I glare at her, but the grin on her face is permanent as she finishes off a croissant like she’s innocent and hasn’t obliterated my entire emotional state.
“You know, on a serious note,” Liv continues, wiping the crumbs around her mouth with the back of her hand, “what you guys had was real, Em. You may have been younger but the love was there. And I don’t think feelings like that ever go away.”
I frown, looking away. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs one shoulder.
I shake my head, not knowing if she’s wrong, but also not wanting to accept the fact that she might be right. “Anyway, let’snot waste good croissants talking about Alex Cruz. Tell me more about this bakery. You said the owner is great?”
Liv lets me change the subject, but the teasing smirk still doesn’t leave her face. “Yeah, her name is Sophia. She’s new in town. The bakery opened a few months ago. Everything she makes is to die for, as you can probably already tell. I’m surprised none of your brothers have mentioned it. I see Cam there multiple times a week before he heads to the restaurant.”
I nod, still trying and failing to push thoughts of Alex to the back of my mind. “I haven’t heard anything about it until now. But as long as I can have some more of these, I will be there daily.” I mumble, mouth full as I lift up the last bite of croissant in my fingers.
We finish eating and Liv keeps me laughing with stories about her latest adventures, how Noah is doing in college, and everything else I’ve missed out on. For a little while, I manage to forget about my failing heart and Alex, and just enjoy being with her again like old times.
8
ALEX
I lean against the bathroom counter, towel wrapped around my waist, as water droplets gravitate down my back. Running a hand through my damp hair, I use the other to swipe away fog built up on the mirror. My reflection stares back and it’s unimpressive. I slept like shit last night and now I look like it. Emma commands my every thought, like she always has. I thought seeing her again this morning would help, that’s why I found myself knocking at her door at the buttcrack of dawn. Instead, the need for her is a million times more intense than it has been.
Exhaling sharply, I push off the sink while shaking my head as if that will physically remove the thoughts of her, but it doesn’t work. It never does. It didn’t work when we were teenagers, and I’m foolish to think it will work now.
Our relationship never needed a “title”. I never officially asked her to be my girlfriend. We never had to sit down and question what we were doing or what we wanted it to mean. It waseverything. Emma and I were tangled up in each other in a way that didn’t need labels to make it real. We had this… rhythm. It was easy and natural. The kind of connection you don’t realize you’re building with someone until you wake up one day and they’re the first thing you think about and the last thing you want to let go of.
But I also believe that part of the reason for not wanting to label it was fear itself. It stopped us from talking about it and committing to each other out loud. I was terrified of screwing up what we had. Of breaking her heart in some way that was out of my control. I knew before even getting involved that I wasn’t good enough for her. Emma deserved the world and that would never be something I could give her. Love had always been a loaded word in my life, something I’d watched chew people up and spit them out bloody.
I did everything possible tonotdo that to her.
And then there was Cam: my best friend, my brother in everything but blood, the reason why his family took me in when I didn’t have parents to crawl back to. Being with his little sister—in a way I knew he’d never forgive me for—felt like betrayal on a scale I couldn’t stomach. I swallowed down that sense of betrayal every time I was with her though, because she was worth it.
We didn’t talk about what we were because saying it out loud would’ve made it real, and that would’ve had consequenceswe weren’t ready to face.
I think we both knew, even then, that what we had wouldn’t last. I couldn’t ask her to stay in Windhaven when her mind was already made up that the only option she had was to leave. I couldn’t ask her to shrink herself to fit this town, and this life, with me. And she didn’t bother to ask me to run off with her to New York and abandon everything and everyone I owed for the life I created for myself. So, she left and I stayed, telling myself that she deserved more than a broken man with ghosts stitched into his ribs.
It seems like I’ve lived several different lives since then. But damn it if I haven't spent every single day wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life letting her leave. Wondering if itwould’ve changed anything if I’d told her how I truly felt. If I’d fought harder for her, would she have stayed?
I used to thinkno, that she was so devastatingly heartbroken over her mom’s passing that there was nothing that would’ve convinced her to stay. But as the time passes, I regret not trying harder.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself, yanking the towel off. I pull on jeans and throw a black T-shirt over my head. I slip on my boots and grab a jacket, snatching the truck keys on the way out the front door.
The 75th Annual Fall Apple Festival is in two days. Both the bar and our booth need to be fully stocked and ready. I don’t have time to sit around and wallow in self-pity about my past and current mistakes when there’s so much to be done. Frankie is likely already at the bar, grumbling about our to-do list, so the least I can do is try to show up on time before he blows a fuse. Yes, I am his boss, but nobody wants to be in the path of Hurricane Frankie when he is upset. Not even me.
The Diaz twins, Frankie and Emiliana, are both storms that tear through everything in their path, leaving you standing behind in their wreckage.
The crisp autumn air bites at my skin as I step outside. Perfect festival weather. The town will be packed, which means good business for all us locals. People visit Windhaven, coming from all over the area and surrounding states for the festival. Local businesses, including my own, depend highly on the traffic to make it through the slower winter months that follow.
I pull up to the Old Mill and take a second to catch my breath before getting out of the truck. The door sticks like always. I shove it open with my shoulder, hands holding a crate that was delivered out front. I step inside and there is a familiar mix of stale beer and lemon cleaner in the air. It’s too early for customers so the only sounds are coming from the hum of thecoolers and the flickering neon sign in the window buzzing on its last leg.
Frankie’s already moving kegs and taking inventory.
“Took you long enough,” he complains without looking up.
“Good morning to you, sunshine.” I smirk, watching as he hauls another keg onto the cart. “You know, we have other employees for this, right?.”
Frankie shoots me a glare. “Yeah, well, unlike the actual owner,Ilike making sure things get done around here.”
I roll my eyes but grab another crate of liquor to help. “Everything almost ready for the festival?”
