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She huffs out a sharp breath, rising to her feet before stepping back to let me in. The second I cross the threshold; the house smells like her.
Lavender and something warm, familiar.Don't even go there.
Emma turns away, stalking toward a pile of boxes. I let my gaze sweep over the space, dusty furniture, creaky floors, Gracie’s old clock ticking against the silence.
It shouldn’t feel like home. But the memories are buried deep in the walls, clawing their way out. Emma suddenly whirls back, arms crossed.
“We should talk about how this is going to work,” she says, her voice steady. “I think we should split the space.”
I arch a brow. That’s it? No argument? No drawn-out battle? I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this. “Split the space,” I echo, watching her closely.
She nods. “Upstairs is mine, you take downstairs and the back bedroom upstairs. And we split our times in the kitchen. That way, we stay out of each other’s way.”
My eyes narrow. There’s no hesitation in her tone, no flicker of doubt, like she’s completely unaffected by the idea of living under the same roof again.
My jaw tightens. “What if I don’t agree?” I ask.
Emma doesn’t flinch. She just crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin.
“Then we make each other miserable for three months,” she says plainly. “But I don’t see the point. I just want to get by.”
That shouldn’t affect me. But something about the way she says it, the quiet strain behind her words, the flicker of exhaustion in her eyes hits me in a place I don’t want to acknowledge.
I drag a hand down my face. Three months. That’s all this is.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling sharply. Emma nods and tells me that I can take one of the bedrooms upstairs as well.
Buddy trots past me, immediately sniffing at the couch, completely unaware of the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
I take a step toward the living room, looking around at the dust-covered furniture, the old wooden banister leading upstairs.
And suddenly, memories rushes in. Sixteen, racing Emma up the stairs, her laugh echoing through the halls. Her grandma calling after us from the kitchen, lemonade in hand, scolding us for tracking sand inside.
I grit my teeth. The house feels too alive with memories. And I hate that she’s in them.
I turn going to one of the rooms, ready to get this over with. I must confess the house is in a bad state. It would take weeks if not months to bring it back to life.
When I circle back to the dining room, I find Emma hunched over a box, her shoulders stiff. Something in my chest curls.
She looks small, fingers hovering over a leather-bound book. I recognize it immediately. A photo album.
She flips it open, and I see it. Me. Her. Grandma. We’re grinning around a bonfire, the summer before she left.
I exhale sharply, and she hears it. Her head jerks up. Our eyes lock. And in that moment, the air shifts and I see it in her eyes, grief. Raw, aching, just like mine.
She looks away fast, but the damage is done. I felt it too. For the first time since she left, we’re not two strangers standing on opposite sides of a war. We’re just… Bryan and Emma. Both of us missing the same person.
I storm upstairs, hating how that moment cracked something in me. Because it can’t happen. Not again. I toss my bag onto the bed, pacing, forcing the emotions back down where they belong.
I hate that she still gets to me. I hate that I notice the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her voice wavers over Grandma’s name.
And I really, really hate that I want to reach for her just now. Not happening. I rub a hand over my face and reach for my phone, just as a voice drifts up from downstairs.
Emma.
I freeze, listening. “I just need time to settle in my new place. I told you I’d always reach out.”
There’s a pause. Then softer, “You don’t have to worry, I can't forget about you.”