Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
EMMA EASTON
By the time my fourth client leaves, the sun is dipping toward the horizon, soft light spilling across the studio floor. I’m exhausted, but in the best way. The tiredness that comes from giving pieces of yourself to help someone else put themselves back together.
Today was heavy.
Grief. Self-hate. Trauma. Everyone walks in carrying ghosts, hoping I’ll chase them away. But I can’t. That’s the truth I tell them from the start. And I say it with warmth, not cruelty.
“You’re the only one who can save yourself,” I tell a teenage girl as she wipes paint-covered hands on her apron. “No one else can do the work for you. But you can use what’s already inside you to rebuild. Even if it hurts.” I meet her gaze. “Especially if it hurts, Haley.”
She nods, blue eyes shining. For a moment, that familiar sting flares in my own chest. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, then steps forward and wraps her arms around me.
I hug her back, fiercely. Because just yesterday, I sat exactly where she is now—sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
My gaze drifts to the corner of the room.
The painting sits there, half-dry. A dock beneath a night sky. A guitar lying abandoned on the planks. My throat tightens. I swallow and push the thought away, focusing instead on my last client’s smile as she waves goodbye.
One by one, the lights go out.
I slide the key into the front door lock and pause. Then I pull out my phone, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hit call.
Heather answers on the second ring. “Hey, Em. What’s up, home slice?”
I roll my eyes, a weak smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m going to see his parents.” My voice stays steady. My pulse doesn’t.
There’s a brief silence. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, switch off the last light, and step into the cooling evening air. “But I have to see if I can help him. I’m going home first to take care of Nova, change, and then I’m going.”
Heather exhales softly, the sound threaded with worry and understanding. “Okay. Keep your phone on you, yeah? I’ll leave mine on ring.”
“I will.”
We hang up. I linger on the sidewalk, evening breeze lifting my hair. My heart feels pulled in two directions—past and future—and for the first time in years, I don’t know which one I’ll choose. But I get in my car anyway.
And I drive.
The sun dips low as I turn down the familiar road, the sky streaked with gold and lavender like someone dragged a paintbrush across the horizon.
I shouldn’t remember the way as clearly as I do.
It’s been a long time. And yet my hands know when to slow, and when to turn.
Honestly? I could make the drive wearing a blindfold.
By the time I pull into the long, stone-lined driveway, a familiar ache blooms in my chest. The Graves’ beach house rises ahead of me, framed by towering evergreens and the muted roar of the ocean beyond.
The wraparound porch is draped in soft string lights that glow against the oncoming dusk.
It’s beautiful—just as I remember it. Maybe even more so now that nostalgia is ripping at my heart.
I park and sit there for a moment, palms pressed to the steering wheel, steadying myself. Professional. Calm. Collected.
I brush my hands over my blouse and step out into the cool coastal air. The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk up the steps and stop at the door I used to walk through without knocking. I raise my hand and knock gently.
The door opens almost immediately.
Rachel stands there—long black hair braided loosely over one shoulder, bright blue eyes widening in recognition before her entire face breaks into a radiant, disbelieving smile. “Emma?” she breathes.
“Hi,” I whisper.
She doesn’t hesitate. She launches forward and pulls me into a tight, warm hug, her arms strong around me despite how petite she is. I melt into it, breathing in her sandalwood-and-sea-salt scent I used to associate with every holiday, every birthday, every time Jude brought me over.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs into my hair. “Look at you. Look at you.” When she finally pulls back, her eyes shine. “Come in. Please.”
I step inside, and the house is everything I remembered.
Polished wood floors, and the soft white walls are adorned with coastal artwork, glass vases, and little touches Rachel always loved: candles, driftwood, and fresh flowers.
The living room opens into a stunning kitchen—marble counters, copper fixtures, huge windows looking straight out at the endless ocean.
It’s breathtaking. It’s...home.
Alaric appears from around the corner, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. His dirty-blonde hair is perfectly styled, and those hazel eyes—Jude’s eyes—go wide when he sees me.
“Emma?” he says, stunned for half a heartbeat before his face breaks into a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Come here.”
He enfolds me in a gentler hug than Rachel’s, but no less warm. “It’s good to see you. Really good.”
Rachel touches my arm. “Tea?”
My throat tightens. “I’d love that. Thank you.”
“Do you still like lavender?”
I nod, and her face lights up. She moves to the stove, already pulling out the tin she used to keep on the top shelf.
Alaric pulls out a chair for me at the long oak dining table—the same one Jude and I used to sit at for breakfast after late movie nights.
I run my fingers over the smooth wood, feeling a ghost of the past there.
I glance over and notice a framed picture of their entire family, back when his little brother was still alive.
Once we’re settled, I gather the courage pooling in my chest. “I...actually came because I wanted to ask about Jude.”
Both of them look up at once. Rachel’s expression softens in a way that makes something inside me crumble.
Alaric nods slowly, folding his hands. “We figured that might be why you’re here. We, uh...we saw the article. About the overdose.”
Rachel frowns, looking down at the floor to keep from crying.
I take a breath, steady, trembling anyway. “I don’t know where he’s staying,” I admit. “I don’t know how to reach him. But I—” My voice falters. “I’m worried. And I want to help. If I can.”
The silence that follows is not cold or hesitant. It’s just...heavy. I know that people who struggle with substance abuse can put their families through hell. And his parents don’t deserve that. I can’t help but feel both angry at him and scared for him.
Rachel’s mouth pulls tight, and she shakes her head.
“We haven’t spoken to him in years. Not really.
A text here and there, if he bothers to answer.
” She smooths her hand over her jeans, a restless motion.
“But...as his mother, I forced him to at least let me track his location. So I’d know he was alive. Where he was. Just for his safety.”
“You have his location?” I smile at her. “That’s...actually really smart.”
Rachel exhales shakily, as if my approval loosens something in her chest. She pulls out her phone and unlocks it. But when the map loads, I see her throat work. Her lashes flutter like she’s bracing.
“He’s...he’s here,” she whispers. “He’s only about fifteen minutes away.”
The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. My heart sinks.
Rachel bites the inside of her cheek, blinking quickly, forcing the tears back. Her estranged son is practically down the street, and he still hasn’t reached out.
Alaric’s gaze drops to the floor, arms folding tight across his chest, his jaw ticking. The pain in this room is thick enough to choke on.
I swallow. “What about Vanessa? How is she doing?”
Rachel takes the lifeline I’m offering with visible gratitude. “She’s living over in Portland now. She’s a vet.”
A genuine smile warms my face. “That’s amazing. I’m glad she’s doing well.”
Alaric taps his fingers against his arm. “What are you planning to do, Emma?”
I let out a long, uneven breath. “I want to talk to him.” My voice feels too small. “Maybe invite him to my studio. I don’t know. But he needs help. Badly.”
Their eyes lift to me, full of worry and hope and fear. The memory punches through my ribs—the way I saw Jude last weekend in Portland, pupils blown, barely present, high out of his mind, looking at me like I was both a hallucination and a ghost.
“I saw him last weekend in Portland,” I whisper.
Rachel’s eyes gloss over instantly. Alaric reaches to rub her arm, his touch gentle but steady.
“He looked, um…” My throat wobbles, and my lips keep trying to pull into a frown. “He doesn’t look good.”
A tear falls down Rachel’s cheek, and she bites her lip to refrain from crying any harder. I understand, because I’m struggling right now, too.
“I haven’t even told my parents he’s back in town,” I admit. “I...I don’t know how to say it. Or what even to say.”
Rachel gives me a sad smile. “Tell your mom that I still have to give her the cake container thing back.”
I giggle. “Sure, I will.” Our parents all became best friends, and still actually hang out to this day. I haven’t been to my childhood home in months with how busy I’ve been at work. I text them almost every morning to say good morning, at least.
Rachel looks at her hands. “We all really thought we’d be attending your and Jude’s wedding one day.”
The words hit like a knife sliding in my gut slowly. My throat burns, tightening until I’m not sure air can get through. I press my lips together, working to swallow around the pain swelling up and up.
I thought that once, too.
“Please keep us updated?” she asks, reaching across to touch my hand.
I nod, just as Alaric brings over the tea.
And then we reminisce.
Tuesday morning flies by. Maybe it’s because of my anxiety. Because I’m really freaking anxious. At lunchtime, Heather strolls in, scrubs crisp and shoes scuffed from a long morning. She drops her bag by the door and waves at me as she scratches Nova’s ears.
“Hey, babe,” she says, grinning. “How’s my favorite painter?”