Grant:Emma, please answer me. Is everything okay?
No. Nothing is okay. Your ex-wife appeared out of nowhere, and she made it very clear that I'm temporary. That I'll never be enough. That I don't belong.
But I can't type that. Can't pull Grant into this mess when I'm still trying to understand it myself.
Me:Fine. Just busy with work.
It's a lie. But it's easier than the truth.
I set the phone face-down and pick up the vetiver oil again, inhaling deeply. The earthy scent fills my lungs, grounding me slightly. Whatever happens with Grant, whatever Victoria or Samantha or my parents think, I still have this.
But even as I think it, doubt creeps in. How long can I keep all these pieces in the air before something crashes?
The vetiver still smells wrong. Or maybe it's perfect, and I just can't tell the difference anymore.
I close my eyes, and Victoria's smile fills my vision. Perfect and terrifying and absolutely certain of her place in the world.
A place I'm apparently trying to take.
My phone sits silent on the worktable, and I think about Grant's unanswered declaration of love.
I love you too, I think. But I'm scared this isn’t going to work.
And I don't know how to tell you that.
Chapter 13
Grant
The phone call is brief. Too brief.
"Grant?" Emma's voice is small, thin. Like she's calling from the bottom of a well. "Can you—can you come over?"
"I'm on my way."
I'm already grabbing my jacket, my keys, texting my driver before I even process what I heard. It's not what she said—it's what I heard underneath. The fear. The exhaustion. The defeat.
Something happened.
The drive to her apartment takes twenty minutes, and every single one of them is agony. I text her that I'm coming, but I get no response. Try calling back, straight to voicemail. My mind cycles through possibilities, each worse than the last. Is she hurt? Sick? Did something happen with the babies?
Ever since I told her I love her—in a goddamn text, what the hell was I thinking?—and didn’t hear anything back, I knew there was something wrong. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, but I figured the best thing to do was to give her some space.
By the time we pull up outside her building, my blood pressure is through the roof.
I take the stairs two at a time and knock on her door. "Emma. It's me."
The door opens, and my heart stops.
She looks—destroyed. That's the only word for it. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face blotchy. She's wearing sweats and a T-shirt and her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping everywhere.
"Hey," she says, and her voice cracks on the single syllable.
I'm inside before she can say anything else, my hands framing her face, searching for injuries, for explanations. "What happened? Are you hurt? Are the babies?—"
"They're fine." She pulls back slightly, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm fine. Physically, anyway."
Physically. Which means emotionally, she's not fine at all.
