He blew air through his lips. “I don’t know.” His voice was shaky, unsure. His eyes glistened with emotion. “I always thought we could get through anything. I just didn’t ever fathom that I’d be the cause of this kind of pain.”
Her heart squeezed. He looked like the old Will, albeit battered and broken down. Her tense shoulders fell, but she forced herself not to comfort him. He’d hurt her in an incredible way, and even though he’d shown some remorse, she wasn’t sure how to respond to it. She felt herself slipping back into the old version of Emily, but the new version was hanging on for dear life, pleading with her to stay the course. She liked who she was becoming without him, and while, originally, she’d wished for this very moment, she didn’t know if she welcomed it anymore.
“Should we get ourselves together and go downstairs with the others?” she asked.
He stared at her. “They’re going to want to know where we stand.”
“We’ll tell them. We are exactly as we were before you decided to come crash my vacation.” With that, she pushed away any lingering affection she had for the man she’d thought he was. She stood up, straightened her T-shirt, walked out of the room, and headed downstairs.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, Emily woke with the weight of last night still lingering behind her eyes, the remnants of tears dried tight on her cheeks. After they’d all gone to bed—with Will in another guest room down the hall—she’d cried herself to sleep, the two sides of her battling for control.
The morning light felt too bright, almost intrusive, and her body was weary with an ache that hadn’t faded with the nighttime hours. She recalled pieces of her conversation with Will, as well as good moments they’d had together over their lifetime that had unraveled her. Though the quiet of the room offered some peace, it did little to steady her busy mind. Everything felt distant, dulled, as if she were floating just outside of herself, trying to make sense of the aftermath.
But worse than all that was her worry about how the evening with Patrick had ended. She’d finally made him comfortable enough that he’d shared his thoughts with her, and allowed himself to be vulnerable. And now, Will could ruin anything she’d managed to build with Patrick.
She hadn’t meant to have any opinion whatsoever about the chef, but the thoughts had crept up on her, slipping in without her even trying to summon them.
Emily got up and moved to the upholstered chair by the window, the sun on her face. The grounds crew had completely cleared the remaining debris, and if she hadn’t just experienced the tropical storm, she wouldn’t have known, from this view, that it had ever happened.
The memory of her life with Will crept in once more—his laugh, the way he used to touch her back absentmindedly, the promises he’d made with eyes that, she realized now, seemed to always be scanning the room. She used to think it was his inability to attend to their relationship—a creative instability and need to chase inspiration rearing its head. But given recent events, she wondered if she hadn’t been enough to keep his focus. And now, he was wrestling with that same pull of distraction.
She had loved Will unapologetically, blindly. And yet, last night, Patrick had simply smiled at her from across the fire, and something—something real and startling—had stirred in her chest. He’d asked about her, listened as if her words meant something, and in that brief moment, she’d seen no ghosts in his eyes. It wasn’t love. Not yet. But it felt like hope. And that was something Will could no longer give her.
Was Patrick as stunned as she’d been to see Will appear? Did he have a restless sleep, full of questions? Had he second-guessed his decision to open up to her?
Now, she was stuck with Will in the house for the rest of their vacation. And she’d lost any chance she’d had to learn more about Patrick—he certainly wouldn’t be divulging anything more with Will and all the others around.
Maybe it was for the best. Patrick lived in Florida, he had a brand-new restaurant to run, and she’d signed her contract for the next school year in Nashville. There was no way they could even develop a strong friendship that many miles apart. One week with someone could never sustain indefinite long-termseparation. But even her rationalization didn’t stop her from thinking about it.
Emily got up from the chair, slipped on her jeans and a T-shirt, and quietly left her room to make herself a cup of coffee. But as she padded down to the kitchen, the scent of fresh grounds, robust and bitter, and the salty aroma of a cooked breakfast filled the air. Someone else was up. A quiet cough made her skin crawl.That sounded like Will.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her movement on the last step giving her away. He was already in the kitchen, barefoot, shirt wrinkled from sleep. He turned at the sound, his eyes meeting hers with a trace of hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure whether to smile or apologize.
“Morning,” he said in a low voice that was familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.
“Morning,” she echoed, the word flat. She crossed her arms. It wasn’t cold, exactly. But there was the iciness of the space between two people who used to be everything to one another.
“I made some scrambled eggs if you want some.” He gestured toward a pan sitting on the stove. “I can make you toast.”
He must have made eggs because he knew how much she liked them.
“I can do it.”
She stepped up beside him, the two of them maneuvering around each other with the kind of silent choreography of people who used to know the steps. She reached for a mug just as he moved aside, neither speaking, both pretending it wasn’t strange to be together again. So many mornings when he’d stopped by her apartment before work had been just like this. How could the same hands that once held her like something sacred now fumble around the kitchen? She hadn’t known back then that one day those simple morning routines would cease, and she’d never again be the same.
The fridge and cabinet doors opened and closed with soft thuds, spoons clinked in their mugs—small sounds that felt too loud in the loaded silence. Emily kept her mind on the hum of a piece of machinery outside, which was probably part of the storm-cleanup efforts, in an attempt to detach from the thought that Will’s hand used to brush her waist as he passed or he’d reach out and tickle her sides, making her squeal. Now, he kept a deliberate distance.Good.
The toast popped up and she scraped some butter on the surface. Then she set it beside her eggs, took her mug, and walked to the table.
“May I join you?” he asked.
She waved a hand at the open seat across from her and then looked out the window.
The bad weather had passed, but inside her the real storm that had been brewing since she got there was exploding. Her thoughts spun harder than any gale-force wind, circling the same questions with relentless power. The bright-blue sky outside was calm, almost smug in its stillness, but her mind crackled with unrest—grief, anger, longing for normalcy, all tangled like the power lines downed in the aftermath.
“Good morning,” Sienna said, shattering the tension. She offered Emily a loaded glance before she retrieved the orange juice from the fridge, pouring herself a glass.
