Heather stirs behind me, stretching with a soft groan. “You okay?” she mumbles.
I nod without turning around. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She sits up, brushing her hair out of her face. “Let’s get some breakfast, then we’ll drive home, okay?”
Home.
I picture my cottage with Nova’s little nails on the wood floors and the steady rhythm of the ocean outside my window. I want to crawl into bed and stay there. Just breathe and forget all of this.
But I can’t.
Not when he’s out there, slowly killing himself.
He left me seven years ago, and still, seeing him last night ripped an old wound of mine I thought I had healed from. He couldn’t even talk to me. He made his choice. He’s destroying himself piece by piece.
So why do I still want to save him? Is it me being a therapist? Or someone who loves him?
Heather orders room service instead of dragging me downstairs. When the knock comes, she answers the door wrapped in her blanket like a cape, sets the tray between us on the bed. Bagels. Fruit. Coffee. The smell makes my stomach flip again, but I take a small bite anyway.
She watches me carefully, like she always does, when I’m losing my shit. “See?” she says softly. “You’re surviving.”
“Barely,” I mumble.
Her expression stays gentle but firm. “You don’t owe him anything, Em.”
I don’t answer right away. Because she’s right. I wish she weren’t.
“I just…” My throat tightens. “I don’t think I could survive waking up to a headline that he’s—” I stop, my heart slamming as the image flashes through my mind of his lifeless body being found in some hotel somewhere. The man that used to be sofullof life. Headlines that read:Jude Graves, dead from apparent overdose.
Heather reaches for my hand. “I know.”
The drive out of the city is quiet, her alternative playlist on in the background. I rest my head against the window and watch the city fade from view.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. No, with my best friend, it’s always safe. I wonder if he’s alone in some nameless room, his demons clawing at the walls. How does he feel after seeing me? Does he even remember it?
Heather glances over, like she can hear my thoughts. “You’re thinking about him so hard, I swear I can feel it.”
“He looked so lost,” I say quietly.
“Emma—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I know what you’re going to say. He made his bed.”
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you have to lie in it with him.”
The words sit between us, the truth in them absolutely heavy and unavoidable. And I hate that part of me is already wondering if I will.
Mrs. Kent is waiting on her porch when Heather drops me off, arms folded over her sweater, that familiar warm smile lighting up her face. “Nova was an angel,” she says as I climb the steps. “Didn’t bark once. You’ve got yourself the perfect girl. We just love her.”
I smile, but it feels thin. “Thanks, Mrs. Kent. You’re the best.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” She pats my arm, then steps back, already turning toward her own door.
I nod and go inside, closing the door behind me. The silence hits all at once, and it's so damn loud. The air smells like vanilla candles and salt from the ocean. It’s safe, warm, and yet empty in away that makes my heart hurt. For a moment, I allow myself to look up towards the kitchen and imagine Jude, shirtless, with a bowl of his favorite cereal, smiling at me in a pair of sweatpants.
I flinch as if I’ve been stabbed in the chest. Would we still be together if he never left to pursue music? Would he be living here with me? Would I...would I have his last name yet?
Nova trots over immediately, tail wagging, drawing me back to the present. My baby always looks at me like I’m her favorite person in the world. I drop to my knees and press my face into her fur for a second, breathing her in, grounding myself, before forcing my legs to carry me to my room.
