Page 3 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
EVIE
B y day three, the wine is running low, the dust in this house is actively trying to murder me, and the salt air has already started rusting the zipper on my camera bag.
Welcome back, Evie.
The attic’s the last place I want to be, but the probate lawyer was clear—everything has to be inventoried before I can list the house. And of course my mother, queen of half-finished projects, left the attic packed like some kind of crypt.
So here I am.
Sweat trickling down my back, hair knotted up in a half-assed bun, sleeves rolled to my elbows as I shove aside boxes labeled in that looping, too-hopeful script of hers.
Christmas. Cameras. Books Evie Wanted Once.
I pause at that one, a fist curling in my chest before I shove it out of the way.
No time for sentimentality. And certainly no patience for ghosts.
The next box tips when I nudge it, sending a few old hardcover books skidding across the floorboards. I reach down to scoop them up—some classics, brittle with age.
And there it is.
The Odyssey.
An old clothbound edition, blue with gold edging faded to pale thread. I remember this one; Mom used to read me bits of it when I was too young to understand half the words. She loved stories about journeys and coming home.
Figures.
I’m about to toss it onto the keep pile when something thin slips out from between the pages.
A photograph.
I freeze.
It’s one of those old instant shots, edges yellowed.
Two teenagers, wind-blown and sunburned, standing in front of the Lowtide lighthouse. I’m grinning like a fool, holding up a battered compass. He’s behind me—Aeron—arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.
There’s a smear of salt across the bottom edge, like someone touched it with wet fingers.
It feels like a punch to the sternum.
I sink back onto the attic floor, staring at the thing like it might catch fire.
Why the hell would she keep this? Why tuck it here, of all places?
My throat goes tight, breath hitching before I can stop it.
Fifteen years since I ran like hell from this town, from that boy, from the one thing I wasn’t brave enough to face.
I swipe a wrist across my face. “Nope. Not today.”
A creak on the stairs jerks me upright.
“Hello?”
Tiny footsteps. Then a small, earnest voice:
“Evie?”
I blink. Jamie Moore peers around the attic doorframe, curls tousled, oversized t-shirt half-swallowed by his knees. He’s clutching a well-loved plush shark to his chest.
“Hey, kid,” I say hoarsely. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”
“Mama said you might need help. And Old Man Cass says attics are where all the best secrets live.” He pads inside like he owns the place, eyes wide. “Is it true?”
I manage a crooked smile. “Depends what you mean by ‘best.’”
He squats beside me, peering at the book in my lap. “What’s that?”
“The Odyssey.”
“Is it about monsters?”
“In a way.”
Jamie lights up. “Cool. Are there sad love stories? I like those too.”
The air catches in my throat. I look at the photo again, then tuck it back inside the book and close it carefully.
“Yeah, kid,” I say quietly. “Yeah, there are.”
He watches me with those big sea-glass eyes, sharp as his mother’s.
“You look stormy in the face but sunny in the heart,” he declares solemnly.
I choke out a laugh despite myself. “That right?”
He nods. “Mama says sometimes people don’t know they’re allowed to stay happy. They think they gotta be sad forever.”
Damn. Out of the mouths of babes.
Before I can answer, there’s a shout from downstairs.
“Jamie! What did I say about sneaking off?”
Rowan’s voice—half exasperated, half fond.
Jamie grins. “Gotta go.”
He scrambles up and makes for the stairs. At the top, he pauses and looks back.
“You should come to the festival more. There’s nice monsters there.”
Then he’s gone, bare feet thudding lightly down the steps.
I stare after him for a beat longer than I should.
Nice monsters, huh?
By the time I drag myself downstairs, Rowan’s leaning against the kitchen counter with two mugs of coffee already waiting.
“You are the devil,” I tell her.
“And you love me.”
I sink onto a stool, gratefully wrapping both hands around the mug. “Your kid is a trip.”
“He’s an old soul,” she says softly. “Too much like his father sometimes.”
I glance sideways. “You okay?”
Rowan shrugs one shoulder. “Good days, bad days. You know how it is.”
I nod. More than she knows.
She studies me over the rim of her mug. “You look like you saw a ghost up there.”
“Maybe I did.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
A beat of silence. Rowan sets her mug down with a sigh.
“Evie... look, I get it. You didn’t come back to settle in. You came to settle up.”
“Exactly.”
“But maybe you owe yourself more than an exit.”
I arch a brow. “That sounds like something Cass would say.”
“Damn right it is. And he’s not wrong.”
I blow out a breath, dragging my fingers through my hair.
“Rowan—”
“Listen.” Her voice softens, but there’s steel under it. “This town isn’t the same one you left. You’re not the same girl who left it. And whether you admit it or not, there’s something here you’re still running from.”
I swallow hard.
“You think I don’t see it?” she presses. “You keep circling that boardwalk with your camera like it’s a shield. You look at Aeron like the past is gonna bite you in the ass any second.”
I scowl. “He doesn’t exactly look thrilled to see me, either.”
“Yeah, well, you both have your damage. But I’ll tell you this—he never stopped keeping one foot on that dock like he was waiting.”
The words hit too close. I shove to my feet, grabbing my camera bag.
“I’m just here for the festival, Ro.”
She stands too, folding her arms. “Then be here. Stay through it. You owe yourself that much.”
I hesitate.
Jamie’s words echo back: You should come to the festival more. There’s nice monsters there.
I sling the bag over my shoulder. “Fine. No promises.”
Rowan smirks. “Wouldn’t expect any.”
As I head for the door, she calls after me.
“Evie—”
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes the best stories don’t come from running. They come from staying.”
I don’t answer.
But the attic’s weight lingers in my bones all the way out to the sunlit street.