Page 20 of Riding the Curve

CHAPTER 8

Henley

Unease bristles through me as the ‘Welcome to Oakley Falls’ sign fades behind us. My fate suddenly became closer with each mile. I slump deeper into the seat and watch the town I grew up in come into view.

Munroe’s Market, where mom, Mrs. Lane, and I would frequent to supply all our cooking and baking ventures. Brook’s Brother’s Diner, where I spent most of my evenings as a teen, and where I worked through high school and college. Old Oak Oven, the bakery once owned by my best friend’s parents, now run by her.

The ice cream shop.

Oakley Falls High School.

Lane & Son Mechanics.

Their family estate.

And finally, Golden Oak Ranch.

Home.

Gravel rattles underneath the BMW’s tires as we inch further down the path toward my family home. Pale blue siding, surrounded by a deep navy trim, comes closer into view. Lavender and wildflowers adorn the front of the winding white porch that wraps all the way around. The porch swing rocks gently in the wind.

Rolling down the window, I let the valley breeze surround me. Deep breaths, Hen.

Taking a chance, I let my gaze shift to the man next to me. Emerson’s lips are pressed into a thin line, eyes focused intently on the path. Guilt swells in my gut. I should have tried to talk to him the rest of the way, but my embarrassment gridlocked that ability. The shame of exposing my vulnerabilities was too overpowering. I did that once with him, and he tore my whole heart wide open. If I had opened my mouth, it probably would have only caused more pain.

We pull into the curved driveway and park in front. Silently, unbuckling, I exit and move around the car to the trunk. Emerson already has it open, his jaw clenched as he lugs my thousand-pound suitcase onto the driveway. Reaching out my hand, I step in front of him to grab the next one.

“Hen.” He sighs. I can tell his patience is waning. “Just let me help you, okay?”

I step out of his way with a nod, just in time for my family to come spilling out of the house.

“Awntie Hen-Hen!”

The patter of little feet fills the air as my three-year old niece comes bounding down the stairs toward me. I bend down into a crouch right before she collides into my open arms. We both tumble backward into the gravel, her infectious laughter bubbling through her wavy blonde hair that covers her face. I use my fingers to part her locks, which currently hang like drapes across her sweet face. When I do, I get a glimpse of her sparkling blue eyes and freckles, which I proceed to shower with a few hundred kisses and tickles.

“Awntie Hen! I can’t bweaf!” She squeaks in between giggles. I cease fire on the tickle attack and hold her close as I lift us both off the ground.

“I’ve missed you, little miss,” I coo, rubbing our noses together as she wraps her arms around me tightly.

I feel the burn of awareness on my side. Daring a glance toward Emerson, I’m unprepared for the way he’s staring at me. Gentle eyes glaze affectionately over me, but the creases in his forehead are touched with what look like a hint of sadness, pain . . . or maybe regret.

His eyes flutter shut, breaking their hold over me, causing an ache to tug at my heart. I find myself wishing for a time where things could have been different. Where things could have been . . . No Hen, don’t let him in. You can’t afford to be hurt again.

“Baby girl!” Dad’s smooth voice shakes me out of my haze, as he excitedly hops down the stairs. Setting Lyla down, I shift my hair away from my face. Lyla’s eyes go wide.

“Awntie Hen, your face looks owchie.”

When my gaze joins Dad’s, I’m met with deeply furrowed brows and my mom’s high-pitched squeal of shock. In two seconds, I’m in his arms. Horror written all over his features as he assesses me. “Did he do this?”

My mouth hangs wide. Carson has caused plenty of emotional damage to me over the past couple of years, but thankfully he never laid a hand on me. However, I think the emotional damage did far more harm than any fist could ever do.

“No, I⁠—”

“That’s it! I’m booking a flight and I’m pummeling that poor excuse for a man to the point where not even his little fancy lawyer buddies will be able to recognize him!” Dad seethes.

“Tripp,” Mom says sternly, laying a tentative palm on his arm. “Henley said ‘No.’ Perhaps we should hear how this all happened before we make threats to ‘off’ your daughter’s boyfri⁠—”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I shout, interrupting my mom.