1. Serena #2
Oopsie.
Thankfully, Kroydon Hills has fantastic takeout.
You want Italian, go to Nonna’s.
Something sweet? Sweet Temptations has you covered.
The best wine? That’s easy. Cherry Creek Vineyards is steps away from my house.
Burgers and fries is a little harder. Liv swears by West End, but I prefer The Busy Bee’s burgers. Okay, no, I don’t. I prefer their chocolate shakes and occasionally, their Boston cream pie. And today feels like a chocolate shake kind of day. Liv can suck it.
The Busy Bee it is.
“Hey, Serena,” the familiar hostess greets me. “Your order should be up soon. The kitchen’s a little backed up tonight. If you want to take a seat at the counter, it shouldn’t be too long.”
“Thank you.” I force a smile on autopilot, in absolutely no shape to be in a room full of people. Not when my head and my heart both hurt like hell. Guilt tugs at me for the way I talked to Dad, even if I don’t regret a single thing I said.
“Hey, Serena.” The line cook winks, smiling from the open window behind the counter as I take a seat and pull out my phone. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”
A cup of steaming raspberry tea is pushed my way, and I murmur my thanks.
Maybe I should be concerned about how much takeout we eat since everyone in the place knows us, but it’s Kroydon Hills.
Everybody knows everybody, and unfortunately for us, they’re all up in each other’s business as much as possible.
It’s the burden of living in a small town.
The pros definitely outweigh the cons, but some days, I wish I could tell those cons to kiss my ass.
Like right now, when my chest threatens to crack open and spit my broken heart out on the dirty tile floor at my feet.
Because walking toward me is the only man to ever eviscerate that traitorous organ.
The only man who ever had my heart.
The one who got married six months after we broke up.
Six months after he asked me to marry him.
And he’s holding the little boy he and his wife had . . . less than six months later.
The mug in my hand slips through my fingers as the room around me closes in, and I forget how to breathe. A concrete block presses against my chest, weighing my lungs down as they squeeze tighter with panic clawing its dagger-tipped claws beneath my ribs.
No . . .
Not now.
Not here.
Please . . . I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose, sucking in any oxygen I can manage as the room tilts and my pulse explodes in my ears.
The noisy café suddenly becomes deafening.
Silverware drags against plates like nails on a chalkboard.
Chairs scrape. People talk. Someone coughs. A baby laughs.
Hendrix’s baby.
Oh God . . .
He’s smiling.
Both of them are.
Dark hair like he hasn’t seen the sun all summer.
Broad shoulders.
That stupid smile . . . the one that could convince me to do anything.
Almost anything.
The tips of my fingers tingle as numbness sets in, and my heart threatens to race so rapidly, it sprints to an imaginary finish line and explodes in my chest like an overinflated balloon.
Like I’m having a heart attack—but not.
Because no matter how much my body screams that’s what’s happening, this isn’t a heart attack. It also isn’t the first time this has happened. No . . . this is a panic attack.
I’m not dying.
I’m fine.
I am fine . . .
Maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll actually believe it.
For fuck’s sake—who am I kidding?
Fine left the building before I even walked inside the diner.
And now it’s time for me to leave too.
I stand on shaky feet, desperate to get the hell out of here, but a body blocks me.
His body. “Serena?” His blurry face moves closer. “Are you okay?”
I blink, but his face won’t come into focus.
No. No. No.
Words . . . Use your words, Serena.
“I . . .” The single word comes out like a broken gasp, and my knees wobble.
His hand shoots out, and I jerk back, slamming against the stool behind me and knocking it into the counter with a loud crash. “Don’t touch me.”
Well, that came out loud and clear.
My body is fighting its way through a fire my brain insists is real.
A towering inferno threatening to burn me alive.
If it’s not real, why does this hurt so bad?
The little boy looks up at me.
His eyes a crystal-clear green.
Just like his mother’s.
“Slow down, Serena.” Hendrix’s gravelly voice washes over me. “Breathe.”
Damn him.
My eyes fly back up to his and freeze.
Locked in place.
Locked on him.
The memories don’t come rushing back. They don’t need to. They never left.
A million of them crash like waves rolling over me all at once, the weight of each one pulling me under. Refusing to let go.
Secrets and sunsets.
Saltwater and rainstorms.
His hoodie wrapped around my body.
A promise whispered against my forehead.
Tears fill my eyes, and my vision blurs.
I can’t do this.
“I’ve got to go,” I finally manage and hurry out of The Busy Bee, ignoring my name as it’s called behind me.
The sticky night air smacks me in the face, clinging to me as I choke and brace my palms against my stomach, trying desperately to suck in a breath that’s so far out of reach, I may never catch it.
One breath . . . Just one.
But my lungs refuse to fill.
The edge of my vision darkens as I fight to keep my hands steady against my body. Fight to stop the violent shaking. Fight for one single second of relief.
“Serena, look at me.”
That voice.
Of course he followed me.
Even on the verge of a full meltdown, I still do what he says and look at him in time to see him reach again. Slower this time, like I’m a frightened animal he’s trying to tame.
Good fucking luck.
“I. Said. Don’t.” Each word shakes worse than the last.
Hendrix stops, taking a step back and wrapping his dropped hand around his son. But his eyes never leave mine. Their hold on me as strong today as it was three years ago.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper and feel my lungs fill for the first time in what feels like years but in reality is more like minutes. Long seconds strung together with the world’s most painful thread of mistakes.
He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Serena,” the hostess calls as she opens the door with a bag marked Kingston in her hands. “You almost left without your order.” She looks between Hendrix and me. “Are you okay?”
When she asks, it doesn’t hurt.
It’s comical, really. Because in no way, in no world, am I okay. But she doesn’t need to know that. No one really does.
Not even Olivia.
Certainly not Hendrix.
I nod at the familiar face and take the bag. “I will be.”
And when I walk away, I don’t look back.