“It’s fine, I think of work pretty much constantly.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re hitting the gym later. Don’t make me drag you.”
I groan and drag a hand down my face. “Fine. But only because you’re annoying and I’m too tired to fight you on it.”
Her grin is smug. “Youloveme. And you’d rather be with me than deal with Ryan.”
I sigh, letting my legs dangle over the water. “He keeps texting, but I don’t have the energy anymore. I feel bad, but…”
Heather snorts. “You have to stop comparing everyone to him, Emma.”
I straighten, scrunching my nose. “I’m not doing that. Ryan just wasn’t the one. He’s a little, um, clingy.”
“I’m sorry. I had hope. He was your longest relationship since Jude. Eight months, right?”
I nod, watching a sailboat drift by as the Oregon sun warms my shoulders. I had some hope, too. But when people say you never really get over your first love, they’re unfortunately right.
The cool evening breeze drifts through the open windows, ruffling the thin white curtains. Heather and I are sprawled on the cushioned chairs around my little dining table, a pot of pasta steaming between us, two glasses of red wine swirling with the last bits of golden sunlight. Summertime in Seaside is the most beautiful thing.
The kitchen still smells a little like garlic and rosemary from dinner. Pots and pans are stacked neatly by the stove, and the little shelves along the wall are crammed with shells, old sketchbooks, and a few framed prints of my paintings. Even with all the mess of life outside, this place is the definition of peace. I built it that way for a reason.
We dig into the pasta, and I nearly choke because I’m so hungry.
“I swear I burned enough calories to eat thisentirepot without guilt,” Heather says, twirling spaghetti onto her fork.
“Exactly,” I agree, swiping a strand off my plate and popping it in my mouth. “Weearnedthis. Pasta doesn’t count if we worked for it. That’s what my mom always said, anyway.”
Heather laughs, her hair tied into a messy bun, a little chaotic like she is. “That’s totally not logical, but it makes sense to me. Mama Easton for the win.”
“Ugh, too muchhh,” I grumble, folding my hands over my stomach. “I atewaytoo much. I hate myself.” A dramatic sigh leaves me as I slump over.
She giggles, downing the rest of her wine. And then we trade stories about her day at the hospital, where a kid peed on the IV stand, and his mother frantically apologized, turning red as a tomato. I snort into my glass when she throws her head back in laughter. She has the type of laugh that makes you laugh even when you don’t know what’s so funny. I love that about her.
Nova, my black German Shepherd, pads into the room, brown eyes shining as always, tail wagging, begging for scraps. I wave her off. “Iunfortunatelyate everything, girl. Go beg Heather.” She plops next to the chair and stretches, her head coming to rest on her paws instead.
“Aw, mommy’s not leaving you any food?” Heather laughs, leaning over to scratch Nova on her head.
“You’re the one that always fed her table scraps when she was a puppy,” I mumble. “Put some chicken in her bowl when you get up. Now I feel bad.”
She shrugs. “How could I not give her all the treats? She’s the cutest roommate I’ve ever had. And most well-behaved.”
I throw up my hands. “Wow. Thanks for that.”
She giggles, kissing Nova on the head. I was so grateful to have Heather as my roommate during our college years. She helped me cope with the loss of Jude and focus on my career. At twenty-six years old, I already co-own an art therapy business. One could say that heartbreak helped to push me to become what I am.
After dinner, I wash the dishes and stack them neatly on the drying rack. The wine has warmed my cheeks, the ocean breeze cooling my flushed skin. As I reach for another glass, Heather gasps.
I jolt, the glass slipping in my soapy fingers. “Goodness, Heather—what?”
She’s frozen at the table with a hand clamped over her mouth and her phone glowing in her other hand. Her eyes are too wide, and it immediately makes my stomach drop. “Oh god,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Emma...I don’t...just—look.”
I step closer, heartbeat thumping faster. And when I pause before her, the headline on her screen slams into me:
“Dissonance Frontman Jude Graves Collapses on Stage in Apparent Overdose.”
The glass slips from my hands before I feel myself let go. It hits the hardwood, shattering into pieces. My breath stutters out of my chest.
No. No.No—
My knees give out, and I drop to the floor automatically, reaching for the larger shards with numb fingers. A sharp sting slices my palm, but I barely feel it. Heat rushes up my neck and face, my ears ringing, vision going watery.