Chapter 4
Chapter four
EMMA EASTON
The briny smell of salt and seaweed reaches my nose as I squat on the edge of the dock. The waves crash into it, bringing me more comfort than my anxiety meds ever could. That single sound has done that for me for as long as I can remember.
Behind me, Heather leans against the railing, blonde hair falling in loose waves, brown eyes bright as she rattles off some hospital drama.
She laughs so loud it startles the gulls.
Same height as me, same curves. My opposite in noise and energy.
Where I’ve been described as “vanilla,” she’s more “mint chocolate chip.” Her sass is one of my favorite things about her, though.
I smile without turning around. Paint stains my fingers, the faint scent of acrylic still there from my workday.
I flex my hand, remembering my last patient—a quiet kid who never spoke a word about his past. Not to me.
Not to his parents. But the second I handed him a brush, everything poured out in color.
Rage, grief, confusion. All of it. Moments like that make me remember why I do what I do.
I’ve had a relatively easy life, but I still know what pain feels like.
Heather nudges my shoulder. “You’re zoning again.”
I chuckle, brushing a strand of wavy brown hair from my face, my brown eyes squinting toward the sunlight. “Sorry. Thinking about work. I know you love hearing that.”
“It’s fine, I think of work pretty much constantly.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re hitting the gym later. Don’t make me drag you.”
I groan and drag a hand down my face. “Fine. But only because you’re annoying and I’m too tired to fight you on it.”
Her grin is smug. “You love me. And you’d rather be with me than deal with Ryan.”
I sigh, letting my legs dangle over the water. “He keeps texting, but I don’t have the energy anymore. I feel bad, but…”
Heather snorts. “You have to stop comparing everyone to him, Emma.”
I straighten, scrunching my nose. “I’m not doing that. Ryan just wasn’t the one. He’s a little, um, clingy.”
“I’m sorry. I had hope. He was your longest relationship since Jude. Eight months, right?”
I nod, watching a sailboat drift by as the Oregon sun warms my shoulders. I had some hope, too. But when people say you never really get over your first love, they’re unfortunately right.
The cool evening breeze drifts through the open windows, ruffling the thin white curtains.
Heather and I are sprawled on the cushioned chairs around my little dining table, a pot of pasta steaming between us, two glasses of red wine swirling with the last bits of golden sunlight.
Summertime in Seaside is the most beautiful thing.
The kitchen still smells a little like garlic and rosemary from dinner.
Pots and pans are stacked neatly by the stove, and the little shelves along the wall are crammed with shells, old sketchbooks, and a few framed prints of my paintings.
Even with all the mess of life outside, this place is the definition of peace. I built it that way for a reason.
We dig into the pasta, and I nearly choke because I’m so hungry.
“I swear I burned enough calories to eat this entire pot without guilt,” Heather says, twirling spaghetti onto her fork.
“Exactly,” I agree, swiping a strand off my plate and popping it in my mouth. “We earned this. Pasta doesn’t count if we worked for it. That’s what my mom always said, anyway.”
Heather laughs, her hair tied into a messy bun, a little chaotic like she is. “That’s totally not logical, but it makes sense to me. Mama Easton for the win.”
“Ugh, too muchhh,” I grumble, folding my hands over my stomach. “I ate way too much. I hate myself.” A dramatic sigh leaves me as I slump over.
She giggles, downing the rest of her wine.
And then we trade stories about her day at the hospital, where a kid peed on the IV stand, and his mother frantically apologized, turning red as a tomato.
I snort into my glass when she throws her head back in laughter.
She has the type of laugh that makes you laugh even when you don’t know what’s so funny. I love that about her.
Nova, my black German Shepherd, pads into the room, brown eyes shining as always, tail wagging, begging for scraps. I wave her off. “I unfortunately ate everything, girl. Go beg Heather.” She plops next to the chair and stretches, her head coming to rest on her paws instead.
“Aw, mommy’s not leaving you any food?” Heather laughs, leaning over to scratch Nova on her head.
“You’re the one that always fed her table scraps when she was a puppy,” I mumble. “Put some chicken in her bowl when you get up. Now I feel bad.”
She shrugs. “How could I not give her all the treats? She’s the cutest roommate I’ve ever had. And most well-behaved.”
I throw up my hands. “Wow. Thanks for that.”
She giggles, kissing Nova on the head. I was so grateful to have Heather as my roommate during our college years.
She helped me cope with the loss of Jude and focus on my career.
At twenty-six years old, I already co-own an art therapy business.
One could say that heartbreak helped to push me to become what I am.
After dinner, I wash the dishes and stack them neatly on the drying rack. The wine has warmed my cheeks, the ocean breeze cooling my flushed skin. As I reach for another glass, Heather gasps.
I jolt, the glass slipping in my soapy fingers. “Goodness, Heather—what?”
She’s frozen at the table with a hand clamped over her mouth and her phone glowing in her other hand. Her eyes are too wide, and it immediately makes my stomach drop. “Oh god,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Emma...I don’t...just—look.”
I step closer, heartbeat thumping faster. And when I pause before her, the headline on her screen slams into me:
“Dissonance Frontman Jude Graves Collapses on Stage in Apparent Overdose.”
The glass slips from my hands before I feel myself let go. It hits the hardwood, shattering into pieces. My breath stutters out of my chest.
No. No. No—
My knees give out, and I drop to the floor automatically, reaching for the larger shards with numb fingers. A sharp sting slices my palm, but I barely feel it. Heat rushes up my neck and face, my ears ringing, vision going watery.
Heather is instantly beside me, her hand warm and firm on my shoulder. “Emma. Hey. Hey, look at me.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice is barely audible. “It’s—it’s just a glass.”
She doesn’t move her hand. “You’re shaking.”
I swallow hard and stand, brushing hair behind my ear like that alone could make me look a little more composed.
“He’s alive.” The words scrape out of me.
“Clearly. I mean...they wouldn’t post that if he—” I exhale.
“He obviously survived it.” But my stomach twists, and my trembling hands won’t stop.
Jude Graves.
My Jude.
Collapsing. Overdosing. Alone. Scared, maybe.
Heather squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “I’m okay.”
Her eyes narrow. “Emma, it’s okay to admit this hurts. You loved him. And since he left...he hasn’t been the same person. Anyone can see it. Interviews, photos. He looks hollow.”
I force a tight smile. “People change.”
She just stares at me. She knows that there really aren’t any words to describe the pain I’m feeling at this moment. The Jude I knew before...he would never…
Nova pads over and nudges my leg, whining.
I scratch behind her ears with my uninjured hand, grounding myself in the warmth of her fur as my heart tries to crawl out of my chest. Heather helps me sweep the glass in silence, the soft scrape of the broom mixing with the muffled crash of waves against the rocks outside.
“Hold still,” she murmurs when she catches sight of my bleeding palm. She pulls the first-aid kit from under the sink.
I rinse the cut under cool water. Pink spirals of blood swirl down the drain. It stings, but I can barely feel it with the other pain just tearing into my gut.
She dabs the cut with alcohol, and I flinch. “Emma,” she says gently, “have you heard from him recently?”
I shake my head, drying my hand on a paper towel. “Not really.” My voice thins. “The last time we actually spoke was the day he left.”
She pauses, looking up through her lashes. “That’s such bullshit. Some people get a golden ticket and forget everyone who helped them get there.”
The truth of it burns worse than the alcohol on my wound.
“There was once,” I whisper, leaning against the counter for support. “Two years ago. I woke up to a message from him.”
Heather’s brows knit. “He texted you? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I don’t know.” My throat thickens as I speak the words that branded themselves into me. “‘I fucking hate everything without you. I’m not well.’”
Heather’s lips part. “Oh, Em…”
“I texted back. Immediately. But by the time I hit send, the message bounced.” My voice breaks. “He’d blocked me again.”
Heather sets the first-aid kit aside and pulls me into a hug. I sink into it, my forehead pressed to her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
I nod, but the ache in my chest sharpens instead of easing.
I wish I could hate him. I wish I could forget the way he smelled like amber cologne and cigarette smoke, or the way his voice would lull me to sleep on the nights when my anxiety was so bad.
But...I can’t. Because part of me still remembers who he was before.
As much as I’ve tried…I have never forgotten how he once made me feel.
When we pull apart, she gently squeezes my hands. “You’re stronger now,” she says.
A small, brittle smile touches my mouth. “Yeah. I had to be. You don’t get over a love like ours easily.”