Chapter 10
Chapter ten
EMMA EASTON
The room is gray with early light when I wake. Heather’s still asleep beside me, one arm flung across the blanket, her face turned toward the window. She looks peaceful.
I feel wrecked.
My stomach twists hard, a sharp reminder that I cried until I made myself sick last night.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her, and barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea hits.
It comes in waves. I grip the cold edge of the counter and breathe through it, eyes squeezed shut, willing my body to calm down.
When it passes, I rinse my mouth, brush my teeth, and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are swollen. My hair’s a mess. I look like someone who’s been hollowed out and put back together very incorrectly.
Back in the room, I cross to the window and pull the curtain aside. The city looks washed out and distant with the heavy cloud cover.
I wonder where he is.
Did he even make it back to a hotel? Or did he stay with someone—some woman who doesn’t know who he used to be?
He’s supposed to be getting better. But he wasn’t sober. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he swayed when he walked, like he was balancing on the edge of something sharp and final.
How much time does he even have left?
Heather stirs behind me, stretching with a soft groan. “You okay?” she mumbles.
I nod without turning around. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She sits up, brushing her hair out of her face. “Let’s get some breakfast, then we’ll drive home, okay?”
Home.
I picture my cottage with Nova’s little nails on the wood floors and the steady rhythm of the ocean outside my window. I want to crawl into bed and stay there. Just breathe and forget all of this.
But I can’t.
Not when he’s out there, slowly killing himself.
He left me seven years ago, and still, seeing him last night ripped an old wound of mine I thought I had healed from. He couldn’t even talk to me. He made his choice. He’s destroying himself piece by piece.
So why do I still want to save him? Is it me being a therapist? Or someone who loves him?
Heather orders room service instead of dragging me downstairs. When the knock comes, she answers the door wrapped in her blanket like a cape, sets the tray between us on the bed. Bagels. Fruit. Coffee. The smell makes my stomach flip again, but I take a small bite anyway.
She watches me carefully, like she always does, when I’m losing my shit. “See?” she says softly. “You’re surviving.”
“Barely,” I mumble.
Her expression stays gentle but firm. “You don’t owe him anything, Em.”
I don’t answer right away. Because she’s right. I wish she weren’t.
“I just…” My throat tightens. “I don’t think I could survive waking up to a headline that he’s—” I stop, my heart slamming as the image flashes through my mind of his lifeless body being found in some hotel somewhere.
The man that used to be so full of life.
Headlines that read: Jude Graves, dead from apparent overdose.
Heather reaches for my hand. “I know.”
The drive out of the city is quiet, her alternative playlist on in the background. I rest my head against the window and watch the city fade from view.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. No, with my best friend, it’s always safe. I wonder if he’s alone in some nameless room, his demons clawing at the walls. How does he feel after seeing me? Does he even remember it?
Heather glances over, like she can hear my thoughts. “You’re thinking about him so hard, I swear I can feel it.”
“He looked so lost,” I say quietly.
“Emma—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I know what you’re going to say. He made his bed.”
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you have to lie in it with him.”
The words sit between us, the truth in them absolutely heavy and unavoidable. And I hate that part of me is already wondering if I will.
Mrs. Kent is waiting on her porch when Heather drops me off, arms folded over her sweater, that familiar warm smile lighting up her face. “Nova was an angel,” she says as I climb the steps. “Didn’t bark once. You’ve got yourself the perfect girl. We just love her.”
I smile, but it feels thin. “Thanks, Mrs. Kent. You’re the best.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” She pats my arm, then steps back, already turning toward her own door.
I nod and go inside, closing the door behind me.
The silence hits all at once, and it's so damn loud. The air smells like vanilla candles and salt from the ocean. It’s safe, warm, and yet empty in a way that makes my heart hurt.
For a moment, I allow myself to look up towards the kitchen and imagine Jude, shirtless, with a bowl of his favorite cereal, smiling at me in a pair of sweatpants.
I flinch as if I’ve been stabbed in the chest. Would we still be together if he never left to pursue music? Would he be living here with me? Would I...would I have his last name yet?
Nova trots over immediately, tail wagging, drawing me back to the present. My baby always looks at me like I’m her favorite person in the world. I drop to my knees and press my face into her fur for a second, breathing her in, grounding myself, before forcing my legs to carry me to my room.
It’s Saturday. No work today. No work tomorrow. No reason to pretend I’m okay. I collapse onto the bed and check my phone. Four missed texts from Ryan.
RYAN
Can we talk?
Please, Emma.
I miss you.
Dinner tonight?
I exhale slowly, thumbs hovering for a beat before I type back.
I can’t, Ryan. I’m sorry.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand. It lands with a dull, final thud. Nova hops up beside me, curling into my stomach like she does whenever I’m not feeling well. I rest my hand on her head, scratching behind her ears, staring at the ceiling while the ache behind my ribs refuses to ease.
Today is a recovery day. Just me and Nova. Maybe a movie I’ve already watched about four hundred times. I grab the remote, scroll until I find Howl’s Moving Castle, and press play.
The opening soft and familiar notes fill the room. I sink deeper into the pillows. I’m twenty-six, and I’ll probably watch this movie until I’m eighty. It always stitches me back together—even if the seams never hold for long.
Light flickers across the walls in gold and blue. Howl’s voice drifts through the speakers. I used to think he was just dramatic. Now I see the way he hides behind charm, the way Sophie loves him quietly yet fiercely. The recognition stings. Truth always does when it finds you this easily.
When Howl loses himself to his monster, my chest tightens. The room feels smaller. My thoughts echo too loudly.
You know what that feels like, don’t you, Jude?
Sophie doesn’t save him with force. She just...stays. She looks at him like he’s still worth loving, even when he’s convinced he isn’t.
My throat tightens. It feels unfair that a childhood movie understands me better than I understand myself. That it’s asking me to consider loving someone broken and dangerous. Someone who might not survive.
I bring a hand to my chest, pressing through the blanket like I can calm the ache if I hold it still long enough. It fucking hurts.
I trace slow circles on the fabric, pretending it’s nothing. Pretending this movie isn’t gently dismantling me. And...pretending I didn’t just hear exactly what I wasn’t ready to listen to.
I wake to Nova whining at the edge of the bed, her tail thumping softly against the frame.
Groggy, I sit up and blink at the gray light slanting through the window. My phone says it’s morning. I slept through almost all of yesterday.
I didn’t eat dinner.
Jesus.
The familiar dread settles low in my chest. This is how it starts—slipping back into the version of me that was born the day he left.
The one who didn’t know how to breathe without him.
I didn’t realize how bad he’d gotten until the overdose headline.
Until I saw his eyes last night. Dulled, hollow, already halfway gone.
They say when you love someone, you let them go.
I can’t fucking do that.
After taking care of Nova and forcing down a piece of toast I can barely taste, the rest clicks into place. I know exactly what I need to do. The studio is empty today. No clients. No interruptions. Just me, paint, and sound.
If I’m going to survive this, I need to disappear for a while.
I hit play, and “Right Here” by Lil Peep floods the studio, bass vibrating through the floor, through my ribs. I twist my hair into a messy bun, grab a clean brush, and face the blank canvas.
Color answers first.
Blues. Purples. Streaks of gold that cut through the darker tones like light trying to break in.
Every shade pulls something raw out of me—every stroke a feeling I don’t have words for yet.
This is how I make sense of the noise. My chest is cracking wide open, pouring my very soul onto the canvas. I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m…sad.
I start painting fast and messy, the bristles skidding across the canvas like a storm breaking loose. The music coils through the studio, bass thrumming low in my chest, and suddenly—
I’m back there.
~ A memory ~
He’s perched in the corner of his bedroom, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving easily over the strings as Lil Peep hums through the speakers. His voice joins in—raspy and heartbreakingly beautiful, like the words are being dragged straight out of his chest.
I can’t stop staring.
His hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he keeps shaking it away, laughing softly to himself as he plays. He’s more of a rocker, always has been, but he can sing anything. We’ve only been together a few months. I’m seventeen. He’s eighteen.
It already feels like forever.
He stops mid-verse and glances up at me, eyebrows lifting, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “What?” he asks.
I shift on the bed, nerves buzzing. Then, without really thinking, I ask, “Have you ever...had sex before?”
He freezes. Then he lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging after a beat. “Once.”
Something tightens in my stomach.
He sets the guitar aside immediately and leans toward me, brushing my hair back with careful fingers. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “No pressure. None at all, okay? I’m happy taking things slow.”
Relief crashes through me. Before I can overthink it, I lean in and kiss him.
He kisses me back, slowly and carefully. His hand cups my chin, his thumb warm against my skin as his tongue brushes mine. My heart feels too big for my chest, like it might split me open.
The song “Right Here” by Lil Peep plays in the background, and something swells inside me—so full it hurts. I pull back just enough to breathe, our lips still touching, and he searches my face with those hazel eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, a teasing softness in his smile.
My throat tightens. The words feel fragile, but I can’t keep them in. “I…” My voice barely works. “…I love you, Jude.”
His smile hits me like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He kisses me again, deeper this time, like he’s been holding back. When he pulls away, his thumb strokes my cheek.
“I love you too, Emma,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking glad you said it—I was about to explode.”
I burst out laughing, my face still leaning into his hand. And I know, without a single doubt, that he’s my forever.
~*~
My lip trembles, and I bite down hard, but it doesn’t stop the tears. They spill anyway, dripping onto my paint-smeared hands. I drag a streak across the canvas, the ache in my chest twisting itself into color and motion.
I can almost hear him. That soft laugh.
My hands shake as I paint, tears slipping down my face and landing on the canvas, thinning the pigment. I don’t wipe them away. I let everything bleed. Every memory. Every lyric of every beautiful song he sang to me. Every color that ever reminded me of him.
The song loops again. And again. And again.
I don’t turn it off.
My fingers tremble so hard the brush knocks against the palette, clattering to the floor for a split second before I grab it again. My chest heaves like I’ve been running. But I don’t stop. If I stop, I’ll feel the silence. And it just might kill me.
I drag the brush across the canvas, pressing harder than I should, like I can carve our old life back into existence if I just push enough.
I have to survive this.
I have to.
I close my eyes for a single breath. And he’s here.
I can smell that faint mix of cologne, smoke, and ocean air.
I feel the warmth of his palm against my cheek, the roughness of his thumb when he’d tilt my face toward his.
His voice murmurs against my ear, like I was the only thing in the world that ever made sense to him other than his music.
My throat closes.
The brush moves blindly, guided by memory instead of sight. I open my eyes, and everything blurs. Paint. Tears. Light. Color melting into colors. It’s all the same now.
The music swells, and my sobs tangle into it. I press the brush to the canvas one last time, letting the final stroke land wherever it wants. When I finally step back, my hands are sticky, and my face is wet.
But the canvas is alive.
Just like we were. Just like we still are, somewhere underneath all this ruin.