Chapter 4
ALEX
I don’t even bother turning on the radio.
The rumble of the truck and the crunch of dirt and gravel under the tires are enough noise to fill up the cab as my mind is stuck replaying every second of the dinner and the drive like a fucking highlight reel.
Actually, not any of those things. Just her.
Seeing Emma again after all these years—
I thought I was ready. I told myself a hundred times over that I’d be fine when it happened.
That she was just some old friend from childhood who drifted away, not the girl who cracked open my ribs and set up shop in the hollowed-out center of me before leaving, like none of it even mattered.
But the second I walked into that kitchen and saw her sitting there… It was game over.
The Diaz family took me in as one of their own decades ago. I was a little boy whose parents abandoned him for a quick high. They left me for anyone that would take me.
Emma’s mom, Isela, had made it a tradition to have family dinners every Friday—no excuses or exceptions.
It never mattered what was going on in our lives or what other plans were made, no one ever missed Friday family dinner.
And because they were my family in every way that mattered, that included me as well.
It was the only way to get everyone to sit down and eat together at least once a week, between sports, work and other events.
Even after her passing, we kept up the tradition, as a way to honor her and keep some sense of normalcy when everything else in life felt like it was falling apart.
Emma being with us again… it felt like no time had passed at all. Like we were teenagers at dinner again, stuck in the same damn loop. Emma and I bickering and stealing glances at each other, pretending we weren’t counting the minutes until it was over so we could sneak out together.
The only thing I could think about while sitting across from her, was how fucking beautiful she is.
She looks sharper around the edges, but softer in places too. Life has hit her from all sides and she’s learned how to carry it better. Her figure is more pronounced, shrinking in at her waist and arching out on those thick thighs I yearn to bury my face in if ever given the opportunity.
Her hair is longer now, dark brown and dropping around her shoulders in soft waves. My damn fingers twitched with desire, wanting to run my hands through it like I used to all those nights before. Her head in my lap, my fingers combing through her hair, soaking up every second with her.
She has the same look in those big, brown eyes.
It is a look that says she is already halfway somewhere else, lost in her own thoughts.
Those brown eyes that still look at me with an undeniable spark.
I’m smart enough to know the spark probably isn’t a good thing anymore, but damn is it electrifying to see the way I still affect her.
The way her jaw clenches and her eyes narrow upon contact with mine.
If I didn’t know better, I would say she looks even more beautiful when she’s angry.
She’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever let ruin me.
I watched her walk up to that yellow house all flustered and raging with undeniable anger, and yet, still pretending nothing hurt.
What a pleasure it is to see Hurricane Emiliana touching ground in Windhaven once again.
And what did I do? I just sat there like a fucking idiot.
Ten years. Ten fucking years and she could still walk away from me like I was nothing. Ten fucking years and she still takes hold of me in ways I can’t control. It feels like my whole life revolves around her and what she wants from me or what she wants me to be.
Finally pulling into my driveway, I exhale a breath that I’ve been holding the entirety of the ride over.
My place is small, nothing fancy. It’s a cramped, navy blue house behind the bar I own—the Old Mill.
I took over five years ago when the previous owner, Daniel St. James, decided to pack up and skip town.
I’ve worked there since I was eighteen, first busing tables, then pouring drinks.
By the time I was twenty-five, it was mine.
“She’s all yours. Don’t fuck it up,” was the last thing he’d said to me before handing me the keys, a signed deed and never looking back.
Sometimes I envied Daniel, and Emma even, for not letting themselves be tied down to this place and leaving the second they decided there must be a better life somewhere else.
This town is like a cement block chained around my leg, holding me underwater until I drown. I can’t, and won’t, ever escape it.
I kill the engine and lean back into the seat, staring over at the empty passenger side. My thoughts go exactly where they always do—right back to her.
Emiliana Diaz was a rising star, the next big thing in the NYC art scene.
Her career blew up not long after moving to Manhattan.
I’ve seen her face everywhere over the last ten years— thousands of photos, online articles, gallery interviews, even several magazine covers.
There was always a picture of her standing next to one of her paintings with a guarded, closed-off look, constantly looking like she wanted to crawl out of her skin.
It’s the same look she always has when someone gives her any sort of compliment and she doesn’t know how to take it.
If I know anything about Emma, it is that she never wanted the spotlight, but it shined on her anyway.
People loved her work, loved her. Attention and fame had naturally followed.
She didn’t want anything to do with me, so any updates on her life came in other ways.
They started with a Google search one night out of harmless curiosity, or at least that’s what I told myself.
Cam had mentioned flying out to her first solo art show in the city, and next thing I knew, I was reading interviews, watching clips, and scrolling through pages of her life from the outside.
Pathetic, I know, but I had to know she was doing what she left to do: live a happier life.
I never asked Cam or Leo or Frankie about her.
Instead, I always just waited to be given any information they wanted to give up, which wasn’t much.
None of them knew about us or what we had before she left town.
We kept that part to ourselves. Maybe they suspected something was going on at some point, but it wasn’t a topic that was ever brought up.
Seeing all her success made me feel all twisted up. I was proud, sure, but there was also something uglier underneath. I think it may have been a sense of regret or longing. Both, probably. Always thinking about what life could’ve been if things had gone differently.
There was so much I never got the chance to tell her, and I’ll probably never get the chance to.
I’ve spent the last decade pretending like I was fine with her being gone.
Pretending I don’t still dream about the way her lips taste or the sound of her laugh.
Pretending every damn woman who’s ever crossed my path doesn’t get compared to Emiliana Diaz and comes up short every single time.
I run a hand down my face, feeling the rough scrape of my palm against the day’s stubble.
Letting out a long sigh, I finally climb out of the truck and head inside.
The silence hits me like a wall. The quiet used to be comforting.
It used to be something I could sink into after a long night at the bar or after being outside all day helping Leo take care of the animals.
But tonight, the silence is heavy. It smothers me and I feel like I’m gasping for air.
The thud of my boots hitting the wood floor echoes through the empty house.
I head straight for the fridge, grab a beer and twist the cap off, knocking half of its contents back before even closing the door.
I don’t consider myself much of a drinker, despite working at and owning a bar for so many years, but some nights call for something to take the edge off. Tonight is one of those nights.
The cold bottle sweats in my hand as I head to the bedroom, dropping it onto the dresser with a dull clink.
I immediately strip the clothes off my body and fall back onto the mattress.
Closing my eyes, I see nothing but her brown eyes.
Those angry brown eyes, like molten pools of amber, full of every ounce of hate I deserve, burning into me like a punishment.
She’s right to be pissed. Hell, she’s right to still hate me after all this time.
And to make matters worse, I went and ruined any possibility of a truce in under ten minutes of seeing her.
Impressive, even for me.
Our argument in the truck keeps replaying in my head. The way her lip quivered slightly as she told me that loving me wasn’t enough to make her stay. As if she believed love was supposed to fix every bad thing, and mine never did.
I know I shouldn't have pushed her, especially not on her first night back in town. But the last ten years folded in on themselves. Anger, heartbreak, the goddamn ache that’s been living behind my ribs since the day she left, it burns hotter than it has in years.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I should’ve kept my mouth shut and played nice, but instead, I went in at full throttle. I don’t know how to do anything else with her.
We didn’t give each other pieces, we let ourselves go in head first.
Opening my eyes, I watch the ceiling fan spin in lazy, lopsided circles.
God, I’m so fucked.
I may as well be twenty-one again, standing in her parent’s driveway, watching her drive away, because here I am, ten years later, still standing in the ashes of it, still waiting for another shot.
I just don’t know if it’s too late.