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I snort. “Remember it? Pretty sure the thing still has streaks of green where it shouldn’t.”
Emma grins, full and bright, and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably.
“You were terrible,” she accuses.
“I was fifteen.”
“You got more paint on the ground than the shed.”
“You got more paint in your hair than anywhere else,” I fire back, smirking.
She laughs clear, unrestrained, effortless. And I hate how much I feel it. It’s like being pulled into a rip current unexpected, strong, dragging me into something I have no business drowning in.
For a second … just a second, it feels like old times. Like seventeen again. Like summer bonfires and stolen kisses. Like she never left. And that’s dangerous.
She shifts in her chair, leaning forward slightly as she reaches for another piece of bread. The movement sends a faint wisp of lavender in my direction. My grip on my spoon tightens.
Her sleeve brushes the table, the flickering light catching on the delicate curve of her jaw. My pulse kicks up before I can stop it.
No.
No. No. No.
I rip my gaze away, staring hard at my soup. This isn’t happening. She left. She made her choice. I won’t let myself forget that.
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now. It’s heavier. Charged. She doesn’t seem to notice.
She just sips her soup like nothing’s changed, like she didn’t just drag me through a dozen memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. I push my bowl away, suddenly done.
“I'll do the dishes. First, I need to get some air.”
Emma glances up, but she doesn’t question it. She just nods.
“Night,” she murmurs, standing and stretching.
I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice. I watch her disappear up the stairs, the soft creak of old wood marking her steps.
When she’s gone, I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. I can’t do this. Whatever this is. The small talk. The memories. The feelings creeping in when I swore that I wouldn’t let them.
I made peace with what happened a long time ago. I told myself I was over her. And I believed it.
But now? Now, I’m not so sure.
Chapter seven
Emma
I push another box aside, wincing as a cloud of dust puffs into the air. "Ugh." I cough, waving a hand in front of my face. "Grandma, what were you storing in here? Ancient relics?"
Buddy, stretched out beside me, lifts his head at my voice, ears perking. Then, deciding I’m not actually addressing him, he rests his head back on his paws with a heavy sigh. I smirk. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re moral support, not physical labor.”
His tail thumps once against the floor in agreement. Shaking my head, I reach for another box. This one is different, smaller, sturdier, the edges frayed but still intact. My brow furrows as I brush away the layer of dust coating the top. The words "House Dreams" are written in Grandma’s unmistakable script.
A small jolt runs through me. My fingers trace the lettering as my throat tightens. This was her hopes and dreams. With careful hands, I open the cover. Inside, sketches, notes, lists, all of them for the house.
A new coat of paint. Fixing up the porch. Redoing the backyard, turning it into something warm and welcoming.
She had lots of plans for this place. And she never got to see them through. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down. My grip tightens on the binder. Maybe she couldn’t finish it. But we can.