My gaze drifts to the corner of the room.
The painting sits there, half-dry. A dock beneath a night sky. A guitar lying abandoned on the planks. My throat tightens. Iswallow and push the thought away, focusing instead on my last client’s smile as she waves goodbye.
One by one, the lights go out.
I slide the key into the front door lock and pause. Then I pull out my phone, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hit call.
Heather answers on the second ring. “Hey, Em. What’s up, home slice?”
I roll my eyes, a weak smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m going to see his parents.” My voice stays steady. My pulse doesn’t.
There’s a brief silence. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, switch off the last light, and step into the cooling evening air. “But I have to see if I can help him. I’m going home first to take care of Nova, change, and then I’m going.”
Heather exhales softly, the sound threaded with worry and understanding. “Okay. Keep your phone on you, yeah? I’ll leave mine on ring.”
“I will.”
We hang up. I linger on the sidewalk, evening breeze lifting my hair. My heart feels pulled in two directions—past and future—and for the first time in years, I don’t know which one I’ll choose. But I get in my car anyway.
And I drive.
The sun dips low as I turn down the familiar road, the sky streaked with gold and lavender like someone dragged a paintbrush across the horizon. I shouldn’t remember the way as clearly as I do. It’s been a long time. And yet my hands know when to slow, and when to turn. Honestly? I could make the drive wearing a blindfold.
By the time I pull into the long, stone-lined driveway, a familiar ache blooms in my chest. The Graves’ beach house rises ahead of me, framed by towering evergreens and the muted roar of the ocean beyond. The wraparound porch is draped in soft stringlights that glow against the oncoming dusk. It’s beautiful—just as I remember it. Maybe even more so now that nostalgia is ripping at my heart.
I park and sit there for a moment, palms pressed to the steering wheel, steadying myself. Professional. Calm. Collected.
I brush my hands over my blouse and step out into the cool coastal air. The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk up the steps and stop at the door I used to walk through without knocking. I raise my hand and knock gently.
The door opens almost immediately.
Rachel stands there—long black hair braided loosely over one shoulder, bright blue eyes widening in recognition before her entire face breaks into a radiant, disbelieving smile. “Emma?” she breathes.
“Hi,” I whisper.
She doesn’t hesitate. She launches forward and pulls me into a tight, warm hug, her arms strong around me despite how petite she is. I melt into it, breathing in her sandalwood-and-sea-salt scent I used to associate with every holiday, every birthday, every time Jude brought me over.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs into my hair. “Look at you. Look at you.” When she finally pulls back, her eyes shine. “Come in. Please.”
I step inside, and the house is everything I remembered. Polished wood floors, and the soft white walls are adorned with coastal artwork, glass vases, and little touches Rachel always loved: candles, driftwood, and fresh flowers. The living room opens into a stunning kitchen—marble counters, copper fixtures, huge windows looking straight out at the endless ocean.
It’s breathtaking. It’s...home.
Alaric appears from around the corner, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. His dirty-blonde hair is perfectly styled, and those hazel eyes—Jude’s eyes—go wide when he sees me.
“Emma?” he says, stunned for half a heartbeat before his face breaks into a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Come here.”
He enfolds me in a gentler hug than Rachel’s, but no less warm. “It’s good to see you. Really good.”
Rachel touches my arm. “Tea?”
My throat tightens. “I’d love that. Thank you.”
“Do you still like lavender?”
I nod, and her face lights up. She moves to the stove, already pulling out the tin she used to keep on the top shelf. Alaric pulls out a chair for me at the long oak dining table—the same one Jude and I used to sit at for breakfast after late movie nights. I run my fingers over the smooth wood, feeling a ghost of the past there.
