Page 37 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

thirty-six

. . .

Elle

I'm standing in the kitchen, the air thick with tension and the scent of something burnt lingering from dinner disasters of the past. Noah leans against the counter, arms crossed, that infuriatingly handsome face of his set in a serious expression.

I can feel my heart racing, a mix of anger and something else I refuse to acknowledge.

I told him we needed to talk. At the time, it seemed the smarter solution to distracting him than sex. Now I’m not so sure. No. I’m sure. We do need to talk. I was right the first time. This is long overdue.

“Noah, you can’t just saunter in here like everything is normal and expect it all to go back to the way it was. It’s not fair. Especially not after all this time,” I tell him, my breath shallow.

Because, shit, I forgot how damn attractive he is. How could I forget that? The way his dark hair falls just so, the way his eyes seem to hold a thousand secrets, and that smile—God, that smile. And the way he makes me feel. It’s all so… so fucking unfair.

We were finally getting back to some semblance of normal, the kids and me. Now he’s back and one kid is suspended, the other is disappearing further into themself every minute that passes, and last night I killed a guy!

Though, I guess in his defense, most of that happened before we knew he was here.

“What do I need to do? I’ll do anything,” he pleads, his voice low and earnest.

“Nothing,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “There’s nothing you can do. You left us and nothing you do will change that.”

“I left you to save you.” He steps closer, boxing me against the kitchen counter. My heart races, but not just from anger. There’s a heat radiating off him that makes it hard to think straight.

“It doesn’t matter why you left, Noah.” I put my hands on his chest to push him away, but somehow, they start roaming the muscled playing field of his chest instead.

Get it together, Elle! You’re stronger than this. You’ve seen this man belch and chew with his mouth open. He has morning breath, and he farts. There’s probably skid marks in his boxers right now.

And he never, ever throws the freaking beer cap away like a normal person. Always just leaving them on the counter for the cleanup fairy to take care of. Plus, he spells commitment incorrectly, adding in that second “t”. That’s some irony right there, I tell you.

He’s nothing special.

He has no hold over you.

I nod in affirmation to my thoughts and back away, creating space between us. “You were still gone. It’s been over two years. A lot has changed in that time. Especially me.”

He looks at me, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I mean I’ve had to learn how to be a single parent. I’ve had to figure out how to keep everything together without you. I’ve had to be strong for our kids.”

“Elle—”

“No!” I cut him off, raising my hand as if to physically stop him from speaking. “You don’t get to come back and act like you can just pick up where we left off. You don’t get to waltz back into our lives and expect everything to be fine.”

He runs a hand through his hair; a gesture I used to find endearing but now only serves to frustrate me further. “I’m not expecting anything to be fine. Or what it used to be. I just want a chance to explain.”

“Explain what?” I scoff, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. “How you thought leaving would somehow make everything better? How you thought disappearing for two years was a good idea?”

“I thought it was the best thing at the time!” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly

“The best thing?” I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “Please tell me how leaving was best when all we needed was for you to be here! For you to support us! To be a husband to me and a father to our kids!”

“I know,” he says softly, his expression shifting from frustration to something more vulnerable. “And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for everything.” His eyes are watery.

If he cries, I will cave. I’ve never, not once, seen this man cry. Not even when his parent’s passed. If he does it now, I won’t be able to handle it.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Noah.” My voice trembles as I fight back the emotions threatening to spill over. “You don’t get to just say you’re sorry and expect me to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he replies, his tone earnest now. “I just want a chance to show you that I can be better.”

“Better?” I scoff again, incredulous. “Better than what, Noah? Better than not being here at all? Better than abandoning us?”

“It wasn’t my choice, Elle! Okay? They threatened you and the kids! If I didn’t go your lives would have been in danger. There is no way in this world I was letting that happen. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you and the kids safe. Nothing, Elle!”

A tear slips down his cheek and I feel myself crumbling. So much wasted fucking time. Energy. Emotion.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that?” I swipe angrily at the tears pooling in my own eyes.

He steps closer again, and this time I don’t push him away. Instead, I feel the heat radiating off him like a beacon drawing me in despite my better judgment.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

His face fills with anguish. “I can’t tell you that either, Elle.”

“For fuck’s sake, Noah. What can you tell me?”

“I’ve never, not once, stopped loving you.”

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” I say honestly.

“What is enough? What do you want from me then?” he asks, his voice low and intense.

“I want you to understand what your absence has done,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to understand how hard it’s been for me and the kids.”

“I do understand,” he insists, his eyes searching mine for some sign of hope. “I understand because it’s been just as hard for me being without you. Thinking about you every minute of every day since I left.”

“Thinking isn’t enough!” I snap, frustration bubbling over again. “You should have been here!” I’m just repeating myself now, and I hate that.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “And I regret every moment I wasn’t.”

I shake my head, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes again despite my best efforts to hold them back. “Regret doesn’t change anything.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice dropping even lower as he steps closer again. “But I want to try. I want to be here for you and the kids now.”

“Try?” I echo incredulously. “You think trying is enough? You think showing up after two years is enough?”

“It’s a start,” he says earnestly.

“A start?” I laugh again, but this time it’s devoid of humor. “Noah, we’re not starting over. We’re not going back to some fairy tale where everything is perfect because you decided to come back.”

He looks pained at my words, and for a moment, I almost feel guilty for being so harsh. But then I remember all the nights spent alone, all the times the kids asked about their dad and all the moments when I had to be both mother and father.

“I’m not asking for perfection,” he says quietly. “I’m asking for a chance.”

“A chance?” The word hangs heavy in the air between us. “What does that even mean? What does it look like?”

“It means being present,” he replies, his gaze steady on mine. “It means showing up for our kids and for you—being there when it matters most.”

“And what if it’s too late?” I challenge him, crossing my arms tighter across my chest as if that could shield me from the vulnerability creeping in.

“It’s never too late,” he insists fiercely.

“Isn’t it?” My voice cracks slightly as the weight of everything presses down on me. “You’ve missed so much already.”

“I know,” he says softly, stepping even closer until there’s barely any space left between us. “But I want to make it right.”

“Make it right?” The words taste bitter on my tongue as I stare into his eyes, searching for any hint of sincerity or truth.

“Yes,” he says firmly, reaching out as if he wants to touch me but hesitating just before making contact. “I want to be part of your lives again.”

“And what if we don’t want you back?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.

His expression falters for a moment before he regains his composure. “Then I’ll respect that,” he replies quietly.

“And then what?” The question hangs in the air between us like a fragile thread.

Then the back door crashes open, breaking every bit of intimacy we may have been forming, and Amy’s head pokes in. “What’s taking so… oh shit.”