Chapter 8
Chapter eight
EMMA EASTON
My last client finally left for the day. I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment so I can ground myself. Friday. Thank goodness. A loud yawn escapes me when I check my phone to see a message from Heather.
HEATHER
Portland tonight. Dress cute. I already called your neighbor to watch Nova. Don’t fight me.
She loves me, you know that. 7 PM. Be ready.
You called Mrs. Kent?
HEATHER
She loves me, you know that. 7 PM. Be ready.
I laugh out loud, shaking my head. “She’s relentless,” I tell Nova, who’s been sleeping soundly on her little dog bed.
Her ears perk up like she understands.
“Guess it’s just you and the Kent’s tonight,” I add, scratching behind her ears. “Be good, okay?”
She huffs and flops back down with a dramatic sigh.
I make myself tea and wander around the studio while it steeps. The kettle’s whistle fades, and I pour it into my favorite mug—the periwinkle one with the chipped handle. I exhale heavily through my nostrils as I stare at the ocean. I guess I could use a night out. Hell, I deserve it.
By the time the clock hits six-thirty, I’m standing in front of the mirror, hair curled, blue jeans on, soft pink blouse tucked in. Heather’s text lights up my phone again:
HEATHER:
Here, babe.
I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and glance back at Nova curled up on the couch. “Be good, girl,” I murmur. The evening breeze smells like sea salt and summer as I head down the porch steps.
“Have fun, sweetheart,” Mrs. Kent calls over from her driveway. Her silver hair catches the fading sunlight, and she’s wearing that soft lavender sweater she always wears. Her warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles.
I grin and wave. “I’ll try my best.”
She nods at Nova, who’s now sitting politely by the door. “We’ll watch some movies together with Henry. He’s excited to see Nova. You girls be careful.”
Heather, leaning against her car, shouts back, “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Kent!”
“You’re like my daughters,” Mrs. Kent calls as she waves goodbye. “I don’t care what trouble you get into, just keep each other safe. Give us a ring if you need anything.”
I linger a moment, glancing back at my bubble of calm I’ve created for myself. Then Heather’s tugging at my sleeve. “Come on! I’m starving after the shift I had today.”
The drive is almost two hours with traffic since it’s Friday, and the streets get busier as we hit the city lights. Heather hums along to “Afraid” by The Neighborhood on the radio, tapping her fingers on the wheel, and I let myself relax into the rhythm of her energy and the fun weekend to come.
We drop our bags at a small, modern hotel right on the river, and Heather practically bounces ahead of me toward the elevator.
She’s wearing a black leather jacket over a short black skirt, her blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail that suits her perfectly.
I shake my head and smile. Heather always manages to look effortless while I’m overthinking every detail. She’s the well-dressed one of us.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” she calls, grabbing my hand and tugging me along. “Rooftop bar. Water view. Drinks.”
I laugh, letting her lead me through the lobby. The elevator smells faintly of citrus cleaner and polished wood.
When we step onto the rooftop, the breeze hits immediately, and I’m suddenly as hungry as Heather. Strings of warm lights criss cross overhead, reflecting on the glassware like tiny stars. A mix of music and chatter swirls around us, people laughing and clinking glasses.
We find a table near the railing, the river flowing behind it. Heather slides onto the chair, leaning back and tossing her ponytail over one shoulder. “Perfect,” she says, scanning the menu.
I settle in across from her, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
When the server comes by, Heather orders us a round of fruity cocktails and a couple of plates of shared appetizers.
Garlic shrimp, calamari, and a small charcuterie board.
I close my eyes for a second, letting the sounds of the city soothe the little tension in my shoulders.
I always love visiting Portland and getting out of my small town.
Heather’s fidgeting with her leather jacket zipper, laughing at something she saw on her phone. She’s electric, messy, and impossible not to be drawn to. I glance at her, grateful for her friendship.
My head’s buzzing by the time we leave the rooftop bar. Heather’s skin is flushed, and she’s laughing like she’s the only person in Portland who matters.
“Hey, let’s stop in there,” she says, pointing to a small bar tucked into a corner, a few people hanging outside, smoke drifting up in lazy spirals.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too drunk.”
She scoffs. “Far too late for that.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door.
The bell above the entrance jingles as we step inside, the warmth and dim light swallowing us.
The scent of spilled beer, fried food, and something sweet hits me.
Music thumps softly, bass vibrating through the wooden floor.
Heather ducks under a low-hanging light, already flirting with some guy by the jukebox, and I let myself drift toward the back. The bar’s crowded but not suffocating.
An hour later, I’m swirling the last bit of wine in my glass, watching the red liquid catch the dim light. We talk, gossip, and laugh until the buzz of the wine and the music starts to blur into the line between buzzed and drunk.
I stand, stretching my legs, and mutter, “I need some air.”
Heather smiles, downing the rest of her drink. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just the alcohol makes me hot.”
She lifts her hand to request the check. “I’ll get this, go pee, and then I’ll meet you outside? Our hotel is a short walk away.”
I nod, warmth buzzing through my head. “Sounds good.” I push through the door into the night, the chill of the alley wrapping around me.
Two figures stand a few feet away, half-hidden in shadow, smoke curling upward in the cold air. The alley smells like rain-soaked pavement, cheap beer, and whatever sweet thing the street vendor on the corner was cooking.
None of it registers.
My lungs stop mid-breath. My body forgets how to function.
He’s leaning against the brick wall. Black jeans. Black hoodie. A cigarette between his fingers. His hair is longer than I remember—messy, falling into his eyes like he’s been dragging his hands through it all night.
And his eyes—
Oh my god.
They’re sharp and blown-out, feverish in a way that makes something deep in my stomach twist. He looks hollowed yet wired, like something’s been chewing him apart from the inside. His jaw is sharper than it used to be. He’s older, harder, tired...but him.
The boy who left me on my porch.
The voice that lived in the back of my skull long after he disappeared.
The ghost I never stopped dreaming about.
His hazel eyes widen when they lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to swallow.
Jude Graves.
Beside him, the other man straightens, shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes shadowed and wary. He takes one look at me and tenses, like he knows exactly who I am and what this moment means.
Before I can move, two more figures burst into the alley—a man in a suit jacket, blonde hair slicked back, and a dark-haired woman in sequins and heels. They’re shouting, hands flying, words sharp and too fast for me to catch. It seems like a very heated argument. They don’t even notice me.
Jude does. And then he looks away, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge me.
My heart slams so hard against my ribs, I swear he must hear it. Adrenaline hits all at once—my hands tremble, my stomach flips. I want to go to him. I want to scream at him. I want to run.
You died, Jude. I watched you die.
I’m so scared for you.
My body doesn’t know which instinct to obey.
The arguing couple storms off down the alley. His friend hesitates, glancing between Jude and me. Jude mutters something too quiet to hear. The man stiffens, then follows the others without a word. And suddenly—
It’s just him.
Ten feet away.
The cigarette glows between his fingers, ash drifting to the pavement. His chest rises and falls unevenly. His eyes are heavy, red-rimmed. He’s high and undoubtedly exhausted. But beneath the sickness…
It’s still Jude.
I inch forward, cold brick scraping my palm, like the wall is trying to hold me back from making a stupid mistake. “Jude,” I whisper. The name barely makes it past my lips. “Where are you staying? Do you...need help?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me with that broken, searching look—like he’s trying to decide if I’m really standing before him. Then he takes a step closer.
The familiar amber of his cologne hits me, and my whole body locks. I stop breathing.
Another step. Then he stops. He doesn’t touch me or speak. Instead, he turns away. His hoodie melts into the shadows. The cigarette flares once as he flicks it aside, dragging a dying red line through the dark.
And I’m left standing there, rooted to the concrete, numb and shaking as something in my chest splinters open. “J—Jude…” The word breaks.
Heather’s warm and steady arms wrap around me from behind. Her breath catches as she follows my stare. “Holy shit...Emma, that’s—”
She stops.
Her embrace grounds me, but it can’t fill the emptiness spreading inside my chest as I watch him disappear. The streetlight catches the sharp line of his jaw one last time. A flicker of the boy I loved—buried somewhere inside the man walking away.
And deep down, something breaks all over again.
The hotel room smells faintly of the citrus spray they must use between guests. I drop my purse on the dresser and sit on the edge of the bed, my hands still trembling. Heather paces for several minutes before she finally turns to me, eyes wide.
“Emma—what the hell happened out there? Was that really him?”
I nod, my throat burning. “Yeah.” My voice cracks. “It was...it was him.”
She sits beside me, her hand on my back, gentle and tentative. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.” The word breaks in half as it leaves me. “He just looked at me. Like, he didn’t even recognize me. Like…” I swallow hard, shaking my head. “Heather, he looked awful. His eyes were glassy, and he could barely stand straight. He’s so...gone. He’s gone.”
Heather frowns, her expression softening. “Em…”
“I’m scared for him,” I whisper. “He looked like he was barely holding on. I don’t even know what he’s doing here, or who those people were, but—” My breath shudders. “It’s like he’s not even alive anymore.” A sob escapes me, my eyes squeezing shut.
Heather doesn’t try to stop me when the tears come. She just squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing against my knuckles as I cry. I can’t stop shaking.
“I thought I was over him,” I say through the tears, voice trembling.
“I thought that if I saw him again, I’d be okay.
But he looked at me, and it’s like everything inside me just—” I press my hand to my chest, trying to keep it together.
“He still has me. Even after everything. He still has me. The love we used to have was…”
Heather’s eyes glisten when I can’t finish, but she nods quietly. “You should shower, honey. You need to breathe.”
I nod, numb. “Yeah. Yeah, I just...I need a minute.”
The bathroom light is harsh, the mirror fogging fast as I turn the water on.
When I step under the spray, it’s too hot, but I don’t care.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water soak my hair, pour over my face until I can’t tell if the wetness on my cheeks is from the shower or from crying.
My body shakes with every breath. My chest aches so deeply I can feel it in my bones. I loved him so damn much. And I’m terrified I still do. I don’t understand it.