Chapter one
Emma
“She would have loved these flowers,” I murmur, brushing my fingers against the sunflowers woven into the wreath. Bright, cheerful, unapologetically bold just like Grandma.
It’s a small comfort, knowing I got this one thing right. She would have teased me, saying it wasn’t worth the effort, but I know better. Sunflowers were her favorite. They were her.
The minister’s voice drifts through the salt-tinged air, soft and steady. I try to focus on his words, but my mind keeps wandering, caught between the weight of the past and the silence of the future.
The ocean breeze carries the sound of waves from beyond the cemetery gates, mingling with the rustling leaves and the faint shuffle of feet. The whole town showed up today. Mr. Harper from the hardware store. Mrs. Meyers from the diner, and so many more.
These are faces I’ve known my whole life. Grandma meant something to all of them. She meant everything to me.
“Emma, sweetheart,” Mrs. Walters whispers, touching my arm gently. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
I nod stiffly, though my throat feels tight.
“Thank you,” I force the words out, the sound brittle and thin.
She pats my hand and offers me a kind smile before turning back to the service. I glance down at the folded program in my hands, tracing the neat edges with my thumb. The casket is just a few feet away, draped in sunflowers and daisies, but it still doesn’t feel real.
And then I feel it.
A prickle at the back of my neck, the sense of being watched. My heart skips, then pounds, a quiet panic threading through me before I even turn to look.
But I do.
And there he is. Bryan Lawson.
He’s standing at the back of the crowd, half-hidden in the shadow of a towering oak tree, but there’s no mistaking him. Even after all these years, I would know him anywhere.
My breath catches, and my chest tightens.
His eyes lock on mine, and for a split second, everything feels impossibly still. Then time lurches forward, the air thick with the weight of the past.
He’s changed, but not enough to make him a stranger. The same tall, broad-shouldered frame. The same confident posture that made everything seem so steady back then. But now, there’s something sharper about him that seems more guarded.
The boy I once knew is gone. The man before me is a stranger.
My stomach twists, torn between longing and guilt, regret and something sharp enough to sting.
I try to look away, but my gaze is glued to him, searching his face for... what, exactly?
Bryan looks up, his expression unreadable.
Then, just as abruptly, his eyes narrow, cold, like he’s sealing himself off. The impact is immediate, like a thunderclap splitting me open. My breath hitches, my heart pounding so loudly I can hardly hear anything else.
Does he hate me? The question ricochets through my mind, loud and insistent, drowning out everything else. The past crashes into me, his laughter, his touch, the way he looked at me when I left without a goodbye. My betrayal still haunts me, deep in my chest.
His face remains unchanged. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t give me anything to hold on to. Just watches me, that steady, piercing gaze that once made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
But now? Now it feels like I’m under a microscope, and I can’t tell if he’s curious or cold.
The ache unfurls, sudden and sharp, like someone yanked a cord too tight. My throat tightens, and I bite my lip, fighting the stupid urge to call after him, to beg him to say something anything.
And then, before I can gather my scattered thoughts or muster the courage to speak, he turns.
His back stiffens, his jaw clenches, like he’s pushing something deep down. He strides toward the gate and pauses. I swear I see him take a breath, as if to steady himself. His head half-turns, and for one second, I think he might come back.
But then he disappears, swallowed by the shadows, leaving me standing in the sunlight, feeling colder than I ever have.
***
I stand at the kitchen table, a chipped mug in my hands. The deep blue of the porcelain contrasts with my worn-out sweatshirt.
It's barely hours since my grandma has been laid to rest, and I’m already hunched over a notepad to plan for the last of the money I have.
I'm scribbling down numbers as I bite my lip, eyes flicking back and forth between the figure on the paper and the sparse savings left in my bank account. All thanks to the little money I managed to save and the little things I sold when I decided to move back to Ocean Bay.
It’s less than five thousand dollars but it’s enough for maybe two months, if I’m frugal. And years dealing with my dad's trouble has taught me that. I pause at the thought of my father but shake it off before I can dwell on it.
He isn't here anymore Emma. That's all that has kept me going since he passed away six years back. It doesn't matter if his actions still torment me. What's important is that I don't have to deal with more of his shenanigans.
At least, Grandma made sure that her insurance policy could cover her funeral expenses. Who knows how I would have survived by now if it wasn't for that? On the flipside, my late dad who had done the opposite, left me wallowing in debt for his funeral.
He probably didn’t think he would die so soon. Neither did I. He got into trouble, but I didn't think a hit-and-run six years ago would end him. No one ever found out the truth behind that accident, but I have my suspicions. My father’s debts likely led to his seeming accident. Grandma had faded then, from both grief and illness.
My pen taps against the page as my mind races, calculating the cost of essentials for my dream: my own veterinary clinic that for years I’ve wanted to open here in Ocean Bay.
After I manage to finish college two years back and became a vet doctor, I worked in a couple of clinics but the constant monitoring from my father’s debtors and the work environment which focused more on making money than anything else didn't bring me the fulfillment I hoped for. Now, it's time to fulfill my childhood dream.
I can make it work. I have to. The money’s tight, but I’ve always been resourceful. My hands shake as I write down the list again, checking each box, like checking off my hopes, one by one.
A buzz from my phone breaks the silence, pulling my attention away from the notepad. I glance at the screen at a familiar number. It's Mr. Henshaw, my grandma's friend and lawyer.
Instantly, my forehead creases with a frown. I saw him at the funeral just few hours ago. What could be the problem?
“Hello Emma,” his voice comes through the speaker.
“Hi Mr. Henshaw, how are you doing?”
“I'm doing well my dear. How are you?”
“I'm fine,” I say instinctually, knowing it’s not anything near to my actual emotional state.
“Once again, sorry for your loss,”
“Thank you, is there problem?”
“Not at all. I just need you to come to my office. I’ll like to read your late grandmother's will. So, I'll like to know when you will be available.”
I wasn’t expecting this so soon. “I can come now,” I reply quickly. It's probably just some documents that need my signature.
There’s a pause, then he responds, his tone shifting slightly. “Not yet. I need to call the second beneficiary first.”
My heart stutters. Second beneficiary?
Confusion flits across my face. I grip the phone tighter, my mind reeling. There’s no one else. My father’s dead. As far as I know Grandma had no other family.
“What do you mean second beneficiary Mr. Henshaw? My grandmother had no other relative that I know off.”
“I understand you have questions about this. All I can say is when you come over for the reading you will get answers to all your questions.”
His words do nothing to reassure me. My head keeps spinning about who this mysterious person is.
“I’ll call you back when we set a date,” he continues, his voice suddenly cooler, a hint of finality in it. “Goodbye.”
The line clicks, and I’m left holding the phone to my ear in stunned silence. A second beneficiary? Who? I feel the walls of the house close in around me.
I let the phone slip from my hand to the table. Grandma’s house, once full of life, now feels empty, and quiet in a way that’s almost suffocating.
I breathe in, trying to steady myself, but I can’t shake the confusion swirling in my mind. I look around, but nothing makes sense.
I push myself away from the table, realizing that my hands are still shaking. As I walk out of the kitchen, my feet carry me without any thought on my end. My mind drifts back to the past, to the days when this house had been full of warmth and noise. To the days when Bryan was a part of it, before everything fell apart.
My fingers graze the banister as I walk through the house, each touch sending a wave of nostalgia through me. The house is weathered, the wood creaky beneath my feet, but I know every inch of it. Grandma’s fingerprints are all over the place: in the worn-out rug, the kitchen table where we’d shared meals, and the faded photographs on the walls.
I pause in front of one picture, a photograph of Grandma, beaming as she baked pies in the kitchen. I can almost hear the sound of her humming as she worked, the rich smell of cinnamon filling the air. My throat tightens.
Upstairs, my old room is just as it was when I was a teenager, untouched. Posters of horses still cover the walls, my wannabe junior veterinary books sit neatly on the shelf, and the quilt she made still drapes over the bed.
I step inside, feeling the weight of the past settle over me like a blanket. The bed creaks under my weight as I sit, the dust swirling in the air. It smells the same, musty with age, but oddly comforting. I sink into the mattress, my gaze falling to the bedframe. My fingers trace over the carving in the wood: B.L. + E.G.
Bryan. I hadn’t thought about that in years, hadn’t let myself. He carved it there when we were sixteen, his teasing laughter filling the room as I rolled my eyes at his antics. His smile was so easy back then. So carefree.
But then there’s the last memory. The last look I got from him before I left.
Now recalling the look in his eyes in the cemetery this morning, and how they were filled with cold judgment makes me shiver. I squeeze my eyes shut, wrap my arms around myself, the memory stabbing me like a blade.
Does he hate me? I can feel the weight of the question pressing down on my chest. I don’t deserve his forgiveness. I never did.
I whisper to myself, “I deserve his hate,” the words breaking as they leave my lips.
Tears sting my eyes, but I push them back. I can’t afford to fall apart now. Not here. Not with everything still hanging in the balance.
This house, this town, Ocean Bay it’s my chance for redemption. For a fresh start.
I clench my fists, determined. I’ll get my life together. I’ll open that vet clinic, no matter the odds. And I’ll make Grandma proud.
That's all that matters; there’s no point opening old wounds.