forget those were in there? She must think I’m completely unhinged. Like, I never moved on. Like I’ve been stuck in the past for years. And maybe… she wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
“We’re ready for the beach shot,” someone says. Their voice sounds miles away.
“We’ll need a quick outfit change, Mr. Walker, something more casual for the dog walk.”
I nod, barely listening, and head to my room. Honestly, I need a second to breathe. But when I walk in…Emma’s there. Sitting at the foot of my bed. With Jack.
She’s crying. And that damn dog is trying to comfort her, resting his muzzle gently on her legs.
“Em…”
Emma looks up, startled to find me here. She was never good at hiding.
“I need to change… for whatever stupid scene’s next,” I mutter, like I need to explain myself. This is my house. My bedroom. I shouldn’t feel like an intruder.
“Right. Sorry. We’ll go,” she says, standing up with an awkward shuffle. But before she makes it out, I catch her wrist.
“It’s not what it looked like, Em. I haven’t cleaned out those drawers in years,” I lie.
