Suddenly, she was getting better gigs—ones that paid her well enough to eat more than instant noodles.
Suddenly, she was doing it; she was building a career.
But there was something else building too: the woods. They came for her at every performance, but not like they used to. Where once their presence was soft and quiet, slipping in through the doors like any other adoring fan, now it was something else entirely. The woods no longer left tokens of appreciation in her guitar case—handfuls of acorns and feathers and maple keys. Instead, they came like a scorned lover: possessive and hostile. Erupting through venues as if they couldn’t let her go.
As if they refused to let her forget.
Emeline could ignore the woods if she was careful and clever. What she couldn’t ignore was the ache they brought with them, putting down roots in her chest and spreading ever deeper, bit by bit.
At first, she thought it was homesickness. The woods were reminding her of everything she missed: Edgewood. The stars and the quiet and the vast amount of space. Pa and Tom and Maisie and all her old neighbors. Her friends Sable and Rooke.
But you were supposed to get homesick when you moved away.It was a part of growing up.
This was something else. A hole in her life. A deep, dark missing.
She hadn’t heard Hawthorne’s voice in months—not since the last time she called home and he happened to be visiting Pa. She hadn’t seen Hawthorne’s face since Christmas, the only time she’ dbeen back since leaving Edgewood last summer.
Every night when she came home from a gig, there was anemptiness in her apartment despite it being full of roommates. The people she lived with were strangers. Polite strangers, but still strangers. There was a space where Hawthorne should have been—reading or drawing or cooking—and wasn’t.
More than this, with every new success, the hole in her seemed to widen. Her musical achievements should have fulfilled her. Instead, they left her hungrier than ever.
Emeline might be living her dream. But dreams, she realized now, had shadow sides. Dreams came with costs.
Hers had cost her something precious.
That June, a year after she moved to Montreal, the ache grew into a cavern inside her. She was sitting in a booth at the back of a bar, squished between Joel and his bandmates after a show, watching them giggle and gossip over drinks. It felt like a carousel ride. The painted horses going up and down, around and around. Everyone smiling and laughing and having a good time. But all Emeline wanted to do was get off.
Why am I here?she kept thinking.What am I doing?
A few nights later, she packed up her belongings—she had so few, they fit easily into her car—and the next morning she got up to drive all day until she got to Edgewood.
She had no intention of driving back.
It was early evening when she pulled into Pa’s lane. Pa was standing on the front patio, looking confused as he squinted at her. She parked in the driveway, left everything in the car, and ran to him.
“I came outside to do something, but I can’t remember what it was,” he said as she squeezed him. “Did you tell me you were coming for dinner?”
It was odd, the way he phrased it. “Coming for dinner.” As if he thought she lived up the road. Emeline shrugged it off and shook her head. “I didn’t tell you, no.”
“Well, you have good timing.” He kissed the top of her head. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Emeline pulled back. If Pa was out here, who was inside making dinner?
She hauled her suitcase from the trunk of her car and went to find out. Dumping her stuff in the mudroom, she kicked off her flats and headed for the kitchen—where the smell of fresh bread and frying onions wafted out.
A young man stood facing the sink, soapsuds halfway up his arms as he washed and scrubbed the dishes. Emeline paused at the sight of him, her heart leaping into her throat.
Sensing he wasn’t alone, Hawthorne turned, hands dripping. He looked different from when she’ d seen him at Christmas. Taller. Broader. His dark hair a little longer, curling gently around his ears.
“Emeline?”
She nearly burst into tears at the sight of him.
Emeline ran and jumped into his arms. Hawthorne caught her, hiking her up onto his hips. She buried her face in his throat, breathing in his crushed-pine smell. He pressed his face into her hair, doing the same.
You’re mine,she thought.You belong with me.
“What are you doing here?” he breathed.
