Chapter 7 Emma
EMMA
It’s him.
Standing across the room with a beer in his hand and his eyes locked on mine like I’m the only person in this entire packed bar.
Bones.
My heart does something stupid in my chest—a skip, a stutter, a complete betrayal of the calm, collected facade I’ve been trying to maintain since I made the decision to come back to Stoneheart.
The smell of the place fills my lungs. The leather, the beer, something smoky from the kitchen. My shoulders drop without permission. Like my body remembers something I’d almost forgotten.
Six months. It’s been six months since I’ve seen him in person, and somehow I’d convinced myself the distance would have dulled the intensity. That the physical space between New York and here would have created emotional space too.
I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
Because looking at him now, with his dark hair slightly longer than it was, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his leather cut sitting on broader shoulders—has he gotten bigger?
Jesus, he’s gotten bigger—every lie I told myself crumbles.
Every affirmation I uttered to convince myself I’m OK on my own? Gone.
God, I’ve missed him.
I’ve missed him so much it physically hurts.
Six months of pretending I’m fine. Six months of going through the motions—rehearsals, performances, teaching classes, living my routine-based New York life. Six months of lying in bed at night and wishing he was next to me.
Because the truth is, my life since going back to New York has felt . . . hollow. Like I’m performing even when I’m not on stage. Going through choreography I’ve perfected but feeling nothing. Teaching students who look at me with admiration while I feel like a fraud.
And every night when I try to fall asleep, all I can do is touch the empty space beside me, knowing in my heart that I left part of myself in that motel room in North Carolina. With him.
I’ve been trying to function without that missing piece ever since.
Bones sets his beer down on a nearby table, never breaking eye contact. He takes a step toward me, then another, and I see the exact moment he decides to cross the room. See the determination in his eyes, the slight hitch in his breath even from this distance.
I take a step forward too, because fuck it, we’re here now and I’d be lying if I said he isn’t the reason I’m here—
“YOU MADE IT!”
Kya barrels into me like a blonde tornado, wrapping her arms around me in a hug so tight I lose my breath. I hug her back automatically, but my eyes are still tracking Bones over her shoulder.
He’s stopped. Standing there in the middle of the room, watching us. Waiting.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here!
” Kya pulls back, hands on my shoulders, grinning like I’ve just given her the best present ever.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming! How long are you staying?
Where are you staying? Please tell me you’re staying at your dad’s or the club and not some shitty motel—”
“Kya, breathe,” I say, laughing despite my distraction.
“STONE! LEE! EMMA’S HERE!”
Suddenly I’m surrounded. Lee’s pulling me into a hug that lifts me off my feet. Maggie’s there, then Ginger, and what feels like half the club. Everyone’s talking at once, asking questions, welcoming me back, telling me how great I look.
I lose sight of Bones completely.
“When did you get in?” Lee asks, still holding me at arm’s length like he needs to confirm I’m real.
“Just now. Drove straight through.”
“You should have called,” Dad says, appearing through the crowd. His voice is gruff, but his eyes are soft when they land on me. “I would’ve picked you up from the airport.”
“I didn’t fly, Dad. I . . . I drove from New York.” I still can’t make myself even think about getting on a plane.
Dad’s brow furrows. “You drove? All that way? By yourself?”
“I took plenty of breaks. And I even stopped to sleep.” In that same motel. Same room, even—I asked for it specifically, like some kind of masochist. Spent the whole night waiting for a knock that never came.
And when I finally accepted he wasn’t going to show up, I got drunk. Really drunk. Tequila-and-bad-decisions drunk.
Then I tried to cut the tracker out with a butter knife.
I didn’t get far. Just a bloody nick and a moment of clarity when I caught myself in the bathroom mirror—wild-eyed, bleeding, sawing at my own skin to sever a connection I couldn’t quit.
That’s when I knew I had to come back regardless. Not because I’d succeeded in cutting him out. Because I’d failed. Because I couldn’t do it. Because some part of me didn’t want to.
The bandage pulls under my shirt every time I move. A reminder of just how gone I am for this man.
“You stayed at a seedy highway motel alone?” Lee’s voice is tinged with disbelief.
I nod, scanning the crowd again, trying to catch a glimpse of Bones. Where did he go?
“You should have called one of us,” Lee continues. “We would have driven up to get you.”
“I needed the time to think,” I say, which is partially true. The fifteen-hour drive gave me plenty of time to second-guess my decision, to nearly turn around at least three times, to practice what I would say when I saw Bones again.
All of which flew out of my head the moment our eyes met across the bar.
“Well, you’re here now,” Dad says, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. It’s his version of affection—a gesture that says I’m glad you’re back without actually having to say the words.
I scan the crowd again, still looking for Bones, but he’s disappeared. My chest tightens with disappointment.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Kya says, linking her arm through mine. “The timing couldn’t be better. First night of the grand reopening!”
“It looks amazing,” I tell her, taking in the renovated space. “Really, Kya. It’s incredible what you’ve done with it.”
“I had help.” Her eyes sparkle. “A lot of help, actually. The whole club pitched in. Come on, let me show you what we’ve done with the place.”
I let myself be pulled along, trying not to be obvious about looking for Bones as she leads me from one area of the bar to another. The patio is incredible—string lights crisscrossing overhead, comfortable seating, a small fire pit that’s already drawing a crowd despite the warm night.
“Lee built that,” Kya says, gesturing to the stone fire pit. “He’s been teaching himself masonry. Can you believe it?”
“No,” I say honestly, trying to picture my brother carefully arranging stones. “I really can’t.”
“He’s good with his hands,” she says with a wink that makes me groan.
“Gross. That’s my brother.”
“Your very talented brother.” She laughs, pulling me back inside. “Come on, I need to introduce you to Miguel’s wife. She’s been dying to meet the famous Emma.”
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions, hugs, and catching up.
I get swept into the rhythm of the party, drink in hand, smiling and laughing even as my eyes constantly scan the room for a glimpse of him.
People keep pulling me into conversations, asking about New York, about dancing, about when I’m performing next.
“Taking some time off,” I say, the lie rolling smooth because I don’t know that I’ll ever perform again—or if I even want to.
I answer on autopilot, my attention split between maintaining the fiction of my perfect New York life and wondering where the hell Bones disappeared to.
“You should see her in Swan Lake,” Kya tells a group of women I vaguely recognize from high school. “She literally transforms on stage.”
The words scrape against something raw. Swan Lake. The role I fought for. The role I may never dance again.
“It’s not that impressive,” I say, and my voice comes out flat, distant.
“Bullshit,” Lee chimes in. “My sister’s the best dancer in New York.”
Was, I think. Was the best.
“In the company,” I correct out loud. “Not the whole city.”
“Whatever. You’re amazing and you know it.” Lee’s chest puffs with pride, and despite my distraction, I feel a rush of affection for my brother. Even though we’ve been separated by time and distance, we’ll always be there to hype each other up.
I’m about to say something else when I notice a gap in the crowd, a momentary parting of bodies that gives me a clear view of . . . no one. My heart sinks. Did he leave?
“I need a drink,” I announce, cutting through whatever Kya was saying mid-sentence. “I’ll be right back.”
Before anyone can respond, I’m already slipping away toward the bar. I feel slightly guilty for the abrupt exit, but I’ve been smiling and socializing for an hour while the whole time my skin has been buzzing with the need to find him.
The bar is three deep with people, but I manage to squeeze through to an opening. I order a whiskey neat—something I never drink in New York, where I’m all about clean eating and hydration—and drum my fingers on the bar top while I wait.
“You doin’ OK, kid?” My dad appears at my side, startling me. He studies my face with a mixture of concern and what I’m pretty sure is caution.
“I’m fine,” I say, accepting my whiskey from the bartender. “Just needed a minute.”
Dad nods, his eyes searching mine. “You look tired.”
“I am,” I admit. “Travel will do that to you.”
“Wanna take that drink outside? It’s quieter.”