Chapter 3
Chapter three
EMMA EASTON
The first thing I register when I wake up is that I’m in my own bed again.
I feel the comfortable weight of my comforter and the lavender spray Heather insists on using to keep me calm.
Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin lines.
It’s such a familiar atmosphere, yet I feel more different than ever.
A month ago, I was a successful and relatively happy woman, living the peaceful life I had built for myself out of struggle.
And then I allowed Jude back into my life.
Part of me hates myself for it, but I also feel I am meant to help him.
If anyone can help him, it’s me, right? Love is supposed to conquer all. That’s how it is in the movies, anyway.
And I know he still loves me.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just listen to the muffled sound of voices drifting in from the kitchen. Micah’s laugh. Heather shushing him in frustration.
My chest tightens at the fact that Jude isn’t out there, laughing with them.
Or with me, sleeping soundly with his arm draped over my side.
I push myself up slowly, the room tilting like I’m on a hostile sea.
My body feels awful everywhere inside. It feels like the pain my clients often describe to me.
It’s like there’s...air trapped inside my veins, and it’s stretching them before they all burst simultaneously.
A unique and brutal kind of anxiety I have never felt before.
My throat is raw from screaming myself awake more than once last night.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there, breathing until the damn room calms down. Someone left a glass of water on my nightstand with two orange prescription bottles beside it. Heather’s handwriting is sharp and bossy on a sticky note.
Drink. Eat something. Medicate. Don’t argue.
I snort, but there’s really no humor in it. Every step down the hallway requires my hand on the wall to steady myself. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast.
Heather is leaning against the counter in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, phone pressed to her ear. Micah sits at the table, elbows spread, tearing apart a piece of peanut butter toast. They both look up when they see me.
“Hey,” Micah says softly, already standing.
Heather hangs up mid-sentence. “Good morning.”
I don’t make it all the way to the counter before she’s in front of me, hands on my arms, eyes scanning my face in that clinical way she does. I suppose there are benefits to my best friend being a nurse.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
She nods like that answers enough. Dr. Cassie’s voice echoes in my head from yesterday when I called to tell her that I was in the hospital. She spoke to me in a way that made me cry harder than anything else.
You’re not failing, Emma. You’re injured. There’s a difference. Take your time recovering.
She told me she’d handle the studio. That my clients would be fine and my income would be untouched as I stepped away to heal.
Take the break, she’d said. Let me carry this for a while. You’ve put so much work into this place. Keep me updated.
Heather pours me coffee without asking. Micah pulls out a chair. “I took time off,” she says casually. “I can take as much time as I need to while we figure this stuff out.”
My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” she cuts in gently. “So don’t make it weird.”
Micah nods. “You’re obviously not doing this alone.”
I sit, sipping the coffee, focusing on the mug’s warmth in my hands.
“Nova’s fed and is out back enjoying the sun,” Heather says.
“Thank you,” I mumble. I sit there for a few minutes, watching the steam from my cup curl up and disappear. Heather busies herself at the sink like she’s giving us space on purpose. Micah keeps glancing at me.
“What are we going to do?” I ask finally. The words feel weak the moment they leave my mouth.
Micah exhales and leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “I don’t know.”
My stomach drops. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one I’ve got.”
“They can’t just—” I stop myself, fingers tightening around the mug. “They can’t just take him, and that’s it. There has to be something. Lawyers. Press. Someone.”
Micah’s eyes soften, and I hate that look more than anything. “They threatened his life, Emma.”
I shake my head immediately. “No. They wouldn’t actually kill him.”
“They would,” he says quietly. “And they will. Alexei, especially.”
Heather turns from the sink then, her expression grim, but she doesn’t interrupt.
Micah leans forward, elbows on the table. “This isn’t a contract dispute or some asshole label drama. This is some of the darkest shit in the criminal underworld. And Jude knew that. That’s why he left the way he did. I saw it in his face.” He pauses. “He didn’t want to go.”
I swallow hard. “So what, we just let his life disappear?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I’m not saying that.”
“Because it sounds like you are.”
He sighs again, heavier this time. “I’m saying we can’t rush in half-cocked and make it worse. We're just regular people up against literal criminals.”
My chest tightens. The idea of worse feels unbearable. “You’re telling me there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’m telling you there’s nothing you can do right now.”
I stare down into my coffee, the surface trembling slightly. I hadn’t noticed my hands shaking.
“I’m doing a video chat with Finnick and Kami,” Micah says. “Tomorrow night. They’re demanding answers.”
That gets my attention. I look up. “They know?”
“Not really,” he admits. “Not the full picture. They’ve been completely out of the loop, Em. By design.” His mouth twists. “I feel like shit about it.”
“They must be losing their minds,” I whisper.
“Yeah. Finnick especially. He keeps texting like I’m going to magically explain everything in one sentence. But I just can't. There's so much history that they don't know.”
I press my lips together. “What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth. Or as much of it as I can without putting Jude in more danger.” He pauses.
“They deserve to know something. Why the band is suddenly no more. The press is freaking out, and no one knows what’s going on.
Adriana hasn’t issued a statement that makes sense yet.
Just that Jude Graves has broken away from the band.
I deleted all social media from my phone because the messages from fans were driving me fucking crazy. ”
I nod slowly, even though my chest aches. “You’re all his family.”
“So are you.”
The words make my stomach hurt.
Heather finally steps in, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You need to take it easy for another couple of days,” she says gently.
“I feel like if I don’t start moving, something terrible will happen to him,” I admit.
Micah’s voice drops. “Something terrible already happened.”
A thick and heavy silence settles over the kitchen again. I look around my safe, quiet, ordinary house, and feel the weight of how far away he is. Not just in miles. In worlds.
“Tell them,” I say softly. “Everything you can.”
Micah nods. “I will.”
I take a slow breath, forcing my lungs to cooperate. “And when you find out anything, anything at all, you tell me.”
“Of course.”
I stare down at my hands, at the faint tremor I can’t quite control. Because I refuse to believe this is the end of what I can do. “When you get back, we’re coming up with another plan, Micah,” I say with more confidence. “We’re going to get him out.”
He nods. “I agree. He’s my best friend, Emma. He’s done so much for me and protected me. I’d die for him.”
I shift, sighing into my mug. “Hopefully you won’t have to.” My phone starts buzzing on the counter, and Heather glances at it.
“I’m going to step into the other room,” she says, voice soft. “Take this.” She nudges my phone toward me.
The screen is already lit. Mom. I hesitate just long enough to consider not answering. Then I do. “Hey,” I say, forcing the word to sound normal. Micah smiles sweetly at me before joining Heather in the guest room.
“Oh, sweetheart,” my mom breathes, relief rushing through the line. “There you are. I was starting to worry.”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I promise. I just…needed a couple days.”
“I know. Heather has kept me updated,” she says gently. “And I know you text every morning. But texts aren’t the same.”
I close my eyes and smile despite myself. “I know.”
A pause. “You’re on speaker, by the way,” my dad’s voice chimes in. “Your mother refuses to hold the phone like a normal person. Jessica, will you just let me hold it? Shit.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, kiddo,” he says warmly. “We were hoping we’d hear your voice soon.”
I push back from the counter and wander toward the sliding glass door. “Sorry, I’ve been a little…distant.”
“You don’t ever have to apologize for that,” my mom says. “We just wanted to know you’re okay.”
I step outside, where the cold air smacks me in the face. The ocean is loud today—restless, crashing against the rocks. Nova trots over immediately, tail wagging, and I crouch to scratch behind her ear.
“I’m safe,” I say. “Just working through some difficult stuff with Jude.”
There’s a soft silence on the other end. My mom is the first to speak. “What kind of difficult stuff, honey?”
I stare out at the water, at the way the waves keep breaking. “He’s…struggling,” I say carefully. “With drugs. And he broke away from the band.”
My dad exhales. “Yeah. I saw the headline.”
My stomach twists. “Of course you did.”
“It’s hard to miss,” he says gently. “I’m sorry, Emma bear.”
My mom sighs. “I talked to Rachel, you know. After you came to visit them with Jude.”
My fingers still in Nova’s fur. “You did?”
“She said it was a beautiful visit,” Mom says. “She and Alaric have been so scared for him.” Her voice softens. “So…thank you, sweetie. For doing that for them.”
Something in my chest cracks open. “I just wanted him to see them,” I whisper. “To remember he’s loved.”
“You did a good thing,” my dad says. “Even if it didn’t fix everything. Addiction is one of the hardest thing to watch someone you love go through.”
I swallow hard.
“We hate that you ended up in the hospital,” my mom adds, worry creeping back in. “From anxiety, of all things. Are you taking your medication?”
“Yes,” I say. “Every day now. I promise.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “And don’t you dare stop just because you think you should be ‘stronger.’”
I smile faintly. “I won’t.”
Nova leans into my hand, and I focus on that for a second.
I've had a relatively privileged and beautiful life, sheltered away from traumatic experiences.
Some people become therapists because they've struggled with intense things, but not me.
I pursued it, mainly, because I want to offer peace to others who are in pain.
Sure, I've wrestled with anxiety disorder my entire life…
but it's not what drove me to do this. People deserve to feel safe, seen, and heard.
“I love you,” I say quietly. “Both of you.”
“We love you more,” Dad replies instantly.
“I’ll come visit soon,” I add.
“We’ll hold you to that,” Mom says. “And Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“Be gentle with yourself.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll try.”
When the call ends, the quiet rushes back in. I sink into one of the chairs on the deck, pulling my knees up as I stare out at the ocean. The sky is now heavy with clouds, completely blocking the sun and offering a muted gray. Mid-October. My birthday is coming up. The twenty-fifth.
My mother, Jessica Easton, is someone who tries not to press too hard, even when she’s concerned.
I picture her art studio in Northern California, with high-end art and beautiful displays, light pouring in through big windows.
I get my hands from her. My way of seeing things.
After I moved out, she and Dad went ahead and bought a beautiful home up there.
And my dad, Anthony Easton, is a warm, gentle soul who laughs a lot. He’s always been someone who knows how to ask the right questions. Being a philosophy professor will do that.
I pictured my birthday differently, that’s for sure.
I close my eyes, letting the wind tangle my hair, and the waves fill the space where he is missing. I think about how love can stretch across states and years and pain—and still not be enough to hold someone in place.