Page 8

Emma
The office smells like old books and dust, the air thick and stale, as if no one’s cracked open a window in years. A single fan hums in the corner, rattling every few seconds, struggling against the heat.
I smooth my blouse, tugging at a stubborn wrinkle near the hem, though it doesn’t make much of a difference. My mind is elsewhere, grocery math, numbers clicking away in the back of my head and how to make my little savings last.
I swallow, pushing down the gnawing unease. It’s fine. I’ll make it work.
Mr. Henshaw’s office is cluttered, stacks of folders teetering on his desk, loose papers scattered across every available surface. Sunlight filters through the dusty blinds, casting faint stripes across the floorboards. It smells faintly of ink and stale coffee.
I shift in my seat, my fingers tracing the smooth edge of the wooden armrest, the question circling in my head like a vulture.
Who’s the second beneficiary?
I half-expect a name I don’t recognize. Some distant cousin that I’ve never met. Maybe a forgotten relative from my father’s side. Whoever it is, I just want to get this over with.
Henshaw clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Emma, good to see you…”
The door opens. The sound cuts through the room like a whipcrack, the air shifting, charged. And then the last person I expect to be here walks in.
Bryan.
My pulse skips, then stumbles, my body betraying me before my mind can catch up. He moves with the same quiet confidence, the same controlled intensity that used to set him apart from every other boy in Ocean Bay.
But he’s not a boy anymore. He’s broader, sharper, his presence encompassing the entire room.
His blonde hair is a little longer than I remember, tousled just right, like he ran a hand through it in frustration. His jaw is tighter, his shoulders wider, his dress shirt crisp against the muscles beneath.
And that scent. Cedar and salt air, familiar, maddening. It floods my senses, wrapping around me like a memory I never gave permission to return.
I hate that I notice. I hate that I feel it.
His eyes find mine, and for a split second, something tightens in my chest. But it dies fast. Because Bryan Lawson looks at me like I’m nothing.
Cold. Distant. Flat.
Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hint of the warmth that used to pull me in like the tide.
I force my arms across my chest, gripping my elbows like a shield. This is fine. This is good. He’s moved on. He doesn’t care.
I wanted this, for him to have moved on. He smiles at Henshaw as they shake hands and exchange pleasantries.
“Did I mix up the time?” I ask, my voice thinner than I’d like.
Henshaw shakes his head, sliding his glasses up his nose. “No mix-up.” His tone shifts. Careful. Neutral. I glance at Bryan, his brows arc but he says nothing. Why is he here? Isn't a will reading supposed to be private?
"Please have a seat, Bryan,"
I tense as Bryan takes the sit next to me. His body easily dwarfs the chair, and I can feel a warmth that brings back such memories.Stop it Emma, get back to now.
He’s completely unfazed, still not glancing in my direction. It stings.
I shouldn’t care, but I do. Because I remember when his eyes would search for me across a crowded room. I remember being his center of gravity. And now? Now I’m air.
A memory flickers. Bryan at seventeen, spinning me around on the beach, his laughter warm, golden, as sand stuck to our feet. "You’re my best thing, Em."
I shove it down. That’s gone. He’s moved on. I made sure of it.
Then Henshaw drops the bomb. “Bryan’s the other beneficiary.”