25
EMERSYN
The letters blurred as I typed the final word. I’d been staring at the screen for hours, capturing every detail and facet of the story as I understood it. Each word felt like betrayal. I kept imagining Gabe watching over my shoulder, reading what I typed, his expression falling in dismay as he grasped the impact this story would have on his family—and on him. I envisioned the distance it would create between us, him looking at me as if I were a stranger, and me reaching for him only to have him turn away, unable to face me. Now that it was all done, with the words laid out in black and white, one thing was clear: Gabe meant more to me than this story ever could. My feelings for him had crept up on me, catching me off guard. I had thought I was immune to his charm, but in the end, I was only lying to myself. He was everything I didn’t know I needed. And despite everything I’d thrown at him, despite the emotional rollercoaster I’d put him through, he still wanted me—or at least, he did.
Was I truly willing to sacrifice everything we had, everything we could have, just for a story?
Did I think Jake was in the wrong? Absolutely. But I also recognized there was likely more to the story than Brandon was revealing. Everything I knew about Jake—though admittedly it was not a lot—suggested he cared deeply about his family, about Amelia and their life together. So why would he risk it all just to hurt Brandon? Why would Amelia choose to distance herself from Brandon if he hadn’t done anything wrong? Why would she stand by the man who hurt her father unless there was a compelling reason for his actions?
So, I decided never to confirm Brandon’s story with my sources. I would never ask the motel manager for a quote or the bartender for the actual footage.
Yet there was something cathartic about having it all typed out. Even if I never intended to do anything with it, it felt good to express everything, knowing I could put it to rest. Perhaps now I could allow myself the luxury of Gabe—if he still wanted me.
I’d barely slept or eaten since I last saw him. I tossed and turned, replaying everything I had previously written and imagining how Gabe would react if he found out—how his family would respond, what they would think of me, and what my parents would say if we actually started dating.
I wouldn’t publish the story. I would never seek the truth. The Gable Thornton who existed as a character in my mind wasn’t the same one who had entered my life. The Gabe I knew was real—a person with a family and genuine feelings. In the past, I had seen them as mere ideas.
I leaned back and smiled at the words I’d written, knowing that they would only ever reach my eyes. A weight had been lifted from me. I felt happy, carefree, and ready to risk my heart.
The door to my bedroom creaked open. I turned, ready to blast Brittney for coming in without knocking, but it was Conrad.
“What are you doing here?” I scrambled off the bed and pressed myself against the wall.
Conrad shut the door and wandered around my room like he owned it. His eyes scanned every inch with judgment.
“I’m worried about you, Em.”
The thing about Conrad was that he hid his cruelty well. He concealed it behind his smile, behind his locks of chestnut hair, and behind the dimples in his cheeks. It was how he’d been able to fool my parents. It’s how he’d been able to fool me.
“How are you?” He dropped his gaze to the empty wine bottle beside my bed. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”
“What are you doing here?” I repeated, annoyed that my voice trembled slightly.
“Can’t I pop in for a visit? Can’t a husband check on his wife?”
“I’m not your wife,” I spat.
He cocked his head to the side, some of his hair falling over one eye. “Technically, you still are.”
“We’re separated. Separated, Conrad. You can’t just burst in here whenever you feel like it.”
“The door was unlocked.” He shrugged and smoothed a wrinkle in my pink bedding, his eye twitching as though offended by the color. “You really need someone to look after you, Em. Why don’t you come home?” He straightened the blankets again and tilted his head.
I stood frozen against the wall, unable to move.
He glanced over. “You’re not very talkative today.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
He shook his head and made a tutting sound. “Do I need to speak with your parents again? Have you fallen off the wagon?”
“I was never on the fucking wagon.”
“It saddens me to hear you talk like that. It worries me even more.” He walked closer, close enough to feel the waves of arrogance radiating off him. “I’m still friends with the manager of that rehab place you went to. We’ve kept in touch. I could get you back in easily. No need to go on the waitlist,” he threatened beneath the guise of concern.
His eyes bore into mine. Once, I’d found his confidence attractive. Once, I’d longed for him to look at me like that, like he owned me. But now I saw it for what it was. Control.
My heart started to race.
Conrad leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. His lips burned my skin, and a swell of nausea almost overwhelmed me.
“I think you should leave now,” I said with as much force as I could muster without letting desperation seep into my tone.
Reaching out, he stroked my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I shuddered.
He cocked his head to the side. “What if I don’t want to?”
Mustering a deep breath, I shoved him away. “Fine. Then I will.” Pushing past him, I stormed out of my bedroom, through the house, and outside, sucking in air as though I’d been suffocating.
I thought he couldn’t affect me anymore. I thought I’d taken back the power he’d stolen. Clearly not. If I had, I wouldn’t be gasping for breath. I wouldn’t have tears stinging the corners of my eyes. My heart wouldn’t be racing, and I would have demanded he leave instead of running out of my own house.
I walked and walked until I reached the beach. There was something soothing about the crashing waves against the rocks—something that reminded me there was more to this world than the horrible parts.
The beach helped calm me. I climbed over the rocks, collecting pretty little shells and putting them in my pocket, even though I knew I’d throw them out later. I tossed stones into the waves and watched them disappear into the greying water. It wasn’t something I did often, but maybe this sort of self-medication was better than the usual path I followed.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. My heart leapt when I saw the text was from Gabe. ‘Can we talk?’ was all it said.
I wanted to call him right then and there. I wanted to confess my love, pour my heart out, and beg for his forgiveness. Like a damsel in distress, I wanted to call him to come and rescue me. I wanted his strong arms around me and his mouth against my ear, murmuring that everything would be okay.
Instead, I gathered control over my soaring emotions, waited a few minutes, and then asked him to meet me at the beach. While I sat there, I focused on calming my nerves and tried not to dwell on what Gabe might want to discuss. Given how I had treated him during our last few encounters, I feared it wouldn't be good.
He arrived only a few minutes later. He walked toward me, hands buried deep in his pockets, eyes trained on the ground. It was the first time I allowed myself to look at him without blocking out the feelings that came with it.
He was so fucking gorgeous.
But there was an uneasy air about him as he came to sit on the rock next to me. He chewed his bottom lip, making it even redder and puffier than usual. He took a breath, his chest rising, then raised his eyes to mine.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, unable to wait for him to speak first. “I was drunk, I was stupid, I’m never going to—”
He cut me off. “None of that matters,” he said.
“But it does,” I insisted, my words muffled by his finger.
“Just let me say what I came to say, okay?”
I nodded, and he waited for a moment as if expecting me to rush back to talking as soon as I had the chance. I wanted to, but I held back, knowing I needed to let him say whatever he needed to say. I swallowed deeply, bracing myself for what I was about to hear.
“I like you, Syn. Sometimes I’m not even sure why I like you, but whenever we’re not together, I think about you constantly. I even dream about you. You’ve been there for me when I needed you. You’ve let me rant about my family. You’ve made me laugh when I’ve been feeling down. Honestly, you may not know this, but you’ve gotten me through some tough times.
“I—”
“Please,” he said, talking over me. “Just let me get this all out, okay?”
I nodded. At the very least, I owed him that.
“Above everything, I don’t want to lose your friendship, and the last thing I ever want to do is pressure you, but I’ve got to say this. I’m falling for you. I know you don’t feel the same; I know you’ve pushed me away every time I’ve tried to get close, but if I don’t lay it all out, I won’t ever forgive myself. I want you, Syn. I want us. But I won’t try anything again; I won’t pressure you. I won’t say anything or make any moves. I’ll just wait. And if you ever feel the same way, let me know, okay? But let me make one thing clear: you can’t treat me like you did yesterday. You can’t keep this push-and-pull thing going between us. I want you in my life—whether that’s just friendship or something more— but I won’t be miserable for you.”
“Gabe, I—” He raised that one brow and shook his head.
“Please don’t say anything right now. I want you to go home and really think about this. Don’t say what you think you should say. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Don’t think about what your family wants or what mine might want; just think about you. Then, when you’re ready, come find me and tell me your answer. Do you want to remain just friends? Do you never want to see my face again? Or do you want me? All of me.”
As he stood, his eyes were intently focused on mine. I opened my mouth to reply, to tell him I felt the same way, to explain the stupidity of my actions, but he walked away, leaving me staring after him, my words trapped in my throat.
It was dark when I finally wandered back home and walked into my room. Part of me was nervous that I’d still find Conrad there, but my room was empty. After wiggling the mouse, my laptop whirred back to life, and Jake’s story filled the screen.
I knew what I had to do. After closing the document, I hovered the cursor over the icon, and after a few moments of hesitation, where I fought against the lesson I’d always lived by—never delete an article—I pressed the delete button. Then I went into the recycle bin, found the file, and deleted it permanently.
It was gone.
I was done.
With the rush of what I’d just done filling me, I deleted my social media accounts under my business name, emailed my advertisers and the places I’d promised to review, and told them I was closing everything down. Then I wrote my final article.
It was a confession piece. An admission that I hated the person I’d become, that I wanted to be better, that I wanted to contribute positively to the world instead of spreading negativity.
I wrote my heart out, letting it all pour out. I edited most of what I wrote before I posted it, but in the end, I was pleased with my effort.
I didn’t think anyone would care, but not long after I posted, the comments started to pour in: people wishing me well, people thanking me for entertaining them, people sad my site was closing.
At least that was something.
And then I started deleting all my old articles. With each push of the button, elation filled me. It felt like shaking off the past, shedding dead weight. I deleted everything except for my final post, and then it was done. I was done. Gone. I’d always wanted to write, but I’d never wanted to be the person who wrote things that ruined other people’s lives. I’d just sort of fallen into it. Now, I was free.
Hearsay was no more. After everything was gone, all traces of that life deleted, I went into Brittney’s room to ask if I could borrow her car.