She’s been quiet since the lake. Not cold exactly, just… distant. She seems to be slowly pulling herself back behind the wall she always builds when things get too real. I should’ve said something earlier, when we got out of the water, or when she looked at me with those soft eyes and kissed me like we were the only two people left on earth. But I didn’t. I stayed quiet and let her steer the day into whatever she wanted it to be.
Now, I’m wondering if I made a mistake.
She walks in with two glasses of red wine and a small,crooked smile that used to knock the wind out of me when we were teenagers.
“Could only find the screw-top stuff,” she says, setting one glass down and handing me the other. “Hope your palate can handle the sophistication.”
I snort. “Please. I’ve seen you drink boxed wine straight from the spout.”
Her smile widens. “It was my birthday and Jake had just broken up with me… because ofyou, if I remember correctly.”
I raise a brow, wanting to tell her what actually happened with Jake all those years ago, but choosing to let her continue to make me the bad guy, if that’s what it takes to protect her. I also just want to change the subject and never think about that idiot ever again.
“You were crying and watching The Notebook.”
“Still counts.”
We fall into silence again, and I hate it. I hate how comfortable and easy it is to be like this with her. It's as if we didn’t spend a decade avoiding each other and pretending like we didn’t care. And now we’re supposed to do what exactly? Move on and pretend nothing happened? Unlikely.
It feels too good to be true. I wouldn’t be surprised if I wake up any second and this all will have been just a dream.
Emma curls into the corner of the couch, her bare legs tucked under her, the hem of her pajama shorts riding up, leaving little to the imagination. She obviously hasn’t taken my advice on actual pants since learning how to start her own fire in the furnace.
She takes a sip of wine and stares at the muted TV screen, pretending to be interested in a rerun of the showChopped. I watch her for a long moment. The slope of her neck. The small wrinkle between her brows like she’s overthinking something in that head of hers. The way her fingers tap the wine glass, nervous energy bleeding out of her in the tiniest ways.
I can’t take it anymore.
“I think we should talk,” I blurt out.
She freezes, then exhales through her nose. “Can we not do this tonight?” The words come out tight in her throat.
“Em—”
“Alex,” she cuts in sharply, eyes finally meeting mine. “Just… please. Not tonight. I’m tired. Can’t we have one damn day where we don’t ruin it by digging everything up again?”
The frustration in her tone sparks something in me. I set my glass down harder than I should on the coffee table. “Why are you doing this?”
She blinks. “Doing what?”
“This,” I snap. “You’re shut down. Every time something gets too close to being real, you pull away.”
Her expression turns stormy. “I’mthe one running?”
“You left,” I say louder now, heart hammering against my ribs. “You were the one who packed your bags and didn’t look back. I woke up the day after our conversation and you were just… gone.”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I push forward. “I waited for you to say goodbye at least. Hell, I waited for a text, Emma. Or a call. Anything.”
“You knew why I left,” she says quietly, almost to herself.
“Did I?” I shake my head. “Because all I got was you yelling at me for five minutes when I questioned your reasoning and then nothing but silence.”
“I didn’t owe you an explanation.”
The words hit like a punch. I stare at her, stunned. “Wow.”
“I didn’t mean—” She sighs, covering her face. “I… I needed to get out of here. Everything reminded me of Mom. And you. And what we could’ve been. And I couldn’t breathe, Alex.”
