Something in my chest cracks open. “I just wanted him to see them,” I whisper. “To remember he’s loved.”
“You did a good thing,” my dad says. “Even if it didn’t fix everything. Addiction is one of the hardest thing to watch someone you love go through.”
I swallow hard.
“We hate that you ended up in the hospital,” my mom adds, worry creeping back in. “Fromanxiety, of all things. Are you taking your medication?”
“Yes,” I say. “Every day now. I promise.”
“Good,” she says firmly. “And don’t you dare stop just because you think you should be‘stronger.’”
I smile faintly. “I won’t.”
Nova leans into my hand, and I focus on that for a second. I've had a relatively privileged and beautiful life, sheltered awayfrom traumatic experiences. Some people become therapists because they've struggled with intense things, but not me. I pursued it, mainly, because I want to offer peace to others who are in pain. Sure, I've wrestled with anxiety disorder my entire life…but it's not what drove me to do this. People deserve to feel safe, seen, and heard.
“I love you,” I say quietly. “Both of you.”
“We love you more,” Dad replies instantly.
“I’ll come visit soon,” I add.
“We’ll hold you to that,” Mom says. “And Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“Be gentle with yourself.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll try.”
When the call ends, the quiet rushes back in. I sink into one of the chairs on the deck, pulling my knees up as I stare out at the ocean. The sky is now heavy with clouds, completely blocking the sun and offering a muted gray. Mid-October. My birthday is coming up. The twenty-fifth.
My mother, Jessica Easton, is someone who tries not to press too hard, even when she’s concerned. I picture her art studio in Northern California, with high-end art and beautiful displays, light pouring in through big windows. I get my hands from her. My way of seeing things. After I moved out, she and Dad went ahead and bought a beautiful home up there.
And my dad, Anthony Easton, is a warm, gentle soul who laughs a lot. He’s always been someone who knows how to ask the right questions. Being a philosophy professor will do that.
I pictured my birthday differently, that’s for sure.
I close my eyes, letting the wind tangle my hair, and the waves fill the space where he is missing. I think about how love can stretch across states and years and pain—and still not be enough to hold someone in place.
Chapter four
MICAH PRESCOTT
I really don’t want to fucking do this. But I force myself to sit in the living room of the beach house in front of my laptop, sitting on the coffee table. It’s the last night I’m staying here since Jude is gone. For the foreseeable future, I’m staying with Emma. I rake a hand through my hair and stare at the blank screen.
I feel fucking useless. I hate that I lied to them. I hate that I didn’t do more. I hate that I stood by and watched Jude fall.
But I was broken too.
I am broken.
The laptop erupts with that shrill, god-awful ringtone, and I slap “accept” just to make it stop. Kami and Finnick fill the screen instantly. Kami’s blood red hair is swept into a messyponytail, her blue eyes clear of her usual eyeliner. Finnick’s messy blonde hair has grown out a little bit, and his brown eyes swiftly narrow at me.
“Hey,” Finnick says flatly. “So what the fuck happened?”
“Hello to you too, Fin,” I mutter.
“We’ve been trying to contact Nolan. Adriana. Jude.No oneis answering. No one is telling usanything. This is fucking unprofessional. So you better tell us what the fuck is going on.”