Chapter eleven
Emma
The break room at the animal shelter smells like cheap coffee and disinfectant, the kind of scent that lingers in places that run on tired volunteers and love for animals. The chipped table wobbles when I set my cup down, my other hand smoothing out the sketches in front of me. Lines of ink forming my dream, the reception area, the exam rooms, the cozy kennel space. My future.
I roll my shoulders back, exhaling through my nose. This is what matters, not the words I can’t unhear. And it’s not the way Bryan’s voice, cool and dismissive, had sent a knife through me at the barbeque. Calling me a mistake. I squeeze my fingers tighter around the pen.
Stella drops into the chair across from me with her usual flair, a donut in one hand, a file in the other. She takes one look at my scattered papers and grins. “Tell me this means you’re finally making moves.”
I nod, tapping the sketchpad. “Yeah. Been working through logistics, seeing where I can cut costs. I figured I’d start small, basic facilities, a few staff members, focus on pet care and emergency services first.”
She takes a long sip of her coffee, eyes sharp. “And funding?”
I hesitate. “That’s where I hit a wall. Grants aren’t coming through fast enough. I’m thinking of reaching out to the community like you suggested. Small fundraiser, maybe. A pet-wash event, bake sale, something to get people involved.”
Stella snaps her fingers. “I love that! Ocean Bay’s big on local business. If we pitch it right, we could get sponsors too, small ones at first, then work up to bigger investors. Maybe even get businesses to donate supplies instead of cash.”
I nod, excitement stirring. This could work. I could build this from the ground up, the way I always dreamed. On my own.
Then Stella smirks. “And you do know who’d be a great investor.”
I look up warily. “No.”
She leans in, wiggling her eyebrows. “Bryan.”
The name slams into me like a sucker punch. My stomach twists, grip tightening around my pen until my knuckles ache. “No.” The word comes out too sharp, too fast. Stella blinks. “Whoa. Just a thought.”
I swallow hard, looking back down at my sketches. I don’t need his help. I don’t need his money, his influence, or his pity. I hear his voice, the words that cut deep, history he won’t repeat. A flush creeps up my neck, shame and something raw curling in my chest.
Stella watches me for a long moment, chewing her lip. Then, as if reading my mind, she shrugs. “Fine. We’ll do it without him.”
I force a nod, ignoring the knot in my throat. “Yeah. We will.”
She studies me for another beat, then changes the subject, launching into plans about flyers and pitching the fundraiser to the shelter crew. I nod along, letting her voice drown out the ache still lodged deep inside.
The door creaks open, and in walk volunteers Claire and Pearl, both carrying brown paper bags. Claire is a vet tech while Pearl simply loves animals. I glance up, offering a faint smile.
“Thought you might be hungry,” Claire says, setting one of the bags on the table. Pearl, ever the quiet one, simply nods, her kind eyes soft as she places the other on the counter.
“Thanks,” I say, voice warmer now as I stand up to grab one of the bags. “You two are the best.”
“We know,” Pearl responds with a smile, always the one to keep things light. Claire adds, “You’ve been working hard. No need to thank us.”
Pearl glances at the papers scattered on the table. “What’s all this?”
“Oh,” I hesitate, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “It’s... just some sketches. Plans, really.”
Claire steps closer, eyes scanning the designs. “These look serious. What exactly are you planning?”
I exchange a glance with Stella, who smirks knowingly, then clear my throat. “It’s for an animal clinic. I mean Ocean Bay needs one. It could also help neighboring towns especially since the clinic will be free. So, I’m pressing myself to get my plan moving to reality.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Claire blinks. “Wait … a clinic? You’re opening a free clinic?”
Pearl’s face lights up. “Emma, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell us?”
I shrug, suddenly overwhelmed by their enthusiasm. “I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to make it happen. Funding’s still an issue, and I’m still working out the logistics. But it’s something I’ve been dreaming about for years.”
Pearl claps her hands together. “Well, now that we know, we’re definitely going to help!”
Claire nods firmly. “Absolutely. I mean I believe you’ll do really well. Have you considered just converting this shelter to an actual veterinarian supported clinic?”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “I appreciate your offers, but I’m still working on the basics. I need funding, a location, equipment… there’s a long way to go. I believe the town needs both – this one for lost and abandoned animals as well as a veterinary clinic … one that people can bring their own pets to for care. Of course I will also provide services for these animals too.”
Pearl waves a hand. “We’ll find a way. You’re not doing this alone.”
Claire folds her arms. “And if you need extra hands, I’d be happy to help on the side. I’ve got experience working with animals. I can run some part-time shifts if needed.”
I stare at them, something warm and unexpected unfurling in my chest. This is real. This is happening. They see it. They believe in it.
Stella smirks, nudging my arm. “I told you the town would back you.” I swallow hard, nodding. “Yeah… you did.”
***
The shelter still smells like wet fur, but now it’s joined by the faintest hint of coffee from the volunteer station in the corner. Cages rattle as restless dogs shift inside them, and somewhere near the exam room, a cat yowls in protest. I barely notice anymore, too focused on massaging a small lump on a kitten’s back. Mrs. Gray who is adopting tiny Mittens watches with worried eyes.
“She’s okay,” I assure her, feeling the tension ease under my fingertips. “It’s just a little muscle strain. Nothing serious. Keep an eye on her, but she’ll be good as new in a few days.”
Mrs. Gray sighs in relief, clutching Mittens close to her chest. “You’re a miracle, dear. Ocean Bay’s lucky to have you back.”
The words send a tight knot curling in my chest. Am I back? Or am I just…passing through, trying to hold myself together?
I push the thought away and stand, dusting off my jeans. Across the room Stella’s wrangling a wiggling part-golden retriever pup, laughing as he nearly bowls her over in excitement. Claire, flips through charts at the front desk, muttering about vaccination schedules.
The shelter is a mess of noise, motion, and barely controlled chaos … exactly the way I like it. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I belong somewhere again.
Stella catches my eye and waves me over. “Time to put those big ideas into action.” She slaps a flyer onto the table between us, a rough sketch of our fundraiser announcement. “We’re making this official, Ocean Bay’s first bake sale and pet-clinic fundraiser is happening in four weeks.”
I can’t help but grin. “Seriously?”
“Yup,” she pops the ‘p.’ “Claire’s pulling in vet contacts to see if we can get some supply donations, and Pearl’s bridge club has already signed up to bake.”
Claire glances up from her clipboard, nodding. “I’ll ask around. We might get some leftover supplies from my last clinic. It won’t be much, but every bit helps.”
Beside me, Pearl beams, a massive grey cat purring in her arms. “Anything for our local animal healer.”
Warmth spreads through me. I never thought I’d feel this kind of support again, not after so long running, scraping by, carrying my father’s debts on my back. But standing here, listening to their easy confidence in me, I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could work.
I reach for a pen, making a few notes on the flyer. “I’ll work on getting more information out. We need posters, social media posts, and…”
The rumble of an engine outside cuts me off. I freeze. My fingers tighten around the pen as I hear the unmistakable crunch of heavy boots on gravel.
No. Not now. Claire glances toward the door as it swings open. “Wow, is that who I think it is?” I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Bryan.
The sound of his steps hits me before I even see him. The weight of his presence in the room shifts the air, drawing every nerve in my body tight.
"Hello everyone," he greets, and Stella and the others happily greets him. Buddy comes to my side wanting a rub which I give him along with some treats from my pocket. I try my best to ignore my racing heart.
“Someone told me you needed some help around here,” Bryan says, voice calm, casual. Too casual. Like nothing’s wrong. Like he didn’t say those words . Just platonic. History he won’t repeat. She is a disaster waiting to happen.
I grip the edge of the table, fighting the irrational sting in my chest. Keep it together, Emma .
Stella smirks, tossing a wrench in his direction. “Figured we can put your money where your mouth is. Think you can handle a few loose hinges and busted locks?”
Bryan catches the wrench one-handed, barely sparing her a glance. His eyes are on me. I hate that I feel them.
That stupid tug in my gut, that awareness of how his t-shirt clings just enough to broad shoulders, how his jeans fit like they were made for him. It shouldn’t matter. But it does.
"Sure, I can handle that."
I turn back to the flyers, feigning disinterest. “Thanks,” I say stiffly, shuffling papers.
Silence stretches between us. I feel him hesitate. Then he moves, heading toward the back where the supply closets and cage doors need fixing.
I let out a slow breath, hands still shaking slightly. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Nothing. Just him helping out, that’s all. Just me focusing on this, on the clinic, on my future.
Still, I can’t help but feel his eyes flicker back toward me before he disappears down the hall. And I hate that I notice.
***
The soft bubbling of soup fills the quiet kitchen at home, the scent of rosemary and garlic curling into the air. The dim light sways overhead, casting flickering shadows against the half-painted walls. My hand tightens around the wooden spoon as I stir, gaze locked on the slow swirl of broth.
I should feel lighter after today, after seeing the fundraiser plans coming together, after getting through another shift at the shelter. But all I feel is a dull ache pressing at my chest.
One month. One month gone. Two left to go.
The thought makes my stomach clench. Two months until the will’s terms are fulfilled. Two months until I can figure out what happens next. Two months until I won’t have to share space with a man who despite my best efforts still affects me more than he should.
I push harder at the soup, trying to drown out the gnawing memories of today: the way Bryan showed up at the shelter, the way his eyes flicked toward me more times than I cared to admit, the way the air in that room shifted when he walked in.
The numbers flash in my head, $2,250 left. Barely enough to scrape by for another month. I need to push harder. Take on more shifts with Doc Wheeler in the next town, reach out to more donors, keep my head down and more focused.
The door creaks, and my breath catches despite myself. His feet scuff against the wooden floor, his suit jacket rustling as he shrugs it off. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I already know it’s Bryan.
Buddy’s tail thumps against the floor, his lazy greeting met with a quiet, gruff, “Hey, boy.” The deep rumble of his voice slides over my skin, as familiar as the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs outside. My grip tightens on the spoon.
I hear him move closer. The warmth of his presence settles just a few feet behind me, close enough that the air feels heavier, charged. My pulse betrays me, a tiny stutter against my ribs, and I hate that I notice.
“How’ve you been?” His voice is lower than usual, softer, like he’s trying not to push.
I force a shrug, keeping my focus on the pot. “Fine.”
The spoon clacks against the side of the pan, betraying the tension curling inside me. The silence that follows is thick, stretching between us like a taut rope. I don’t look at him. I won’t.
But I feel him watching. His footsteps shift, the faintest movement that tells me he’s stepped even closer. “You sure about that? It seems something is up.” His tone is careful, unreadable.
My stomach twists. I hate the way his concern sounds like it means something. Like he still sees me. “Nothing’s up,” I say too quickly, too sharp. I can hear it in my own voice, how brittle it sounds. How obvious it is that something is very much up.
Bryan doesn’t move; doesn’t let it go. I feel his presence settle behind me, steady and unmoving, like he’s waiting for me to crack.
I stir harder, jaw tightening. Don’t do this, Bryan. Just let it go.
But he doesn’t. “You’ve been quiet.” His voice is measured, like he’s feeling out his next words. “And I know when something’s wrong.”
Something about that makes my breath hitch. Because he does know. He always did. Back then, he’d read me like an open book before I even realized I was struggling. And that part of him hasn’t changed, no matter how much I pretend he doesn’t care.
I exhale sharply, forcing a humorless chuckle. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
I will not let him see how much he’s affecting me. Bryan doesn’t answer right away. Instead, I feel the tension rolling off him in waves, as if he’s trying to pick his next move. Then, quietly, he mutters, “Alright.”
But I don’t trust the way he says it. The spoon in my hand stills, and for the first time since he walked in, I risk a glance over my shoulder. And I instantly regret it.
His eyes are steady, sharp, knowing as they are locked onto mine, studying me in a way that makes my throat go dry. There’s something there, something unreadable but intense, like he’s peeling back the layers of my guarded silence.
It makes my stomach twist. It makes me want to run.
Buddy whines suddenly, breaking whatever moment had settled between us. I blink, jerking my gaze back to the pot, inhaling sharply.
Behind me, Bryan exhales, a rough sound. Then, stepping back, he again murmurs, “Alright.”
My heart jumps, something uncertain curling in my chest. He’s not letting this go. He never could.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, willing myself to push past the stupid sting of it all. When I open them, he’s already gone, his retreating footsteps echoing down the hall.
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It scares me that he still knows me so well despite the years apart.