Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Rebound
Emmie
Mom’s kitchen smells like Sunday even though it’s Saturday—roast in the oven, fresh bread cooling on the counter, something simmering on the stove that’s probably going to be the best soup I’ve ever tasted.
“So.” She sets a cup of tea in front of me and settles into the chair across the table. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you.”
“Emmeline. You’ve missed two Sunday dinners, and you’ve answered exactly three of my forty-seven texts.”
“You sent forty-seven texts?”
“I was worried.” She stirs her tea, watching me with those eyes that have always seen too much. “What’s going on with you?”
I wrap my hands around the warm mug. I’ve been dreading this conversation for weeks. “Crew and I broke up.”
The words hang in the air. Mom’s spoon stops mid-stir.
“What?”
“We’re not together anymore. It’s been… a few weeks now.”
“A few weeks?” Her voice pitches up. “And you’re just now telling me?”
“I didn’t know how to—” I stare at the table. “It’s complicated.”
“What happened? Did he do something? Did he hurt you?” Her mama bear instincts are flaring. “Because I don’t care how many tactical assessments he’s passed, I will drive to Dallas and—”
“Mom. He didn’t do anything. Not really. It just… didn’t work out.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. When I finally look up, her expression isn’t angry anymore. It’s disappointed. Somehow that’s worse.
“I really liked him,” she says softly.
“I know.”
“Your father liked him too. And you know how your father is with the boys you bring home.”
“I know, Mom.”
“He fit, Emmie. With the family. With you.” She shakes her head slowly. “I saw the way he looked at you at Sunday dinner. Like you were the only person in the room. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.”
My throat tightens. “Mom, please—”
“I’m just saying. That’s not easy to find.”
“I know it’s not.” I take a sip of tea, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “But it’s over. I’m trying to move on.”
“Move on how?”
“I have a date tonight, actually. Sadie set me up with someone. A sous chef. His name is Reece.”
Mom brightens, but it’s forced. I can tell. “Oh. Well. That’s… that’s good, honey. You should get back out there.”
“Yeah.”
“Is he nice?”
“Sadie says he is.”
“Good. That’s good.” She nods, but she’s stirring her tea again, eyes distant. “What about Crew?”
“What about him?”
“Is he… is he seeing anyone new?”
I almost laugh. “No, Mom. He’s not exactly the dating type.”
“Then what’s he doing? Is he okay?”
The question catches me off guard. She’s not asking to be nosy—she’s asking because she genuinely cares.
Because Crew sat at her dinner table, complimented her pot roast, and let my father grill him about his service record, and somehow in the span of one evening, Linda Marshall decided he was hers to worry about.
“He bought a cabin,” I say. “In Oklahoma. Broken Bow. Some fixer-upper he’s been working on.”
Mom frowns. “A cabin?”
“It’s basically falling apart from what I can tell. He goes out there on weekends. Works on it.”
“By himself?”
“His friend Foster goes sometimes, I think.”
She’s quiet, processing this. I can see her putting pieces together—the same pieces I’ve been trying not to look at too closely.
“That boy is running,” she finally says.
“What?”
“Buying a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Spending all his time fixing something broken.” She gives me a look. “That’s not moving on, Emmie. That’s hiding.”
“It’s not my problem anymore.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Mom.”
She holds up her hands. “I’m just saying. A man doesn’t run like that unless he’s running from something that matters.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Go on your date. Have a nice time with the sous chef. But don’t close the door all the way on Crew. Not yet.”
“There’s no door left to close. He closed it.”
“Doors can be reopened.”
“Not this one.”
She looks at me with something unbearably tender in her expression. “We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.”
I finish my tea and let her send me home with enough food to feed a small army, the way she always does. At the door, she hugs me tighter than usual.
“I love you,” she says. “And I’m sorry it hurts.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And if the sous chef turns out to be a dud, that’s okay too. The right person is worth waiting for.”
I don’t tell her I’m afraid I already found the right person and lost him.
Some things a mother doesn’t need to know.
* * *
“He’s cute,” Sadie had said. “Really cute. And nice. And emotionally available. You know, all the things your fake boyfriend wasn’t.”
“Sadie—”
“Just one date. One dinner. If you hate it, I’ll never mention his name again.”
So here I am. Saturday night. A trendy new farm-to-table place in Uptown. Sitting across from Reece the sous chef, who is, objectively speaking, extremely cute.
Dark curly hair. Warm brown eyes. Easy smile. He laughs at my jokes, asks follow-up questions, and hasn’t checked his phone once.
He’s perfect.
And I feel absolutely nothing.
“So, Sadie says you’re working on a cookbook?” Reece leans forward, genuinely interested. “That’s amazing. I’d love to hear about it.”
“It’s, um.” I push a roasted carrot around my plate. “It’s about cooking for people you love. Learning their tastes, paying attention to what they need. That kind of thing.”
“That’s beautiful. Food as a love language.”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of wine. “Something like that.”
He launches into a story about his culinary school days, something about a disastrous soufflé and a temperamental chef instructor. It’s funny. He’s funny. I laugh in all the right places.
But my mind keeps drifting.
Crew would’ve made a comment about soufflés being structurally unsound. He would’ve asked three clarifying questions about the technique involved. He would’ve sat there with that serious expression, cataloging every detail like he was preparing a tactical briefing on French pastry.
Stop it.
“You okay?” Reece asks. “You seem a little distracted.”
“Sorry. Long week.” I force a smile. “Tell me more about the restaurant. Do you like working there?”
He does. He tells me about the menu he’s developing, the head chef who’s taken him under her wing, his dreams of opening his own place someday. A small spot, nothing fancy. The kind of neighborhood restaurant where everyone knows your name.
“That sounds wonderful,” I say.
And it does. It really does. This is exactly the kind of guy I should want—passionate about food, warm and open, someone who talks about the future like it’s something to look forward to instead of something to survive.
So why do I keep thinking about gray eyes and a stiff posture that doesn’t know how to relax?
“Can I ask you something?” Reece sets down his fork. “And feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
“Sure.”
“Are you over him? Whoever he is?”
I blink. “What?”
“There’s a look people get when they’re not quite over someone.” He smiles gently, no accusation in it. “You’ve had it all night. I’m not offended—I’ve been that person too. I just figured I’d ask.”
The honesty catches me off guard. I open my mouth to deny it, to insist I’m fine, I’m totally fine, I’m so over him it’s not even funny.
What comes out is: “I don’t know.”
Reece nods slowly. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough.” He picks up his fork again. “For what it’s worth, whoever he is, he’s an idiot.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know he let you go.” He shrugs. “That’s enough.”
We finish dinner. He’s gracious about it—doesn’t push for a second date, doesn’t make it awkward. When we say goodbye outside the restaurant, he hugs me and tells me to call him if things ever change.
“You’re a good guy, Reece.”
“I know.” He grins. “That’s what makes it so tragic.”
I laugh—a real laugh—and watch him walk away.
Then I stand on the sidewalk for a long moment, the Dallas skyline glittering in the distance, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Reece was perfect. Attentive. Emotionally intelligent. He didn’t flinch when I touched his arm. He didn’t need to Google how to provide comfort. He was easy in all the ways Crew is hard.
And I spent the entire dinner wishing I was somewhere else.
My phone buzzes. Sadie.
How’d it go??? Details!!
I stare at the screen.
He was great, I type back. Really great.
AND???
And I’m not ready.
A pause. Then: Oh honey. I’m sorry.
Me too.
I get an Uber back to the apartment. Our apartment. The apartment that still smells like Crew’s soap and my cooking and something that used to feel like home but now just feels like a museum of everything I’ve lost.
He’s not there when I get back. That’s no surprise; he’s at his cabin. Somewhere he can work with his hands and not have to see me.
I should be relieved. It’s easier when he’s not here, when I don’t have to pretend I’m fine, when I don’t have to hear him moving around in his room and resist the urge to knock on his door.
Instead, I just feel empty.
Murphy greets me at the door, meowing his displeasure at being abandoned for the evening. I scoop him up and carry him to my room, burying my face in his fur.
“I went on a date,” I tell him. “With a very nice man who checks all the boxes.”
Murphy purrs.
“And all I could think about was your stupid, emotionally constipated owner.”
More purring.
“What’s wrong with me, Murph? Why can’t I just move on?”
He doesn’t answer. Just settles into my lap and kneads my thigh with his paws, content in a way I envy.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Crew’s name. No messages since the breakup. We communicate in Post-it notes now—passive-aggressive reminders about taking out the trash and whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I went on a date tonight.
I don’t know why I want to tell him. To hurt him, maybe. To see if he cares. To get some reaction, anything, other than the polite indifference he’s been giving me for weeks.
I delete the words.
I miss you.
Delete.
Why did you give up on us?
Delete.
I think I’m in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop.
Delete, delete, delete.
I toss the phone onto my nightstand and curl up on my bed, Murphy pressed warm against my stomach.
One date. That’s all it took to realize what I’ve been trying to deny for weeks.
I’m not over Crew Jensen.
I’m not even close.
And I have no idea what to do about it.