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There it is. That shift in her tone. The one that tells me she’s about to bring up something I won’t like.
I hesitate. “What?”
“Emma’s fundraiser how is it going?” she says casually, like it’s something I should already know about.
My brows furrow. “What fundraiser?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Liz sighs. “Oh, Bryan. Are you serious you don't know? It's all over town.”
“Are you serious?” I snap, sitting up.
“She’s raising money for her clinic,” Liz explains. “It’s happening in four weeks. She didn’t tell you?”
I swallow hard. “No.” Which makes sense, doesn’t it? I’d given her no reason to.
Liz groans. “You are so dense.” I drag a hand through my hair. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means she’s avoiding you on purpose because you screwed up,” she says bluntly. “She heard what you said at my place, Bry. Nate told me.”
I shut my eyes. I had told Nate what had happened. “I know,” I mutter.
“Do you?” she presses. “Because I’m guessing you still haven’t fixed it.”
I grip the edge of the table, my jaw tight. “Liz, it’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not,” she argues. “You care about her. You wouldn’t be this worked up if you didn’t.”
I stay silent, because what the heck do I say to that? Liz sighs. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on in that thick head of yours, but I do know Emma’s doing something incredible for this town, and she needs all the help she can get.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
“Maybe you can’t fix everything overnight,” Liz continues, voice softer now, “but you can help her with this. And honestly, if you want to stand a chance at making things right, it’s a good place to start.”
Her words settle in my chest, heavy. I think of Emma, of how hard she’s working, of how she probably won’t even ask for help because she’s too proud.
I drag in a slow breath. “Okay.”
Liz brightens. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” I mutter. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Good,” she says smugly. “And Bry?”
“What?”
“Don’t screw it up.”
She hangs up before I can respond. I stare at my phone for a beat, my mind already racing. Four weeks. If Emma won’t let me in, then I’ll find another way to show her I do care, and that I didn't mean what I had said.
***
I step into the living room, rubbing a hand over my jaw. The air inside the house is warm, thick with the scent of old books and something faintly floral, lavender. Yes, always lavender.
Emma’s hunched over the table, flipping through a worn sketchpad, completely unaware of my presence. The soft glow from the lamp above casts her in gold, highlighting the slope of her neck, the way her lips press together in thought.
My stomach tightens. She doesn’t look up, just keeps sketching, tapping her pen against the paper. “Emma.”
She tenses, her pen pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes cautious, unreadable.
I step further in, forcing myself to breathe through the mess of emotions knotted in my chest. “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I start, voice steady, even though it doesn’t feel that way. “For what I said at Nate’s house, what you overheard.”