Chapter 1 #3
From the kitchen, Hank chuckled softly, like this was just another normal evening in their strange, perfect little world.
For the first time since wheels-up, the static in Brawler’s head eased without effort, replaced with warmth.
Emily zipped the last pouch on her weatherproof backpack, fingers moving on instinct while her mind drifted. The apartment was dim, the early-morning sky laying a pale gray wash over the blinds.
A news anchor’s clipped voice spilled from the TV. Static crackled around a reporter describing a downed Marine chopper somewhere in South America. Details were vague. Names not released. Her breath hitched for half a second, then she pushed the sound away. Not her business. Not her world.
The front door opened.
She turned. Stilled.
Ben Mercer stood in the entryway, pausing like he hadn’t expected her to be awake.
His button-up was wrinkled, collar skewed, tie hanging loose.
His dark hair looked like it had been raked through by impatient hands.
For one jarring moment, Emily thought he’d gone to work hours ago, not even bothering to say goodbye.
“I thought you’d still be asleep,” he said.
Emily studied him, a low hum starting in her chest. Typical Ben. Not listening. Not paying attention. “Why would I be asleep? I’ve got a plane to catch. I told you the details two weeks ago.” He didn’t respond, like her words barely registered. “You’re just getting home?”
He arched a brow. “You’re just noticing?”
The air tightened, pulling between them like a taut wire. Emily straightened. “I’ve got a life, Ben. I don’t need to keep track of you.”
He stepped into the living room, scoffing. “Right. Message received. Loud and clear.”
She let the pack slowly slide from her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve gotten a new job.”
Her hand froze mid-reach for her water bottle. “Where?”
“London.”
The word hit harder than she expected. Relief tangled up with a sharp twist.
“I thought we were going to California together,” she said, like that was the appropriate response.
He moved into the kitchen, loosening his tie. The coffee machine beeped and hissed as he started it, the sound filling the silence like static before a storm. “That was supposed to be after I passed the bar. Six months ago, Em.”
“I just need six more months.”
“You said that six months ago.” He faced her fully now, leaning against the counter, arms folded. “Are you dragging your feet on this dissertation for a reason you won’t talk about?” His eyes stayed on hers. “Not that you tell me a goddamn thing.”
Her pulse jumped. She didn’t answer because, yes, finishing meant stepping into the future he’d mapped out for them.
California. Marriage. Roots sunk so deep she couldn’t run if it went bad.
The project…it wasn’t just research. Every page carried her sister’s shadow.
Closing it would feel like closing her. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she never would be.
“I just need more research,” she said, keeping her voice even.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, that old tell of his temper fraying, and turned back to pour creamer into his coffee.
“Well, you go back to Bolivia?—”
“Ecuador,” she snapped, the correction anchored in months of maps, climate models, and jaguar routes.
He waved a hand. “Whatever.”
He walked past her toward the bathroom, and that’s when she caught the faint, cloying sweetness of perfume. Not hers. Expensive. Chanel. The scent hit her first, twisting her gut.
“What’s her name?”
Ben froze mid-step.
She smiled, tight and cold. “Come on, Ben. Who?”
His exhale was rough. “Vanessa.”
The name landed like a slap.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered. “The bitch who tries to poach all your clients?”
“At least she sees me,” he said, peeling off his shirt.
“When she says she’ll show up, she does.
She listens. She opens up. She’s there.” He stepped closer, voice sharpening.
“You say you’ve got a life, but it’s just an unfinished dissertation, a locked-up heart, and a compulsion to run from anything real.
We had a future, Em. I believed in that.
But I’m done. I’m going to London. When you get home, this apartment will be empty. ”
He shut the bathroom door.
She stood there in the hall, unmoving. Water hit tile a moment later, a steady hiss that couldn’t wash away the weight in her chest.
She should feel something—sadness, betrayal—but all she felt was exhaustion.
Relationships were supposed to feel like a partnership.
This one had become a courtroom. Ben argued, and she defended.
Somehow, she always lost. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed in the middle of an argument.
Or the last time a fight had left her heart pounding for any reason other than anger.
She turned away, walked back into the living room, and grabbed her backpack. One strap, then the next. Phone. Keys. Passport.
She opened the door, stepped out into the morning haze, thinking this whole relationship had been a waste of her time.
Why did she always pick the wrong men? She and Ben never meshed, but she just hung on like…
she deserved that. Like good things weren’t meant for her.
They should have said goodbye a long time ago.
Twenty-five minutes later, Emily slid into a seat by the window at the gate, backpack tucked beneath her chair, coffee cooling between her palms. The terminal buzzed with low conversations, rolling luggage, and the distant clatter of a food cart.
Her phone buzzed, and when she saw the name, her shoulders eased.
“Aunt Mo,” she said, smiling into the phone.
“Just wanted to hear your voice before you disappear into the jungle,” Moira replied, her tone warm and unhurried. “You still have that ridiculous sun hat I bought you?”
“It’s Ecuador, not the Sahara,” Emily teased. “I have what’s called a Boonie hat.”
Moira chuckled, that husky, throaty laugh that always made Emily feel like she was in on some private joke.
Emily could picture her perfectly in her mind, dark hair streaked with silver, loose at her shoulders, a linen shirt smudged from her garden, and those dark, thoughtful eyes that always seemed to notice everything .
Summers with Moira had been the only time Emily felt she could breathe, bare feet on warm grass, the smell of tomatoes ripening on the vine, the two of them swaying in the porch hammock while cicadas hummed.
Moira had always been there when Emily needed to get away from home, and she never asked for reasons. She just made space.
“Promise me something,” Moira said. “Take pictures that aren’t for work. Remember what it feels like to just…be.”
Emily laughed, but it caught a little in her throat. “You know I’m not going down there to breathe. I’ve got data to collect, cameras to check?—”
“Exactly,” Moira cut in gently. “You’ve been collecting data your whole life, Em. Maybe it’s time to start collecting moments you actually want to keep.”
Emily shifted in her seat. “Ben and I…we’re not together anymore.”
A soft sigh came through the line. “He was never right for you. I didn’t say anything because…well, you had to see it for yourself. But it’s hard to spot the right man when you’ve got blinders on.”
“Blinders, huh?” Emily said, attempting a dry laugh.
“Mhm. You’ve been looking for someone who fits where you think you belong, not where you do belong.”
Emily turned to look out the glass at the tarmac. The heaviness in her chest was familiar. Moira didn’t press, but her silences always felt like open doors.
“Call me when you land,” Moira said softly. “Remember, you don’t have to be so busy proving yourself to be worth loving.”
Emily bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t answer that. Instead, she promised, “I’ll call,” and ended the call before Moira could peel back any more layers.