Chapter 4 #2
The highway eventually narrows into winding two-lane roads that follow the river.
Sunlight flashes across the water through breaks in the trees while warm summer air whips through the loose strands escaping my braid.
Dad glances back every so often to make sure I'm still with him, and each time I lift a hand from the handlebars and wave him off.
I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. For the first time since Miami, the constant noise in my head starts to quiet down.
Thoughts of Ethan aren't gone, but they're farther away than they've been in weeks.
A few tiny towns come and go as we ride.
Most consist of little more than a gas station, a church, and a handful of houses clustered around a four-way stop.
Another biker passes heading the opposite direction, and Dad lifts two fingers from his handlebars.
The rider immediately returns the gesture before disappearing down the road.
Watching the exchange makes something ache unexpectedly inside my chest.
The roads. The people. The familiarity of a life I spent years pretending I'd outgrown.
Somewhere along the way I'd convinced myself that success looked like luxury condos, private events, and front-row seats at baseball games.
Out here, surrounded by fields and open sky with Jackson miles behind us, I realize none of those things ever felt as much like home as this does.
Eventually Dad slows and signals before turning into a gravel parking lot overlooking the river.
I follow him in, killing my engine beside his bike while a laugh slips out before I can stop it.
The faded diner sign out front looks exactly the same as it did when I was eighteen, right down to the peeling paint and flickering neon that probably hasn't worked properly in years. "No way."
Dad grins as he removes his helmet. "Thought you'd recognize it."
"I can't believe this place is still here."
"Best burgers in three counties."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time."
Shaking my head, I climb off my bike and pull off my helmet.
The screen door slams behind us when we walk inside, and the familiar sounds of conversation and clattering dishes immediately surround us.
Half the people in the diner seem to know Dad.
A couple of older men call out greetings from the counter while a waitress waves the second she spots him.
The screen door slams behind us as we step inside, and instantly I'm hit with a wave of familiarity.
Not because anything about the place is particularly special.
The vinyl booths have seen better days, the checkerboard floor is worn from decades of boots crossing it, and old photographs of Jackson hang crookedly on the walls alongside faded sports memorabilia and license plates from states I've never visited.
Still, something about it settles deep in my chest. Maybe it's because this place hasn't changed.
Maybe it's because neither has the feeling it gives me.
The lunch crowd has thinned out, leaving only a handful of locals scattered throughout the diner.
Two older farmers sit near the front window nursing cups of coffee while a group of construction workers occupies a table near the back.
The hum of quiet conversation blends with the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, creating the kind of background noise I didn't realize I'd missed.
Dad barely makes it three steps inside before someone calls out his name. "Afternoon, Piston."
He lifts a hand in greeting. "Afternoon."
People nod as we pass, and more than a few recognize me. Surprise flashes across several faces before it gives way to warm smiles. "Scarlett?"
"Welcome home, sweetheart."
"Been a while," someone else says, smiling at me.
I smile and return the greetings, surprised by how much easier it feels than I expected.
Nobody is staring. Nobody is whispering.
Nobody is looking at me with pity in their eyes.
They aren't seeing the woman whose boyfriend cheated on her in spectacular fashion or the girl who went viral for losing her mind in a Miami bar. To them, I'm just Scarlett Blackstone.
Dad leads us toward a booth tucked into the back corner of the diner. The same booth we've occupied more times than I can count over the years. Sliding onto the bench, I run my fingers across the tabletop and laugh softly.
"Still your favorite booth?"
Dad settles across from me and glances toward the entrance. "Best view of the door."
I shake my head. "You know normal people pick booths because they're comfortable."
"Comfortable's overrated."
"Spoken like a true biker."
His mouth twitches. "Never know when trouble might walk in."
"Pretty sure the biggest threat in Jackson is Mrs. Henderson's cat."
That earns a snort. "That thing is mean as hell."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and Dad's eyes immediately lift to mine. The amusement lingering on his face fades into something softer. Something that makes my chest ache because I realize he hasn't heard me laugh much lately.
Before either of us can say anything about it, a familiar voice interrupts. "Well, look who finally decided to come home."
I glance up and find Marcy approaching with a coffee pot in one hand and an order pad tucked beneath her arm. Her blond hair has more gray in it than I remember, but otherwise she looks exactly the same.
"Hey, Marcy."
The older woman reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Honey, it's good to see you."
"It's good to be seen."
Her smile softens. "Your mama told me you were back."
"Been a few days."
"And somehow you've gotten prettier."
I laugh. "You're a terrible liar."
"Been doing it professionally for thirty years."
Dad points at her. "She's right."
"Oh, please."
"Just calling it like I see it."
Marcy flips open her order pad. "Same as always?"
Dad doesn't even glance at a menu. "Cheeseburger. Fries. Sweet tea."
"Shocking," She mutters and his grin widens. Turning to me, she arches her brow. "What about you?"
I don't need a menu either. "Same thing."
"Still copying your daddy's order?"
"Dad's order is the best thing on the menu."
"Damn right it is."
Marcy laughs and scribbles something down. "Two cheeseburger baskets and two sweet teas. I'll be back." Once she disappears toward the kitchen, the booth grows quiet again. Around us, conversations continue, silverware clinks against plates, and the scent of fresh burgers drifts through the diner.
Across from me, Dad leans back against the booth and studies me over folded arms. The way fathers do when they're trying to figure out how much truth they're about to get. "How you doing, kiddo?"
My gaze drops to the tabletop. "Depends on the minute."
A slow nod follows. "Fair answer."
Dad's brows pull together. "Is the media still bothering you?"
"Constantly." I lean back against the booth and drag a hand through my hair. "Calls. Emails. DMs. Voicemails."
Dad's jaw immediately tightens.
"I've had reporters calling my phone every day. Entertainment shows want interviews. Sports networks want my reaction to his stupid apology he posted online. Some gossip site offered me fifty grand to tell my side of the story."
"Jesus Christ."
"Yeah."
"You answer any of them?"
I look at my dad and roll my eyes. "Not a chance."
"Good."
A small smile tugs at my lips. "Glad to have your approval."
"You already had it."
That makes me smile. I know my parents love me and are always there for me, but hearing it, after everything, means a lot.
Dad studies me for a second before asking the question I've been expecting. "You talk to him?"
The answer comes instantly. "No."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Has he called? Text? Emailed you?"
"Nope."
A muscle jumps in his jaw. "He hasn't tried to contact you at all?"
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Not once."
That seems to surprise him. Honestly, it surprises me too. After eight years together, after everything we built, and all of the years I spent managing every piece of his life, he hasn't reached out. The realization hurts more than I'd ever admit out loud.
Dad must see something on my face because his expression darkens. "Fuck him."
A short laugh escapes me and I nod. "Pretty much."
Silence settles between us for a few moments as I stare out the window toward our bikes parked outside. Sunlight glints off chrome and polished paint while people come and go through the diner parking lot.
Eventually Dad breaks the quiet. "Do you miss him?"
The question catches me off guard. For a moment I just stare at him, trying to figure out the answer. Eventually I shake my head. "No."
His brows lift slightly. "No?"
"Not him." Leaning back against the booth, I keep my gaze fixed on the window. "I miss who I thought he was. I miss the future I thought we were building. I miss believing somebody loved me the way I loved them. But what I’m figuring out is what we had wasn’t love."
The silence that follows doesn't feel uncomfortable. Just honest. Dad reaches for the salt shaker and turns it absently in his hand. "You know what I think?"
A small laugh escapes me. "You're gonna tell me whether I ask or not."
"Damn right."
The smile that tugs at my lips feels a little more genuine this time.
"I think you're grieving."
My forehead creases. "Grieving?"
"You lost something."
"It wasn't real."
"Doesn't matter." The response comes without hesitation. "You believed it was."
Those four words hit harder than anything else he's said all afternoon. Because he's right.
Whether Ethan deserved my love or not doesn't change the fact that I gave it to him. Whether our relationship was built on lies doesn't erase the years I spent building my life around it. The dreams were real to me, even if the man standing beside them wasn't.