He goes still, like a statue, as if fighting the urge not to crack. The truck finally comes to a stop in front of the yellow house and before he can say anything in response, I yank the handle and swing the door open. Grabbing my bag from behind the seat, I slam the door shut. “Thanks for the ride,” I grit out without looking back, my voice wobbling at the seams. A couple more seconds in that truck with him and all my walls I’ve spent years building would have started to crumble.
Behind me, there is a creak of a window rolling down. Alex lets out a loud sigh. “Wait Em, I didn’t mean?—”
I stalk up to the front door, ignoring the sad state of the porch. That’s a problem for a different day. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the keys, trying to decipher which one I need out of the five on the key ring. After finding the right one, the rusted-out lock gives me more trouble and is the final obstacle in me failing to achieve the dramatic entrance I was going for.
I finally bust the door open and slam it shut behind me, not bothering to let him finish what he wants to say. Leaning back against the wooden door, I throw my bag down and a puff of white dust shoots up into the air as it lands on the ground. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears as I try to catch my breath. The keys continue to rattle in my hands as I fight to get them to stop shaking. Even then, I can’t help but make my way over to the window, peeking out through the curtain.
Alex is still there, sitting in his truck. He hesitates like he wants to get out and continue the conversation. He doesn’t look satisfied with the way it ended. I know, from past experience, how much having the last say gets him off. But after two eternal minutes, he simply nods to himself in defeat, rolls up the window and drives away.
4
ALEX
I don’t even bother turning on the radio.
The rumble of the truck and the crunch of dirt and gravel under the tires are enough noise to fill up the cab as my mind is stuck replaying every second of the dinner and the drive like a fucking highlight reel.
Actually, not any of those things. Justher.
Seeing Emma again after all these years?—
I thought I was ready. I told myself a hundred times over that I’d be fine when it happened. That she was just some old friend from childhood who drifted away, not the girl who cracked open my ribs and set up shop in the hollowed-out center of me before leaving, like none of it even mattered. But the second I walked into that kitchen and saw her sitting there… It was game over.
The Diaz family took me in as one of their own decades ago. I was a little boy whose parents abandoned him for a quick high. They left me for anyone that would take me.
Emma’s mom, Isela, had made it a tradition to have family dinners every Friday—no excuses or exceptions. It never mattered what was going on in our lives or what other planswere made, no one ever missed Friday family dinner. And because they were my family in every way that mattered, that included me as well. It was the only way to get everyone to sit down and eat together at least once a week, between sports, work and other events. Even after her passing, we kept up the tradition, as a way to honor her and keep some sense of normalcy when everything else in life felt like it was falling apart.
Emma being with us again… it felt like no time had passed at all. Like we were teenagers at dinner again, stuck in the same damn loop. Emma and I bickering and stealing glances at each other, pretending we weren’t counting the minutes until it was over so we could sneak out together.
The only thing I could think about while sitting across from her, was how fucking beautiful she is.
She looks sharper around the edges, but softer in places too. Life has hit her from all sides and she’s learned how to carry it better. Her figure is more pronounced, shrinking in at her waist and arching out on those thick thighs I yearn to bury my face in if ever given the opportunity.
Her hair is longer now, dark brown and dropping around her shoulders in soft waves. My damn fingers twitched with desire, wanting to run my hands through it like I used to all those nights before. Her head in my lap, my fingers combing through her hair, soaking up every second with her.
She has the same look in those big, brown eyes. It is a look that says she is already halfway somewhere else, lost in her own thoughts. Those brown eyes that still look at me with an undeniable spark. I’m smart enough to know the spark probably isn’t a good thing anymore, but damn is it electrifying to see the way I still affect her. The way her jaw clenches and her eyes narrow upon contact with mine. If I didn’t know better, I would say she looks even more beautiful when she’s angry.
She’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever let ruin me.
I watched her walk up to that yellow house all flustered and raging with undeniable anger, and yet, still pretending nothing hurt.
What a pleasure it is to see Hurricane Emiliana touching ground in Windhaven once again.
And what did I do? I just sat there like a fucking idiot.
Ten years. Ten fucking years and she could still walk away from me like I was nothing. Ten fucking years and she still takes hold of me in ways I can’t control. It feels like my whole life revolves around her and whatshewants from me or whatshewants me to be.
Finally pulling into my driveway, I exhale a breath that I’ve been holding the entirety of the ride over. My place is small, nothing fancy. It’s a cramped, navy blue house behind the bar I own—the Old Mill. I took over five years ago when the previous owner, Daniel St. James, decided to pack up and skip town. I’ve worked there since I was eighteen, first busing tables, then pouring drinks. By the time I was twenty-five, it was mine. “She’s all yours. Don’t fuck it up,” was the last thing he’d said to me before handing me the keys, a signed deed and never looking back.
Sometimes I envied Daniel, and Emma even, for not letting themselves be tied down to this place and leaving the second they decided there must be a better life somewhere else. This town is like a cement block chained around my leg, holding me underwater until I drown. I can’t, and won’t, ever escape it.
I kill the engine and lean back into the seat, staring over at the empty passenger side. My thoughts go exactly where they always do—right back to her.
Emiliana Diaz was a rising star, the next big thing in the NYC art scene. Her career blew up not long after moving to Manhattan. I’ve seen her face everywhere over the last ten years— thousands of photos, online articles, gallery interviews, even several magazine covers. There was always a picture of herstanding next to one of her paintings with a guarded, closed-off look, constantly looking like she wanted to crawl out of her skin. It’s the same look she always has when someone gives her any sort of compliment and she doesn’t know how to take it. If I know anything about Emma, it is that she never wanted the spotlight, but it shined on her anyway. People loved her work, lovedher. Attention and fame had naturally followed.
She didn’t want anything to do with me, so any updates on her life came in other ways. They started with a Google search one night out of harmless curiosity, or at least that’s what I told myself. Cam had mentioned flying out to her first solo art show in the city, and next thing I knew, I was reading interviews, watching clips, and scrolling through pages of her life from the outside. Pathetic, I know, but I had to know she was doing what she left to do: live a happier life.
I never asked Cam or Leo or Frankie about her. Instead, I always just waited to be given any information they wanted to give up, which wasn’t much. None of them knew about us or what we had before she left town. We kept that part to ourselves. Maybe they suspected something was going on at some point, but it wasn’t a topic that was ever brought up.
