Silence stretched between us like a wire pulled too tight.
Then, without a word, John turned and walked out of the room.
Shame slammed into me like a punch to the gut. What the hell was I doing? John had fought his own battles. I knew that. I should’ve said something—apologized. I needed to go after him, fix it before the moment passed.
But before I could move?—
He came back.
And in his arms was a bundle of blankets I recognized even though I’d never met her. His daughter.
My breath hitched. My stomach twisted.
He walked straight to me, holding her out. “Hold her, Em.”
My hands flew up, palms out. “I can’t.”
“Hold her.” His voice was calm, steady—unshakable. The kind of tone that didn’t leave room for argument.
My hands trembled, but I reached out anyway.
The second I pulled her into my arms, something cracked open inside me. A soft, aching place I hadn’t touched in years.
She was warm. Small. Safe.
And I loved her instantly.
Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, soaking into her blanket, and for once, I didn’t try to hide them.
I looked up at John, who was already watching me, his own face tight with emotion.
“She’s perfect,” I whispered.
He placed one arm around my shoulder, pulling me in like the brother figure he’d always been. “I know,” he said.
Eight
Sharp edges dulled over time.Days turned into weeks, and eventually, being around the gang felt normal again—like I hadn’t disappeared. Like I hadn’t shattered.
I pulled in a breath, grabbed the too-large watermelon from the passenger seat, and set it on my lap as I hoisted myself out of my BMW.
Cars lined both sides of the street, confirming what Katie had already warned me about—this wasn’t just our usual crew tonight. Jake’s old college friends were in town. Great.
They were nice enough, but it was always the same story: too many beers, too much nudging, someone awkwardly asking for my number. I wasn’t in the mood. I had two clients hounding me for finished websites—both of whom had been circling like sharks all week—but I’d promised I’d show.
The watermelon was heavier than I remembered. Awkward, slick, impossible to grip as I fumbled with the front gate.
I regretted not getting a smaller one. But the guy at the store insisted this was the best—and for once, I wanted to win this ridiculous contest with John. Petty? Absolutely. But it was tradition.
Laughter drifted from the backyard, and the scent of grilled meat wrapped around me like a welcome mat. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten all day.
I adjusted the watermelon again, forearms burning, and headed straight for the kitchen—just as Jake walked in from the yard, an apron around his neck, a beer in one hand, and?—
Dean.
My heart stuttered.
The watermelon slipped straight through my fingers.
