Chapter 12
The lane was dark, the only light coming from the occasional farmhouse window and the pale wash of the moon between clouds.
Natalie walked fast, her boots scuffing against the gravel, the sound sharp in the quiet.
She didn’t want to think about what she’d just seen—Trish’s hand on Emma’s, the way Emma had leaned in, the quiet intimacy of their conversation. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
But it did.
The last week had been a strange, suspended thing.
Grief had come in waves, yes—opening a drawer to find Bridget’s handwriting on a scrap of paper, catching the scent of her rose soap in the bathroom—but there had been laughter too.
Long evenings in Emma’s back garden, the fire pit casting flickering light over their faces, wine glasses catching the glow.
Emma’s smile, the way it still did something reckless to Natalie’s stomach.
She had no right to care. Not after the way she’d left things five years ago, not after the careful distance she’d maintained this past week, treating Emma like a neighbour instead of the woman who’d kissed her senseless in the woods.
The memory came without warning—Emma’s mouth on hers under the archway—like it always did. Emma’s lips finding hers again and again.
Her grandmother’s house was just ahead, its windows dark.
She slowed, fingers curling into her palms. She didn’t even want to count how many times she’d revisited that kiss in her mind—the weight of Emma’s body against hers, the way her lips had felt.
But then reality always crashed in. The role she was playing now, the press tours, the awards season looming.
She wasn’t out. She didn’t know if she could be.
The thought of facing the world like that—exposed, raw—made her throat tighten.
A voice cut through the dark.
“Natalie.”
Natalie kept walking.
“Natalie, wait.”
Natalie stopped and turned to face Emma in the moonlight.
“Hey. Is everything okay?” Emma asked.
“I’m fine. Just tired. You didn’t have to leave.”
“You left without saying anything.”
“You were talking to Trish. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
The words came out smoother than she felt. Emma was studying her face, and her gaze lingered until the quiet between them thickened like summer air before a storm. Natalie forced herself to hold still under it, to keep her expression pleasant and neutral.
“We were just talking about—“
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” Natalie’s smile felt brittle at the edges. “Trish seems nice. Why wouldn’t you be interested in her?”
Emma’s brow creased. “Natalie, what are you—“
“I should have guessed, actually.” The words kept coming, each one perfectly controlled. “When I asked about the woman you couldn’t forget. I mean, it makes sense. Your crush.”
“Is that what you think?” Emma’s voice was quiet. “That I was talking about Trish?”
Natalie lifted one shoulder in what she hoped looked like casual indifference. “Yes. And that’s why I left the pub. So you two could enjoy yourselves. I know she’s working, but she seemed to have no problem finding time for you.”
“Natalie…”
“It’s fine. Go. I think I could use an early night anyway,” Natalie said, more than ready to end this conversation, because she hated trying to pretend that she didn’t care about Emma. “I’ll see you tomorrow or the next day,” she said, turning to keep walking the few feet to her grandmother’s home.
But Emma called after her. “Natalie, wait a minute.”
“Have a good night, Emma.” Natalie hoped that in the dim lighting Emma couldn’t see the tears in her eyes as she gave her a quick wave and headed up the driveway.
What a mess.
From the outside, Natalie knew her life looked perfect. She’d had enough handsome male co-stars over the years to keep the rumor mill turning. At forty-five, she’d accomplished more than she’d ever dreamed of, and her fear of growing old, of losing parts, hadn’t come to pass yet.
She was living the dream or at least that’s what it must look like.
Natalie unlocked the backdoor and stepped into the kitchen, flicking the lights on and pouring herself a glass of water before sinking into a chair at the table. She took a drink, her hand shaking ever so slightly.
Ten minutes passed, maybe fifteen. Natalie knew she should get up, brush her teeth, wash her face, do all the small rituals that would carry her toward sleep. But her body felt weighted to the chair, anchored by the mess she’d just made of things.
She was sad. That was the simple truth underneath all the careful deflection.
Sad and frustrated and hating herself for the jealousy that had crawled up her throat when she’d seen Emma lean toward Trish, seen the way Trish’s fingers had lingered on Emma’s wrist. She had no claim to Emma. No right to care.
But she did care. God, she cared so much it made her chest ache.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She pulled it out, expecting nothing important.
Can I come over?
Natalie stared at the words, then typed back quickly.
Did you mean to send that to someone else?
The response came immediately.
No. I can see your lights are still on.
Natalie’s pulse kicked up a notch.
Okay.
She finished her water and set the glass in the sink, gripping the counter. What did Emma want to talk about? To explain about Trish? To tell Natalie there was someone else—someone who wasn’t afraid to stay, to be seen, to build something real?
A soft knock came at the back door. Natalie opened it. Emma stood on the step, hair loose around her shoulders.
“Come in,” Natalie said.
Emma stepped inside but didn’t reach for the kettle or pull out a chair. She didn’t kick off her shoes or move toward the fridge like she had been doing all week. Instead, she crossed to the counter and leaned against it, arms folded across her chest.
Natalie didn’t sit either. She settled against the edge of the kitchen table, three feet of old tile between them. The overhead light was too bright for whatever this was.
“What would have happened,” Emma started, and then stopped. She pressed her lips together and tried again. “That summer. Five years ago. If you’d arrived and I hadn’t left.”
Natalie blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean.” Emma’s jaw worked. She was looking at a spot on the floor between them.
“You would have driven up the boreen the way you always did. And I would have been next door. In my garden or in Bridget’s kitchen or wherever.
And you would have seen my car and known I was home.
” She swallowed. The sound was audible in the quiet kitchen.
“Would you have wanted to pick up where we left off?”
The question caught Natalie off guard. Her breath hitched, and heat spread through her chest. She gripped the table edge, the worn wood rough against her palms, steadying herself against what Emma was asking.
Where they’d left off.
The archway rushed back to her in vivid, merciless detail. Emma’s mouth on hers, soft at first and then urgent, the warmth of it spreading through Natalie’s chest like whiskey. The way Emma had kissed her back without hesitation, without surprise, as if she’d been waiting for it.
Natalie remembered the sound Emma had made against her lips—small and breathless. The way Emma had looked at her afterward, unguarded, as if Natalie had given her something she’d hoped for but never asked for.
Natalie stared at Emma across the kitchen, the question hanging in the air between them like something you could touch. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her throat felt dry.
Would you have wanted to pick up where we left off?
The honest answer was blazing through her chest, too bright and too desperate to voice. Yes. God, yes. She’d thought about nothing else for weeks leading up to that summer.
The truth was that she’d wanted those two months in Emma’s orbit more than she’d wanted anything in years.
Mornings here in this kitchen, with her grandmother and Emma and the conversations that always flowed so easily.
Afternoon walks through the woods. Drives out to Connemara to explore a new beach.
Evenings at O’Shea’s where Emma’s knee would rest close enough to hers that she could feel the warmth without quite touching, and maybe this time she wouldn’t pull away.
The truth was that she’d imagined picking up exactly where they’d left off, and also somewhere entirely new.
She’d imagined what it would feel like to stop pretending that the kiss had been an accident, a moment of impulse she regretted.
She’d imagined what it would feel like to want someone and not immediately start planning her exit.
But then Emma’s house had been dark.
The memory closed around her chest like a fist.
“Natalie?”
She realized she hadn’t answered. That she was gripping the table edge. That her breathing had gone shallow and her eyes were burning, and Emma was watching her from three feet away with an expression that was half fear and half something so open it hurt to look at directly.
To answer honestly meant saying what she’d wanted. Not what she’d done. Not what had been sensible or safe or self-preserving. What she had actually, physically, desperately wanted when she drove into Kilvolan that July with her pulse hammering and her stomach swooping low with nerves.
She had never said it out loud. Not to her therapist. Not to the empty rooms of her LA house at three in the morning. Not even inside her own head.
She’d been in love with Emma for years.