“Oof,” she winces sympathetically. “That’s a triple-shot kind of afternoon.”
“Already had it,” I sigh, lifting my mug.
Behind her, two of our associate therapists wander through the hallway—Jordan zipping his backpack, Mae waving goodnight as she slips into her coat. They both offer quick smiles before heading out the door.
Cass watches them go, then leans lightly against one of the green velvet couches. “You handled a full rotation today. I’m impressed. And very proud.”
Her voice is warm, motherly in a way that never condescends. It’s one of the reasons clients adore her. Well, and me.
“I’m managing,” I say, wiping my hands on a paint-splattered towel. “How was your side of the battlefield?”
“I had a teenager refuse to speak for forty minutes and then burst into tears the second her dad picked her up,” she says dryly. “So, you know...normal Tuesday.”
“Damn,” I blow out a breath. “Do you think the father is abusive?”
She shakes her head, her blue eyes softening. “No, he’s been very invested in her recovery process. Her mother passed away from an overdose last year.”
I frown. “Oh.”
She glances around my studio at the canvases, the half-finished piece on the easel, and the soft glow of the lamps turning the room golden. “I walked by earlier and could hearyour client laughing,” she says. “You’re doing excellent work, Emma.”
Even after a year, the praise still makes me want to cry. “Thanks, Cass. Really.”
She straightens, grabbing her bag from a nearby chair. “I’m heading out. Lock up when you’re done?”
“Of course.”
Her smile is gentle but perceptive. It’s like she sees everything I’m holding and won’t make me say any of it out loud. “Have a restful night, okay? And please, for the love of my blood pressure, don’t stay here painting until midnight again. You needrest,sweetheart.”
“No promises,” I tease.
She points at me, mock stern. “Emma.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll try.”
She laughs softly and heads toward the door, calling back, “Nova, come say goodbye!”
Nova springs up, tail wagging, trotting after her for one last ear scratch before Cass disappears down the hall.
And then it’s quiet again.
Just me, the fading sunlight, the ocean breeze drifting in through the cracked window. And the steady hum of a life I built with my own two hands. My phone suddenly buzzes against the counter. A text from Heather. One that has my body freezing.
HEATHER
I know it’s been a rough week, and you probably don’t wanna hear this...but Jude is coming back to Seaside.
My mouth goes dry. Completely. Like my tongue is suddenly made of sand. For a full three seconds, all I can do is stare at the words, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.
No.
No, no, no.
I hit call before I can think. Heather answers on the second ring, her voice rushed, like she was waiting for me. “Em?”
“What are you talking about?” My own voice is unexpectedly strained. “What do you mean he’s coming here?”
She exhales sharply. “I didn’t want to text it all. I just...I thought you should know. I saw it online ten minutes ago—Jude got into a really bad bar fight last night.”