Chapter five
Emma
The dripping faucet is going to drive me insane. I grip the wrench harder, twisting it against the rusted pipe with every ounce of frustration I have left. Creak. Splash!
A cold jet of water sprays my face, drenching my T-shirt. “Ugh!”
I slam the wrench onto the counter, pressing my palms against my soaked jeans, glaring at the faucet like it personally wronged me. It kind of has. The house is falling apart, and my savings? It’s falling apart faster.
I eye the notebook on the counter where I’ve been tracking every dollar that I have left. The numbers are bad. The plumber’s estimate from two days ago is circled in red, money I can’t afford to spend, not unless I want to starve for the next month.
So, fixing it myself? It’s the only option. And failing at fixing it? My second full-time job, apparently.
I grab a rag, wringing it out before tossing it toward the trash bag I filled earlier. I need to get rid of all this mess, and then I’ll try again.
Maybe. I bundle up the soaked rags, open the door, and step outside. The ocean air is crisp, cutting through the warm morning sun. The seagulls screech overhead, the scent of salt thick in the wind.
And then, I see him. Buddy.
The only one who has not made me feel like I'm living here alone. He has been my companion for the past few days. However, today he doesn't look his usual self.
That's when I see it. He’s slumped near the trash bins, his tail motionless, his breathing ragged.
My heart lurches. I drop the bag, rushing toward him.
“Buddy?”
He doesn’t perk up. Doesn’t wag his tail. Just blinks at me slowly, his eyes dull.
No. No, no, no.
I kneel beside him, running my hands over his body, feeling for any swelling, tenderness, or signs of pain. His belly feels bloated. Soft, but not normal.
My mind snaps, something is wrong. This could be anything, something he ate, a toxin, a reaction. My stomach knots. The house is old, filled with peeling paint, old chemicals, maybe even rat poison left behind.
Think, Emma.
Hydrogen peroxide. If he ingested something toxic, I need to get it out.
I spring to my feet, darting back inside and rifling through my bag. I always carry some, force of habit after years of emergency vet cases in the city.
Back outside, I tilt his muzzle gently. “Come on, big guy,” I murmur, measuring out a teaspoon and easing it into his mouth. Buddy whines but swallows.
“Just a little more,” I coax. “It’ll help, I promise.”
Seconds feel like forever. And then he gags. And vomits. I sag with relief.
It’s greenish. I scan the mess quickly, spotting flecks of what looks like paint chips. Oh no. That must be it. Paint thinner residue.
He’s still breathing heavily, but he looks slightly more alert. That buys me time. But he needs more than this.
I scoop him up, his body heavy in my arms. His weight is solid all sixty pounds of warm, familiar fur. My arms burn, but I push through it, stumbling toward my beat-up hatchback.
The next town has an animal clinic. It’s our only option since there isn't a clinic here. I lower him into the passenger seat, then fumble for my phone with trembling hands.
I don’t have Bryan’s number. But I have Henshaw’s. I dial, pressing the phone hard against my ear as I tear out of the driveway, tires kicking up gravel.
He picks up on the third ring. “Emma?”
I swerve onto the main road, wind roaring through the open windows.
“Tom, I need Bryan’s number. Now. Buddy’s sick.”
There’s a pause. Then, gruffly, “Hold on.”
A text dings through a moment later. I don’t hesitate. I call Bryan. Thankfully, he answers on the second ring.
“It’s Emma,” I say, breathless. “Buddy’s bad. Can you meet be at the vet clinic in the next town, now?”
"What?" Then, clipped, “On my way.”
It takes a little over forty minutes to get there. The clinic is old, peeling white paint, a crooked sign.
Inside, the waiting room is full, I'm sure it's because it’s the only clinic within a couple of miles radius. A terrier whining, a golden retriever licking its bandaged paw. When the receptionist sees us she immediately points to the back, and I hurry past with a grateful nod.
The doctor is already working on a hissing tabby when I rush in, Buddy cradled against my chest. Doc looks up sharply. I don’t wait for greetings.
“Paint thinner poisoning,” I say. “I induced vomiting, but he’s still lethargic.”
Doc nods, immediately clearing a space. I lower Buddy onto the exam table, heart pounding.
He hooks up an IV, checking vitals. Then, finally, he exhales.
“He’ll be okay,” Doc says. “You caught it early, kept it from getting worse.”
My knees nearly buckle. I don’t realize I’m still shaking until a new presence fills the doorway.
Bryan.
He storms in, his expression wild, his breathing sharp. His jeans are worn, his navy shirt unbuttoned at the top, his cedar scent cutting through the sterile air.
He looks at Buddy first. Then at me. His eyes flick over my drenched T-shirt, the paint smudges on my arms, the exhaustion in my stance. He steps closer, but I beat him to it.
“He’s okay,” I say quickly. “Doc said we got to him in time.”
Bryan’s chest rises, falls. His jaw tightens.
Then, softly, “Thanks.”
It’s gruff. Sincere. And for some stupid, stupid reason, it hits. Something shifts in his gaze, just for a second. Less cold, more raw and I look away.
“Just doing what needed to be done,” I say, voice steady. “It’s Buddy. Of course, I’d help.”
Doc adjusts the IV, then mutters to himself.
“Too many pets, too little me,” he sighs. “I swear, we need more than this clinic around these towns.”
Bryan’s eyes flick toward me. Does he see it? The way my fingers tighten around the exam table. The way my resolve hardens. Ocean Bay having a new clinic will definitely help, especially for faster care in emergencies.
***
The attic air is thick with dust, the scent of aged wood and old paper clinging to my clothes. The single bulb above flickers weakly, its glow barely reaching the corners of the space. Cobwebs stretch between rafters, dust motes swirl in the slanted light, and the ocean hums in the distance, steady and familiar.
Buddy trots beside me, tail wagging as he sniffs curiously at a stacks of boxes, his nose twitching in excitement. I smile, slipping a dog biscuit from my pocket and holding it out. He snatches it up eagerly, crunching loudly before snuffling through the dust again.
It’s been days since the clinic. He’s better now, strong, playful, completely oblivious to how close he came to real danger. I exhale, a familiar ache pressing at my chest. At least one of us gets to live without carrying the weight of the past.
I reach for another box, dragging it closer, but pause when my fingers brush against the cool metal of the attic door handle. It’s firm. Solid. Not loose anymore.
I frown, glancing down at the bucket of tools sitting beside the attic entrance. I hadn't touched them. But someone had.
I step back, my brow furrowing. The leaky faucet in the kitchen has also been fixed. The stubborn attic door handle tightened.
I don’t need to ask who did it. My grip tightens around the edge of the box as an image of Bryan flashes in my mind.
Him, standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that serious way he always had when he was fixing something.
It’s ridiculous, how easily my pulse jumps at the thought, how my body remembers things my mind refuses to dwell on.
He didn’t have to fix anything. But he did. I inhale slowly, steadying myself, but my lips betray me, a small smile tugs at the corners.
Don’t overthink it, Emma. I shake off the feeling and focus on sorting through the box in front of me.
The old wooden box is tucked beneath a pile of blankets. The latch is rusted, but the lid lifts easily with a creak.
Inside, neatly stacked letters sit atop faded postcards and a cracked leather notebook. Grandma’s handwriting is instantly recognizable on some, the soft slant, the delicate curls at the edges.
I run my fingers lightly over the envelopes, my chest tightening. She must have kept these for years. Some are addressed to me, some to old friends, but one name stops me cold.
Bryan.
My breath catches. I hesitate, heart hammering, then gently lift the letter bearing his name. The paper is yellowed, slightly crinkled at the edges, but her script is as strong as ever.
“You’re family, son; always will be. Take care of her.” Grandma had written all those years ago.
My throat closes. The weight of guilt presses hard, a sharp, cutting thing. I glance at Buddy, who has curled up on an old blanket nearby, his eyes half-lidded in contentment.
I force myself to breathe, to push back the memories that claw at the edges of my mind. Bryan, sixteen, standing on the porch, arms full of wood planks, sweat on his brow, that cocky smirk on his lips.
“Teamwork, Em,” he’d said, nudging me with his elbow. I’d laughed, rolling my eyes, but my heart had been so full back then. The boy who made everything feel safe, steady.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The attic feels too small. Too full of ghosts. I swallow hard and glance toward the door, toward the fixes Bryan made, the quiet ways he still takes care of things, even when he doesn’t have to.
Does he still feel it? That urge to protect, to fix, to be the one who makes things right? Or is this just habit, something he does without thinking, without meaning?
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. It doesn’t matter.
***
The familiar chime of the coffee shop door rings as I step inside, the rich scent of espresso and warm cinnamon wrapping around me. It’s busier than I expected for a late afternoon, but The Brew Barn has always been a town staple the kind of place where people linger over coffee, swapping stories and gossip that spreads faster than the ocean wind.
Stella’s already waiting at our usual corner booth, waving excitedly. I haven’t even sat down yet before she blurts, “Okay, I need every single detail.”
I snort, shaking my head as I slide into the seat across from her. “Good to see you too.”
She grins, pushing a steaming latte across the table toward me. “I already ordered for you. Your favorite chocolate, and I need answers.”
I take the cup, savoring the warmth in my hands. “Answers about what?”
She arches a brow. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Bryan. The house. You living with him. The town is buzzing, Em.”
I groan, dropping my forehead onto the table. “Please tell me there’s no betting pool.”
“Oh, there absolutely is.”
I lift my head, glaring. “You better not be in on it.”
She takes a slow sip of her coffee, refusing to confirm or deny. I sigh, leaning back in my seat. “It’s fine.”
Stella’s expression flatlines. “Fine?”
“Fine.”
She glares harder. I roll my eyes. “For the past few days, we weren’t talking. But then Buddy got sick, and now… we’re just cordial.”
Stella leans forward; interest piqued. “Wait, Buddy got sick? What happened?”
I rub a hand over my face. “He got into something, probably old paint or thinner. I had to take him to Doc Wheeler’s clinic in the next town, and Bryan freaked out.”
She scoffs. “Of course, he did. He loves that dog.”
I nod, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “I’ve grown fond of Buddy too. Anyway, Buddy’s fine now. But since then, Bryan’s been… I don’t know. Just there, fixing things around the house without saying anything.”
Stella’s eyes widen. “Fixing things? What kind of things?”
I shrug, looking down at my cup. “The faucet. The attic door handle. Probably more I haven’t even noticed yet.”
She gasp-laughs, shaking her head. “Oh really, Emma? This man is fixing your part of the house for you, and you’re telling me nothing is happening?”
I glare. “Nothing is happening.”
Stella smirks. “You keep telling yourself that.”
I exhale, glancing out the window, watching the waves roll onto the shore. “I don’t want anything to happen, Stella. He hates me and I can’t blame him. After all, I’m the one who left town without a word. He’s probably only helping to return the favor I did for buddy. I just want to focus on my plans.”
Her smirk fades into curiosity. “Speaking of, what is the plan? You were talking about opening your own clinic, but… are you really going to do it?”
I hesitate, running my finger along the rim of my cup.
“I… don’t know.”
Stella frowns. “What do you mean you don’t know? That was always the goal.”
I exhale, rubbing my forehead. “I know. But…”
I pull out my phone, open my inbox, and slide it across the table. “Just this morning, I got another rejection email for financing.”
Stella scans the message, then scowls. “Are you kidding me? They rejected YOU? Have they met you?”
I force a laugh. “Apparently, my ‘business plan lacks feasibility given the current economic climate.’ And since it is not profit oriented let’s just say it isn't such a great plan.”
Stella shoves my phone back toward me. “That’s nonsense.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “It’s not like I have another option.”
Her eyes narrow in determination. “Oh, no. We are not giving up on this.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Stell, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I’ve been at this for months. Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, another door slams shut.”
“Then we keep knocking.” She grins, pulling out her laptop. “I’ll help you apply for more funding. We’ll cast a wider net.”
I stare at her. “You’d do that?”
She gives me a look. “Emma. You’re my best friend. Of course, I would.”
Something tightens in my chest. I haven’t had support like this in a long time. I reach across the table, squeezing her hand. “Thank you.”
She smiles, squeezing back. “Always.”
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Stella leans back, grinning mischievously. “So, you never actually answered my question.”
I blink. “What question?”
She waggles her eyebrows. “What’s it like actually living with Bryan?”
I groan, dropping my head onto the table again. “Em.”
“Stella.”
She laughs, nudging my foot under the table. “Come on. You can’t tell me it’s just cordial.”
I lift my head, sighing. “Okay, fine. It’s… weird.”
She leans in, excited. “Weird how?”
I hesitate. “I mean… we don’t fight. Not really. We’re not friends, but we’re not exactly avoiding each other either. It’s like…” I trail off, struggling to put it into words.
Stella tilts her head. “Like old wounds that aren’t quite healed yet?”
I flinch. Because yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like. She watches me carefully, her playful expression softening. “Are you okay?”
I nod, but the movement feels stiff. “I will be.”
She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand again. Three months. That’s all I have to get through. And then I can move on.