Page 18 of Ember’s Heart
Ember
T he next morning, sunlight streamed through my bedroom windows, waking me up.
My head was throbbing as thoughts from last night flooded back.
The tequila shots, too many Lemon Drops, and an eager and overly flirty Jake Miller.
Thinking about Jake had me groaning so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom heard it wherever she was in the house.
“What were you thinking , Ember?” I mumbled into my pillow, the scent from the detergent suddenly offensive. I couldn’t believe I actually thought it’d be a good idea to try and make Colton jealous by practically dry humping poor Jake against the bar. Poor Jake.
I knew it was wrong to lead Jake on, a total drunken lapse in judgment. But the tiny, vindictive part of me couldn’t deny the satisfaction of seeing Colton’s jaw clench, the raw possessiveness in his eyes. It was a pathetic victory, fueled by liquor and years of unresolved feelings.
My throat tightened, a familiar ache blooming in my chest as I replayed the way it felt being in Colton’s arms. I blinked hard a few times, trying to stop the tears that always seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface these days, but it was no use.
They felt hot and heavy as they streamed down my temples and soaked into my pillowcase.
Pushing myself to get up, I dragged myself out of bed and to the shower, the hot water felt like a temporary reprieve from the pounding in my head.
I had work to do and I still needed to prepare for the first batch of farm-to-table meal kits I was launching next week.
Plus, I’d promised Scott at Habitat I’d follow up with that lumberyard about a potential donation for the Moore family’s new build.
I couldn’t afford to lay around and have a pity party over my feelings for a man who made his decision a long time ago, even if last night proved those feelings were still very much alive and kicking.
After a strong cup of coffee and a silent vow to never mix shots again, I make my way to my small office.
I dial the number for Perry’s Lumber, my voice professional and cheerful despite the lingering headache, and speak with the manager, Mr. Henderson.
I explained to him about Habitat’s current project, expressing the urgent need for materials.
I tell him about the Moore family’s situation – a single mother with two young children who had recently lost their home in a fire.
By the end of the call, Mr. Henderson had pledged a significant donation of lumber and roofing supplies, a huge win for the project.
Next, I turn my attention to the farm-to-table meal kits.
This was my baby, years of dreaming and planning.
I pull up the detailed spreadsheets outlining the weekly menus, focusing on seasonal produce.
I decided since my mom already filmed a video for her homemade Bolognese sauce, I’d use that for week one kits.
We’d feature her sauce using sausage and the vegetables hand-picked that morning.
Week two I wanted to do a grilled chicken with roasted root vegetables and a honey-mustard glaze, which I’d get with mom to do a video for that too.
Each kit would include all the pre-portioned ingredients, along with easy-to-follow recipe cards and even a little note about the farm and the specific vegetables used.
I even contacted a local butcher to get meat directly from them for the kits, and they loved the idea.
I still wanted to check out local bakeries about using their breads.
As of right now there weren’t any bakeries that really appealed to me.
However, I did speak to a woman my age, Emily, a couple weeks ago who was looking to move to the area and open her first bakery.
After speaking for hours and listening to her ideas, I loved her enthusiasm and what she was offering.
Plus, the idea of helping a new business get off the ground had me seriously considering waiting to make any decisions.
Finally, I reviewed the dates for our “Pick Your Own Produce” days.
Starting the weekend after the Fourth of July, we’d open up designated sections of the farm to the public every Saturday morning.
People could come and pick their own seasonal fruits and vegetables, and it’d be a great way to connect with the community, and hopefully boost sales.
I had flyers designed, ready to be distributed at the local farmers market, and Owen was even working on a short promotional video for social media.
Things were finally starting to come together.
Later that day, I found myself down by the barn, the familiar scent of hay and horse comforting as I brushed Shadow’s glossy coat.
I’ve had Shadow since I was about 12, I don’t ride her anymore since she’s gotten older, but being around her is always soothing for my soul.
And right now it was a welcome distraction from the past twenty-four hours.
The unmistakable crunch of gravel under boots as someone approaches has me pausing.
“You don’t look too bad today,” Colton murmurs, his voice low as he steps up beside me.
He smells clean shaven, a subtle hint of soap mingling with the familiar scent of him, and looks good dressed in just a simple white tee and jeans. Looking up at him, I manage a dry, humorless chuckle. “You should’ve seen me this morning. I felt like shit.”
We stand like that for a while, the silence stretching between us. Finally, I turn back to brushing my horse. I need the distraction. Being around Colton after all these years makes my heart hurt and my head spin.
Clearing his throat, he says, “I can’t believe you still have Shadow. How old is she now?” When I don’t immediately respond, my fingers tighten around the brush, he continues. “Ember, we need to talk. Really talk.”
Blinking up at him, my eyes connecting with his. “Colton,” I begin, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not sure I can. It hurts too bad.”
Just as I begin to lead Shadow back towards her stall, Colton gently reaches out to stop me, his hand closing around my upper arm.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please, Ember. Don’t walk away.
Don’t pretend there’s nothing still between us.
Just give me a couple minutes. Then if afterwards you don’t ever want to see me again, I’ll walk away and leave you alone. ”
Just the thought of him walking away again makes my lips tremble, like I’m on the edge of tears. Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I nod my head. “Ok,” I finally managed to say.
A silent battle rages within me. Part of me screamed to run, to protect the peace I’d finally managed to build.
But another part, a stubborn part that had never fully healed, whispered that it was time to finally confront the ghost that had haunted me for so long, to demand answers for the years of silence and the gaping hole his absence had left.
It wasn’t just about me anymore, it was about the years we’d lost because of him, all the unspoken words between us, and the what-ifs that still lingered in my mind.
“Okay,” I repeated, my voice a little stronger this time.
“But not here. I don’t want to do this where my family can hear, or customers can witness our business.
” I took a deep breath, and knew exactly the perfect spot- the pier that overlooked the creek.
It was up the road from the rock and was a neutral space, it was another spot we spent hours at as kids, jumping from the cliff, or swinging from the rope swing.
“Let’s go to the pier,” I suggested. A thought struck me, a small, familiar comfort in the midst of the rising anxiety.
“And maybe… maybe we can stop by Ed’s Market first. Grab a couple of their hoagies.
” Ed’s Market, that tiny little country store with its old wooden floors and dusty shelves, had surprisingly amazing hoagies.