2. Alex Sebring
Chapter 2
Alex Sebring
The house feels hollow without her. Too still. Too quiet. Three months of waking up to her beside me, of her laughter echoing through these rooms, of her presence filling every space. And now there’s just silence. Just absence. Just me.
I went through the motions today—woke up, showered, made coffee. But everything felt off. The sheets still smell like her, but she’s not here to tangle herself up in them. Her coffee mug sits beside mine in the cabinet, but she’s not here to fill it. My playlist shuffles to the songs she loves, and instead of catching her singing under her breath in my kitchen, I just stand there, staring at the space where she should be.
Her name flashes on my phone, and a heavy ache settles somewhere behind my sternum—but in the best way. I press accept, and the second her face fills the screen, the world tilts back into place.
God, she’s beautiful.
Soft lighting glows behind her, casting a halo around her hair. And one word comes to mind: mine.
“Hey, favorite. How’s my American Beauty?”
Her lips curve into a lazy smile. “ American Beauty ? That’s a new one.”
“It’s fitting.”
She hums, considering. “I’ll allow it.”
I smirk, settling deeper into the couch. “Jet lag kicking your ass yet?”
“You have no idea. It’s like my body doesn’t know what time zone it’s in.”
“You slept on the plane, yeah?”
A dry laugh. “Barely. The guy sitting next to me snored so loud the entire cabin vibrated. I thought about suffocating him with my travel pillow. But I figured murder would only delay dinner.”
“Sounds like the Magnolia I know.”
She grins, shrugging. “Yeah, well. You do know me pretty well.”
I chuckle, but the sound fades as I take her in. The way her shoulders relax just seeing me. The way my body eases at the sight of her. Three months together, and now we’re reduced to this . A phone screen. A whole damn ocean between us.
I hate it.
She sighs, shifting until her cheek rests against her pillow. “Being home is weird.”
“Yeah?”
“Everything is familiar but strange. Like I know this is my space, but after three months away, it almost doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. “I get it. My house doesn’t feel the same without you in it.”
“It was surprising to come back to that. But what wasn’t a surprise? Violet putting on a full-blown welcome-home spectacle at the airport.”
I laugh. “Sounds about right from what you’ve told me about her.”
“Oh, but wait for it. You haven’t heard the best part yet. She was waiting for me at baggage claim wearing a giant inflatable dinosaur costume, holding a sign that said, and I quote, ‘Customs check: declare your regrets and bad decisions here.’”
Regrets. Bad decisions. It’s a joke, but the words stick.
I wonder if she has any about me. Or about us.
Does she second-guess those nights tangled up in my sheets or the way she let herself soften in my arms or the way we blurred the line between casual and something else?
I wonder if she regrets walking away.
“She had the whole airport staring at us, and people were honking as we walked to the car. The whole thing was just so Violet.”
“Did she ask about us?”
She smirks. “Of course. She grilled me about you—about us—the entire drive home. Even took me to my favorite cafe to continue the interrogation.”
“Already judging me from afar?”
“Absolutely. She has to make sure you’re staying in line.”
“Tell her I’m on my best behavior.”
Magnolia presses her lips together, the amusement still there. “She’s convinced you are because she assumes you’re well-trained by now.”
“ Well-trained. ” I shake my head, grinning. “Your best mate sounds exhausting.”
“Violet can be a lot.”
I watch her for a second, cataloging the exhaustion in her eyes. The slight tension in her jaw. “Are you sleeping okay?”
She exhales, rolling onto her back, the phone tilting with her. “No. The bed is too big without you in it.”
My throat tightens. “Tell me about it.”
She turns on her side, studying me. “How about you?”
A humorless chuckle escapes me.“The bed doesn’t feel right. I keep reaching for you in the middle of the night, only to find that you’re not there. And the sheets… I know I have to change them, but I don’t think I can. They still smell like you. Like vanilla and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.”
Her lips part, but she says nothing. She doesn’t have to.
“The house is too damn quiet, lovie. I miss your voice filling up the space. Miss your weird music blasting while you do your makeup. Miss hearing you hum off-key when you think I’m not paying attention.”
She exhales sharply, blinking fast, but not fast enough. I see it—the way her lashes dampen, the way she tilts her head as if she can somehow will the tears away.
My heart aches. “I miss the sound of your laughter bouncing off these walls.”
She swallows, her fingers toying with the necklace I gave her. “Alex––”
“I can’t help it, favorite. Nothing has been right since you left.”
“I know.”
A heavy quiet settles between us, thick with everything we’re not saying. The weight of distance. The ache of something unfinished.
My chest tightens, the sting of tears pushing up hard and fast. I have to change the subject—fast—or I’m going to break down right here on the phone with her.
I clear my throat and force a lighter tone. “Did Robin and Charlene check on you?”
She scoffs, glancing away. “I texted Robin to let her know I was back. She gave my message a thumbs-up but still hasn’t actually responded.”
Not surprising. It just cements what I already knew about her.
Her eyes flick back to mine, the frustration softening. “Violet, on the other hand, has texted me no less than twenty times today.”
Of course she has.
Violet is relentless, protective, there —all the things Magnolia’s family should be but isn’t. I’ve never met her, but I know enough to be grateful for her. Because when Magnolia walked into that empty apartment, when the stillness hit her harder than she’d admit, it wasn’t her mother checking in. It wasn’t her grandmother making sure she was okay.
It was Violet. Always Violet.
And as much as I wish I were the one there for her, I can’t be.
I grip my phone tighter, wishing I could reach through the screen. “Fuck, I wish I could hold you.”
Her face softens, her words barely above a whisper. “I know. Being away from each other is awful, isn’t it?”
“Dreadful.”
A silence lingers, stretching across miles and time zones, thick with the weight of absence. Neither of us says it outright, but we feel it. The wrongness of this. We’re looking at each other through pixels and static, but it’s not enough. It never will be.
Magnolia exhales, shifting against her pillow. “Tell me about your day.”
“Tinā and my sisters came by this morning. They made me breakfast. Leilani and Sefina hovered like I was some kind of tragic figure in a romance novel.”
Her laughter is loud and unfiltered. “To be fair, that is the vibe you’re giving off right now.”
I groan. “Glad you’re enjoying my misery.”
“Make no mistake. I’m sharing in the misery.”
“I know, babe.”
She grins, but it softens as she studies me. “Your family loves you so much. They want you to feel better, and that makes me happy––to know that someone is taking care of you.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s one thing I can always count on with my family.”
Speaking of things that make us happy… I reach to the side, fingers grazing the worn leather journal beside me, lifting it just enough for her to see.
Her gaze flickers, and I catch the moment she notices—the subtle shift in her expression, the way her breath hitches ever so slightly.
I glance down at the journal she left for me. The one I’ve barely been able to bring myself to open.
“My journal.”
I nod, thumbing the edge of the leather. “I know you probably expected me to have read it cover to cover by now, but I want to take my time with it. I’m a slow reader, and I plan to savor it one page at a time.”
She doesn’t speak right away. Just blinks down at the journal, like she’s fighting something she doesn’t know how to say.
“I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t trust you with all of me.”
The force of her words wrecks me in the quietest way.
“It means everything that you trusted me with this.” My fingers tighten around the worn edges, grounding myself in what it represents. “I know what this is, Magnolia. I know what it means. You’ve given me a part of yourself, and I don’t take that lightly.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, blinking once, twice. And her mouth curves into something small but real. “I don’t expect you to fly through it.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to take my time with every word.”
“So basically, you’re telling me that you’ll savor my journal like an aged whiskey?”
A slow grin tugs at my lips. “I think that’s fair to say.”
Magnolia shifts, tilting the phone slightly as she settles against her pillows. The glow of her bedside lamp casts a soft halo around her like an angel.
My angel.
She exhales, fingers drifting to the pendent around her neck, toying with it. “I haven’t taken it off. I see it in the mirror, and it makes me think of you.”
A knot tightens low in my gut. “Good. That’s the point.”
She runs her fingers along the chain again. “It’s weird, you know?” She hesitates, then sighs. “Being apart after spending every single day together. I mean, I knew it would be hard, but––” She trails off, shaking her head. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”
Neither did I. “I know what you mean.”
“I keep noticing little things. Like, I got in my car earlier, and one of your favorite songs was playing on the radio. I just sat there for a second, staring at the display screen like an idiot.”
“Which song?”
“Guess.”
It can only be one of two genres. “Country or R&B?”
“Country.”
I tilt my head, considering. “Something by Chris Stapleton?”
She shakes her head. “Guess again.”
“Luke Combs?”
“Nope.” A mischievous smile plays at her mouth as she leans in slightly, like she’s letting me in on a secret. “I’ll give you a clue. We danced to it one night at your house. Out on the back patio—right after we finished dinner.”
Oh yeah. That one.
She tilts her head, watching me through the screen. “Don’t remember? Need to peek in my journal and see what I wrote about it?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I remember, favorite. It was ‘Dance with You’ by Brett Young.”
Her expression softens. “You do remember.”
I meet her gaze, steady. “Of course I remember. How could I ever forget?”
She watches me for a moment, then shifts, curling deeper into her blankets. “I’ve been wearing your hoodie since I got home.”
A slow, heavy ache blooms in my chest. “You have?”
Her smile is small, almost vulnerable. “Yeah.”
She traces the fabric with slow, absent strokes and lifts it to her nose, closing her eyes for half a second as she breathes it in. “I sprayed it with your cologne before I left. It still smells like you.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “I like the idea of you pulling it on and still smelling me.”
Her breath catches slightly, her fingers tightening around the hoodie. “I don’t think I can bring myself to wash it.”
A silence falls between us, not heavy, but full.
I shift, forcing a smile, doing my best to stay steady for her. Because that’s what she needs. But underneath, the worry gnaws at me. As much as I believe in us, some small, hollow place inside me wonders what’s going to happen to our relationship. How long before the distance starts pulling at the seams we’ve barely stitched together?
The fear creeps up before I can stop it. The fear of distance. Of loneliness sneaking back in through cracks we worked so hard to seal shut.
And then, like she can hear the thought scraping through my chest, she looks up.
“Are we going to be okay?” she asks.
I meet her gaze without flinching. Steady. Certain.
“Of course we are.”
For the first time tonight, she smiles. Truly smiles. “We haven’t talked about when we’ll see each other again.”
“Soon, babe.”
“Soon isn’t a date, Sebring.”
“Then tell me when I can come.” All she has to do is say the word.
“I used all my vacation time for the trip to Samoa, so I can’t take off again for a while.” The disappointment in her voice hits hard.
Not seeing her every day already feels unnatural. Knowing there’s no set date for when I’ll hold her again? It’s brutal.
She lifts my sweatshirt to her nose again, breathing in like she’s trying to hold on to something slipping through her fingers. Her gaze flicks between the screen and some far-off place in her mind. “I hate this part. I wish we had a date set. Something to count down to.”
So do I. The uncertainty of when I’ll see her again is the worst part, gnawing at the edges of my calm. “I’ll look at my work calendar, and we’ll plan something. We’ll figure it out.”
Her face crumples for half a second—barely there, but enough to wreck me. Like my words found the rawest, softest part of her and pressed right against it.
“Okay,” she says, her voice catching on the word. She nods, blinking fast like she’s trying to stay strong for both of us.
Her lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly. I see it—the way my words settle inside her. The way they stitch something back together. The way they make her feel this–– feel me ––even from thousands of miles away.
“You and me,” she says.
“You and me,” I parrot.
A beat passes. Then another. And even though I can’t touch her, I swear I feel her.
We’re in this together. We’re solid. And that’s all that matters.
The conversation slows, settling into something quieter, heavier. Neither of us wants to say it, but it’s late for her. And she’s exhausted. I see it in her slow blinks, in the way her voice softens into something barely there.
“You’re exhausted, babe.” She frowns, like she wants to argue, but I don’t let her. “I don’t want to let you go, but you need your rest.”
She sighs, the sound soft and reluctant. “Yeah. I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow.”
I hate the reminder. That she’s slipping back into her old life. That tomorrow will be the start of a new normal—one where I’m not beside her.
I shift onto my side, my voice quieter now. “Get some sleep.”
She gives me a sleepy, heart-tugging smile. “Goodnight, big guy. I love you.”
“I love you too, favorite. Sweet dreams.”
Her lips curve, soft and tired. “Goodnight, big guy. I love you.”
I smile even though the sun’s high overhead on my side of the world, hot against the windows.
“I love you too, favorite. Sleep sweet.”
A whisper of breath. A blink. Then—darkness.
She’s ending her night, and I’m barely halfway through my day. Time for meetings and obligations and pretending I’m fine. But part of me is there with her across oceans and time zones.