Emma’s brow creased. “Natalie, what are you?—“
“I should have guessed, actually.” The words kept coming, each one perfectly controlled. “When I asked about the woman you couldn’t forget. I mean, it makes sense. Your crush.”
“Is that what you think?” Emma’s voice was quiet. “That I was talking about Trish?”
Natalie lifted one shoulder in what she hoped looked like casual indifference. “Yes. And that’s why I left the pub. So you two could enjoy yourselves. I know she’s working, but she seemed to have no problem finding time for you.”
“Natalie…”
“It’s fine. Go. I think I could use an early night anyway,” Natalie said, more than ready to end this conversation, because she hated trying to pretend that she didn’t care about Emma. “I’ll see you tomorrow or the next day,” she said, turning to keep walking the few feet to her grandmother’s home.
But Emma called after her. “Natalie, wait a minute.”
“Have a good night, Emma.” Natalie hoped that in the dim lighting Emma couldn’t see the tears in her eyes as she gave her a quick wave and headed up the driveway.
What a mess.
From the outside, Natalie knew her life looked perfect. She’d had enough handsome male co-stars over the years to keep the rumor mill turning. At forty-five, she’d accomplished more than she’d ever dreamed of, and her fear of growing old, of losing parts, hadn’t come to pass yet.
She was living the dream or at least that’s what it must look like.
Natalie unlocked the backdoor and stepped into the kitchen, flicking the lights on and pouring herself a glass of water before sinking into a chair at the table. She took a drink, her hand shaking ever so slightly.
Ten minutes passed, maybe fifteen. Natalie knew she should get up, brush her teeth, wash her face, do all the small rituals that would carry her toward sleep. But her body felt weighted to the chair, anchored by the mess she’d just made of things.
She was sad. That was the simple truth underneath all the careful deflection. Sad and frustrated and hating herself for the jealousy that had crawled up her throat when she’d seen Emma lean toward Trish, seen the way Trish’s fingers had lingered on Emma’s wrist. She had no claim to Emma. No right to care.
But she did care. God, she cared so much it made her chest ache.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She pulled it out, expecting nothing important.
Can I come over?
Natalie stared at the words, then typed back quickly.
Did you mean to send that to someone else?
The response came immediately.
No. I can see your lights are still on.
Natalie’s pulse kicked up a notch.
Okay.
She finished her water and set the glass in the sink, gripping the counter. What did Emma want to talk about? To explain about Trish? To tell Natalie there was someone else—someone who wasn’t afraid to stay, to be seen, to build something real?
A soft knock came at the back door. Natalie opened it. Emma stood on the step, hair loose around her shoulders.
“Come in,” Natalie said.
Emma stepped inside but didn’t reach for the kettle or pull out a chair. She didn’t kick off her shoes or move toward the fridge like she had been doing all week. Instead, she crossed to the counter and leaned against it, arms folded across her chest.
Natalie didn’t sit either. She settled against the edge of the kitchen table, three feet of old tile between them. The overhead light was too bright for whatever this was.
“What would have happened,” Emma started, and then stopped. She pressed her lips together and tried again. “That summer. Five years ago. If you’d arrived and I hadn’t left.”
Natalie blinked. “What do you mean?”
