Heather is instantly beside me, her hand warm and firm on my shoulder. “Emma. Hey. Hey, look at me.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice is barely audible. “It’s—it’s just a glass.”
She doesn’t move her hand. “You’re shaking.”
I swallow hard and stand, brushing hair behind my ear like that alone could make me look a little more composed. “He’s alive.” The words scrape out of me.“Clearly.I mean...theywouldn’t post that if he—” I exhale. “He obviously survived it.” But my stomach twists, and my trembling hands won’t stop.
Jude Graves.
My Jude.
Collapsing. Overdosing. Alone. Scared, maybe.
Heather squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “I’m okay.”
Her eyes narrow. “Emma, it’s okay to admit this hurts. Youlovedhim. And since he left...he hasn’t been the same person. Anyone can see it. Interviews, photos. He looks hollow.”
I force a tight smile. “People change.”
She just stares at me. She knows that there really aren’t any words to describe the pain I’m feeling at this moment. The Jude I knew before...he would never…
Nova pads over and nudges my leg, whining. I scratch behind her ears with my uninjured hand, grounding myself in the warmth of her fur as my heart tries to crawl out of my chest. Heather helps me sweep the glass in silence, the soft scrape of the broom mixing with the muffled crash of waves against the rocks outside.
“Hold still,” she murmurs when she catches sight of my bleeding palm. She pulls the first-aid kit from under the sink.
I rinse the cut under cool water. Pink spirals of blood swirl down the drain. It stings, but I can barely feel it with the other pain just tearing into my gut.
She dabs the cut with alcohol, and I flinch. “Emma,” she says gently, “have you heard from him recently?”
I shake my head, drying my hand on a paper towel. “Not really.” My voice thins. “The last time weactuallyspoke was the day he left.”
She pauses, looking up through her lashes. “That’s such bullshit. Some people get a golden ticket and forget everyone who helped them get there.”
The truth of it burns worse than the alcohol on my wound.
“There wasonce,” I whisper, leaning against the counter for support. “Two years ago. I woke up to a message from him.”
Heather’s brows knit. “He texted you? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I don’t know.” My throat thickens as I speak the words that branded themselves into me.“‘I fucking hate everything without you. I’m not well.’”
Heather’s lips part. “Oh, Em…”
“I texted back. Immediately. But by the time I hit send, the message bounced.” My voice breaks. “He’d blocked me again.”
Heather sets the first-aid kit aside and pulls me into a hug. I sink into it, my forehead pressed to her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
I nod, but the ache in my chest sharpens instead of easing. I wish I could hate him. I wish I could forget the way he smelled like amber cologne and cigarette smoke, or the way his voice would lull me to sleep on the nights when my anxiety was so bad. But...Ican’t. Because part of me still remembers who he wasbefore. As much as I’ve tried…I have never forgotten how he once made me feel.
When we pull apart, she gently squeezes my hands. “You’re stronger now,” she says.
A small, brittle smile touches my mouth. “Yeah. I had to be. You don’t get over a love like ours easily.”
After Heather leaves, the house feels uncomfortably quiet. Just the sound of waves and the occasional groan of old wood in the walls. Normally, I love the silence. But right now...not so much. I pour the last of the wine into my glass, and tell myself it’s to help me sleep, even if I know it’s not.
Now it’s just me, my computer, and the ache I shouldn’t feed—that reckless, stupid urge to drown myself in him. Tofeelhim. I haven’t given in since that text two years ago, but knowing what just happened…