Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I sleep for most of the flight.
My body must’ve been starving, though, because I wake up every time the flight attendants roll by with food. I know airplane meals have a bad rep, but I actually enjoy them.
“Chicken or pasta?” the flight attendant asked, stopping beside my row.
I inhaled my tiny portion of white rice, vegetables, and chicken like I hadn’t eaten in days, then went right back to sleep.
Before I know it, we’re on the ground again, cruising along the tarmac toward our gate. The sun is shining, not a single cloud in the sky. You’d think I’d be eager—like everyone else—to bolt off this plane after twelve hours in recycled air.
But all I want to do is to stay in my seat. Maybe even take the next flight back.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see my family, to hug Emma. But I have this pit in my stomach that grows exponentially the farther I get from him.
I convince myself it’s about leaving things unresolved. Except deep inside I know it’s simpler than that.
I just miss him.
Baggage claim takes forever. I get a flash of hope when one of my suitcases pops out first—only for the second one to be the last bag on the belt.
It’s not exactly shocking to find out that in the time that I’ve been flying, my number has somehow been leaked. When I turn my phone on, I’m spammed with a never-ending list of messages and missed calls. I guess it wasn’t enough to nuke my socials—now I’ve got to change my number, too.
I spot Emma the second the sliding doors open.
She’s waving a giant white cardboard sign over her head that reads:
WELCOME BACK FROM REHAB, JULIA!
––in bold, bubbly letters.
My eyes widen. I start shaking my head, praying she puts it away. She grins even more. The closer I get, the happier she gets—until she’s jumping up and down.
It’s hard to dwell on what I’ve left behind when someone like her waiting for me on the other side.
“You look like hell,” she teases, pulling me into a hug.
I’d forgotten how good she smells. Vanilla custard and sea salt.
“It’s nice to see you too,” I reply when she finally lets go.
She looks exactly the same.
Her light-brown hair is in two loose braids, each one resting on her shoulders. A few strands escape to frame her face. She’s wearing her favorite short overalls, a white t-shirt, and her classic SK8-Hi Vans—which look a little more worn than before.
Nothing has changed here.
And yet, everything feels different.
“I can’t believe you’re home,” she whispers, taking my face in her hands, like she’s trying to convince herself I’m real. “All here.”
I smile softly. “Almost all.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. Just grabs my suitcases and leads the way outside, where she’s double parked.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
The wounds are too fresh. Saying the words out loud would make it all real, and I’m not ready for that yet. Thankfully, she doesn’t push.
The drive to my apartment is no more than thirty minutes. I try to reconnect with the city I left behind, but everything feels… off.
The sun is too bright.
The cars are too loud.
The air smells like gasoline and melting pavement.
I catch Emma sneaking glances at me.
I don’t want to ruin this reunion. She doesn’t deserve this version of me after such a long time.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m probably shitty company right now,” I admit. “It’s been intense. Not just him. All of it. I didn’t think it’d be this hard to come back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she answers. And she’s not just brushing it off. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to build a life somewhere for a while, only to leave it behind.”
“Yeah. It’s a lot to process, that’s all. It kind of seems like it was all a very vivid dream.”
“You lived my dream, I’ll tell you that much,” she laughs.
It was dreamy. While it lasted.
“I don’t know when. I might need some time. But when I’m ready to talk about it, you’ll be the one I call.”
“That’s all I could ever ask,” she says, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Promise me you won’t forget the juicy details.”
Emma’s been housesitting while I was gone, so while I unload the suitcases, she runs inside to unlock the door.
I close my eyes and tilt my head up toward the sun, hoping some vitamin D will give me a boost.
She holds the door open as I drag my luggage into the hallway. I drop them just past the threshold. Too tired to care.
My small cream-colored home is exactly as I left it.
The pillows on the couch still fluffed. The stack of books on the coffee table untouched.
All my half-used mango and lemon candles still strategically placed around the space.
My room, preserved. The clothes that didn’t make it to London still lying on the bed.
There’s only one major change.
Something that stretches out across every room.
“You had one job,” I say.
She’s covering her smile with her hands, but I can hear her giggle.
“How,” I groan, “did you manage to kill all of my plants?”
“I’m sorry! I don’t know how it happened,” Emma laughs openly now. “It started with the one in the kitchen. But soon enough, they all gave up. I was giving them water and nothing. I even downloaded that app that tells you what’s wrong with them.”
She’s not lying—I’ve heard about it. I’ve just never needed my phone to keep plants alive.
“And?” I ask, already bracing. “What was the official cause of death?”
The grin on her face says it all.
“I gave them too much water,” Emma says.
“You gave them too much water,” I say at the same time.
We dissolve into full-on laughter.
It’s just so Emma—killing people, or plants, with kindness.
I collapse into my reading chair while she flops onto the floor in front of me.
“I bought sandwich stuff before picking you up,” she says, gesturing toward the kitchen. “In case you got hungry. I know you’ll probably be out cold until tomorrow, but I thought maybe we could reignite Taco Tuesday? Drinks and everything.”
She must sense my hesitation right away because she doesn’t give me a chance to speak before she barrels on.
“You know I’m not going to push you to talk about it, right?” I nod. “But you’re basically my sister, and I hate seeing you like this. Plus, I’ve missed you.”
I have the rest of the week off. No obligations other than visiting my family and replacing a jungle’s worth of plants. I owe her at least this much.
“Sure. As long as you organize it this time. I’m way out of the Taco Truck loop,” I tell her. She starts clapping excitedly. “I have one more condition.”
“Anything,” she hurries, just to pause right after. “Wait—what is it?”
“You tell me everything I missed the last few months. Start to finish. Bad dates included.”
I realize as I say it that we’d been so focused on Harrison we put aside everything that didn’t revolve around him—including Emma’s life. If there’s one thing I want to get back, it’s being the kind of friend that knows even the smallest detail.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
We end up having dinner at a new taco truck that just secured a spot at Venice Beach. It’s run by a Mexican brother-sister duo—first-generation Americans who are determined to keep their heritage alive. I know this because Emma is part best friend, part detective.
She’s in charge of ordering tonight, so while she scans the menu with a level of seriousness usually reserved for life decisions, I drift over to the promenade.
The breeze is light, but the mix of humidity and warmth makes my hands sticky.
Before I left, one of our favorite pastimes was coming down to the beach.
I’d bring a foldable chair, a cooler, and a good book.
Emma would show up with three kinds of sunscreen, the sun umbrella, and her best bikini.
While I read, she’d scope out her next surfer crush.
Now, even the ocean smells different. Saltier. Like my body has forgotten how to belong here.
“Have you been coming here on weekends?” I ask, wiping a streak of hot sauce from my chin.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Felt weird doing it without you. Same with this.”
She takes a massive bite of her taco, eating almost half of it at once.
“How about we plan for this weekend?” I offer. “Right after we go get myself some new plants.”
Emma polishes off dinner at her usual warp speed, but we’re in no rush. We relocate to an empty bench along the promenade, the kind where the ocean is just background noise to good conversation.
She fills me in on everything: the drama at her office (one of the girls, Lin, started hooking up with their group-appointed nemesis, Paul), her latest but non-serious conquest, Sean, and a brief but passionate rant about her favorite sushi place.
We’re still laughing when we head to the bar. It’s only been open for a couple of weeks, but it’s already a big hit. I get why the minute we step inside.
It looks like a greenhouse crossed with a rooftop lounge. Glass ceilings reveal a clear starry sky. Greenery climbs the walls, set against glowing blue backlights.
It’s loud—like any place this packed—but not overwhelming. It’d be perfect… if not for the insane wait to get a drink.
Emma and I are facing each other by the bar. She’s scrolling her phone, committed to tracking down the name of some new taco truck she heard about online while we wait for our turn. When she looks up, her gaze shifts past me, and her expression turns rigid.
“Brace for impact,” she whispers.
I spin around, adrenaline flaring.
“I thought that was you.” His voice is so unpleasant—like nails scratching a blackboard or the beeping of a seatbelt alarm. “Didn’t expect to see you back in L.A. so soon. What a wonderful surprise.”
I plaster on the fakest smile in the entire continental U.S.
“Walk away, Noah.”
Emma grips my arm. I can’t tell if it’s support or self-preservation in case I jump at him.
“Where’s the actor boy? I heard he ran back to his ex,” Noah smirks, clearly fishing. “Maybe you should take a page from his book. Let me get you a drink.”
“Noah,” I say, slowly and clearly, “let me put this in a way you can understand. I wouldn’t take a drink from you if it was the last thing left and I’d been wandering a desert for days.”
He should be offended. But in true Noah fashion, his ego shrugs it off. Without taking the hint, he gives us his most charming smile—the one that lets you know it’s time to run for the hills.
“It looks like you’ve been waiting a while. Emma’s parched,” he points out. “I know one of the waitresses. I can get us served.”
Of course he does.
Emma’s about to unleash some sort of fiery retort when her phone lights up. We both squint at the incoming call.
“Instagram?” I ask.
She frowns. No caller photo. No followers. No following. Just a blank account.
Weird.
She hangs up and opens the profile.
“Probably spam—” she’s interrupted again.
This time, she puts it on speaker out of sheer curiosity.
“Is Julia there with you?”
The voice is strained and frustrated. Familiar.
“Harrison?” I say, barely above a whisper, though I already know.
Emma nods slowly.
“Your lover boy?” Noah cuts in, nosy as ever.
I shove him back, take the phone and Emma’s hand, and drag us both outside.
“Who was that?” Harrison spits. When I don’t answer right away, he speaks again. “Julia. Was that Noah?”
I can feel the tension coming off the line. You could cut it with a butter knife.
I take the phone off speaker and lift it to my ear.
“Not your business,” I say, trying to sound firm. But the edge in my voice is soft enough to let him know I’m rattled.
“Where’s your phone?”
“In my purse.”
He pauses. The beat stretches.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
And I’ve been trying to forget you, I don’t say.
“I got a new number.”
Another pause. The call is still active, but the silence is bruising. I finally check the screen to see if he’s hung up.
“Hello?” I prompt.
He exhales sharply, dragging it out.
“Send me your number, Julia.”
It’s not a plea. It’s not a demand. It lands somewhere in between—quiet, but firm. He hangs up right after.
“What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Emma shrugs. “It must be important if he went to these lengths to reach you, right? You don’t even have to text back.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is this the protective best friend looking out for me talking, or the one still planning my wedding?”
She gives me a cheeky smile.
“Can’t I be both? If he says something rude, I’ll make sure he can never ever reach you again. I’ll fly all the way there myself just to give him a piece of this,” she says, lifting her right fist, “and this.”
With both hands curled up in the air, she’s never looked less threatening.
“Alright, alright, calm down. Why don’t you take that pose and go get us a drink?” I say, smiling despite myself. “I’ll deal with him.”
I type in my new number and send it to the same account that just called.
A message comes through almost instantly.
It’s long. So long, I have to scroll to make it to the beginning.
I read it, every word. Slowly. Twice.
Dear Julia,
I guess this will have to be my letter to you.
Imagine my despair, my frustration, after landing back in London and rushing straight to your apartment, only to find a cleaning crew instead of the woman I love.
Late—again.
I apologize in advance if this comes off too harsh, but I’m not going to write us off that easily. I’m not okay with that. In fact, I disagree with almost everything you said in your letter.
I know I fucked up. That part’s not up for debate. Truth is I was scared. I was scared that you would run. Scared that you’d give up on us. They say everything happens for a reason, and you kicking me out made me realize I was going about it all wrong.
There are so many things I want to tell you, but everything in due time. Not here.
For now, just know this: I’m losing my mind without you.
You’re in every hour of my day. I wake up thinking about you.
I go to sleep wishing I was next to you.
You’ve been hardwired into my brain since the day I held you for the first time.
Your touch, your smell, your laugh—all have turned into needs.
You probably don’t believe me. I imagine you’re currently running all these scenarios over in your head, wondering why I’m fighting for something when we’re already miles away. And you’re right to wonder. I don’t expect blind faith. I’m almost there.
I don’t know how our story ends—but I know it’s not like this.
Yours, always.
Josh.
He loves me?
It can’t be. He’s right about one thing—I don’t want to believe him. It’s easier not to.
The cursor blinks in the reply box.
I don’t know how to put into words everything that I’m feeling—like, why did he wait until I was across the ocean to tell me?
I lock my phone and drop it back in my purse, the message still unanswered.