5. Emory
EMORY
Idon’t stop walking until I’m outside.
The bell over Tall Tales gives a cheerful little ring behind me, as if it didn’t just witness an emotional crime.
The heat hits hard, humid and pressing, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness in my chest. I keep my eyes forward because that is, unfortunately, one of my oldest skills. Looking composed while actively coming apart.
I tell myself I didn’t run. I exited like a reasonable adult who suddenly remembered she forgot something very important.
How to breathe.
I cross the path and toss my latte into the trash without taking a sip.
The cup lands with a hollow thunk, which sounds about the way I feel.
I keep going past the patio tables and the white ruffled umbrellas, past the little black iron fence, until I reach the row of oversized planters tucked along the side of the brick wall.
It’s not exactly hiding, but it’s the closest thing available.
My back hits the brick, and I let it hold me there. Solid. Unmoving. Thank God, because I’m not sure I am.
I tip my head back and close my eyes.
Immediate mistake.
The second I do, all I hear is his voice saying Mo.
Only Jake.
Only ever.
My hands are shaking badly enough that I flatten them against the brick and focus on the grit scraping my palms. The roughness. The sting. Anything but the impossible fact that after ten years, one nickname from him can still undo me.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Kravitz says from somewhere to my right.
I open one eye.
She’s standing just beyond the patio fence in a floral blouse with her sunglasses pushed up in a way that says she saw everything and has already categorized it under Important Local Developments.
“I promise,” she says kindly, “everyone has a moment like that eventually.”
I blink at her.
She smiles. “Some of us just have witnesses.”
I still don’t say anything.
“Toot. Toot.” Then she walks off.
I let my head thump lightly back against the wall.
I knew this would happen.
Not this exactly. I didn’t specifically predict being taken out at the knees by a nickname in a coffee shop, but him. Seeing him. Hearing him.
And he didn’t look angry. That would’ve been easier.
He didn’t look distant either. That would’ve hurt, but at least it would’ve made sense. It would’ve matched the story I’ve told myself for years.
The one where I made a mess of everything and Jake moved on.
But he didn’t look at me like that.
He looked at me like there you are instead of where have you been.
And the way he said my name. Not Emory.
Mo.
Like it still belonged to me.
Like it still belonged to us.
That almost undid me.
I should leave. I should go anywhere else. Back to Holey Moley. Into the bay. Whatever gets me away from the fact that I just walked past Jake Wheeler the way I did ten years ago.
I push off the wall just as a seagull lands in front of me with a slap of webbed feet against the crushed shell.
He slides one foot, low and weird, like a tiny feathery bull preparing to charge. Then he starts squawking and pumping his wings up and down.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
“You do not want to start something with me today.”
He puffs up and slides a foot again.
I point at him. “I’m serious.”
He charges.
I step sideways at the last second.
His beak smacks the brick with a loud tap.
“I told you.”
He jerks back, shakes his head, and glares at me as if this is somehow my fault, then stomps off, quietly squawking.
I watch him go.
“Honestly,” I mumble, “same.”
A boat horn sounds in the distance. Someone laughs too loudly.
The breakfast crowd at Lazy Larry’s are hollering about laziness.
The whole town keeps moving along as though nothing tectonic just shifted under my feet.
Blue Crab Bay is very good at pretending the ground isn’t moving while it quietly redraws the fault lines.
And Jake—
I left him standing there.
Waiting.
Again.
The shame hits so fast I actually flinch.
For one reckless thought, I imagine turning around.
Walking right back into Tall Tales. The bell over the door giving its stupid cheerful jingle. Jake turning toward me. Finishing whatever he started. Being brave for once instead of running.
The look on his face if I came back.
I want that look more than I should.
I can see it so clearly it makes my stomach flip.
I brush my palms off on my shorts and take another step away from the wall. Then another. Each one feels wrong. As if my body knows exactly where it wants to go and I’m making it do the opposite.
I keep walking.
But every step away feels a little too much like loss.