Chapter nine
Emma
The kitchen is too quiet. Only the soft hiss of the coffee pot fills the space, the air thick with last night.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, it was there, the brush of his lips, the heat of his skin, the way his breath caught before we pulled away. I can still feel it, like an imprint, like something I shouldn’t have let happen but desperately wanted to.
I grip my mug tighter, rinsing it under the stream of water, watching the way the light catches on the soap suds. It was nothing. A mistake.
I tell myself that. Over and over. But my body isn’t listening. Because I want it to happen again. The floor creaks behind me, and I stiffen, already knowing who it is before I turn.
Bryan stands at the doorway, hair a mess, jaw tense, a deep crease between his brows. He looks like he barely slept either.
Buddy thumps his tail against the floor, gnawing lazily at a bone under the table, completely unaffected by the tension suffocating the room.
I glance away, pretending to be absorbed in drying my hands, but the weight of Bryan’s stare burns against my skin. Say something .
He clears his throat, voice rough. “About last night …” He hesitates, dragging a hand through his hair. “It was a mistake. Sorry.”
A mistake.
The words slam into me harder than I expect, disappointment sharp and instant. I should agree. I should nod, laugh it off, pretend it didn’t mean anything.
But I know better. It did mean something. And judging by the way he’s avoiding my gaze; it meant something to him too.
I force a short nod, my voice even when I say, “Yeah. Won’t happen again.”
Lie.
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I swear he’s about to say something else. But instead, he just nods and steps past me, reaching for the coffee pot.
I turn away too, needing space. But space is useless when his scent is still there. Cedar and sea air, warmth and him.
My fingers twitch against the countertop. I need a distraction, something to shatter whatever this is before I lose my mind.
I grab my clinic sketches from the counter and turn to face him. “I’ve got these, vet clinic ideas. I’d like to ask for your opinions about some things. That's if you don't mind,”
His eyes flick to the binder in my hands, brows lifting slightly. “Of course, I don’t mind. I'm just surprised you’re still serious about that.”
The challenge in his voice makes something in me snap to attention. I lift my chin. “I’ve always been serious about it.”
Bryan stares at me for a beat longer before he sets his coffee down and steps closer. Too close.
I hold my breath. He leans forward, peering at the pages, his shoulder brushing mine. Every nerve in my body tightens.
Don’t react. Don’t react .
But I do. His warmth seeps through my sleeve, his scent clouding my thoughts, making it hard to focus on anything except how it felt when he kissed me.
I exhale slowly, gripping the binder tighter. He flips through the pages, his fingers brushing the edges of the paper, and says, “You’ll need a bigger kennel space. And solar panels to cut costs.”
I blink. Solar panels? I expected indifference, maybe even teasing, but not… this. His voice is unreadable, but the suggestion is practical, well-thought-out. He actually cares.
I stare at him, unsure of what to say. He shrugs, still not looking at me. “It’s a smart idea but are you sure you want to run a non-profit clinic?”
Something in my chest tugs tight. Maybe I'm not sure. I mean I live for animals, it has never been a doubt. But what worries me is will it click? Will the clinic work?
I swallow down the words, unwilling to push whatever line we’re toeing. Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the table.
Stella. I grab it, grateful for the escape. “Hey.”
Her voice is bright, excited. “Morning, stranger! Hope you’re not too busy because I have something for you.”
I glance at Bryan, but he’s turned back to his coffee, pretending he’s not listening.
“What’s up?”
“There is a shelter workday we have every once a year. We usually have vets from all over come around for a couple of weeks since we don't have a clinic here yet. They always need a lot of volunteers. I think you should be part of it."
My grip tightens on the phone. This is a brilliant idea, this way I can figure out how best to help people with the clinic.
She keeps talking, voice animated. “Think about it, Em! It’ll give you a chance to put your name out there, get to know the people who could back your clinic. You need support, and this could be it.”
She’s right. I bite my lip, stealing a glance at Bryan. He’s still quiet, still pretending he’s not eavesdropping, but I can tell he’s listening.
I exhale. “When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. A real chance. A way forward. I glance down at my binder, then back at Bryan. “Perfect,” I murmur, more to myself than Stella.
Stella squeals. “Knew you’d say yes! I’ll send you details. See you soon!”
I hang up and set my phone down, unable to fight the small, hopeful smile creeping onto my lips. For the first time in a long time, things feel… possible.
I glance at Bryan. He’s watching me now, eyes unreadable, fingers wrapped around his coffee mug like he’s holding onto something tighter than he should. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but for the first time since coming back, I don’t feel alone in this.
I clear my throat. “I have to do some things.”
He nods, but something flickers in his expression. Something I don’t have time to think about. Not now. Not after last night.
***
The scent of wet fur and antiseptic clings to the air, mingling with the sound of barking dogs and the scratch of Stella’s pen against a clipboard. The shelter is bustling, voices overlapping as volunteers move between kennels, feeding, cleaning, soothing nervous animals. I could have offered my services as a veterinarian, but it felt more important this time to just be there as a regular volunteer, helping wherever needed. Besides, a lot of area vets came.
I should be focused on the work. But his words won’t stop replaying in my head. It’s been over a day since he said it, since he brushed me off like our kiss was nothing. Like it hadn’t shaken me to my core.
My chest tightens, an ache sitting right in the center, pulsing with every breath.
I shouldn’t be surprised. What did I expect? That Bryan Lawson, the man who barely looked at me when I first came back, would suddenly want me again?
That he would be the boy I remembered, the one who used to kiss me like I was the only thing that mattered? The one who would sneak up behind me just to press a smile against my neck, who used to murmur my name like a promise?
A bitter laugh threatens to escape. Of course not. I left him. I broke him. And he’s made sure I know it.
Still, the fact that I wanted more when it was nothing but a mistake to him? That hurts me and infuriates me.
“Emma?”
Stella’s voice snaps me out of my spiral, and I blink, realizing I’ve been scrubbing the same kennel door for at least five minutes. My knuckles are white around the rag.
“You okay?” Stella frowns, arms crossed, watching me too closely.
I force a smile. “Yeah. Just zoned out.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sure. That wouldn’t have anything to do with you-know-who, would it?”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my expression even. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” She smirks, tossing a kibble bag onto the counter. “So, you totally didn’t look like you wanted to either punch something or cry while scrubbing that kennel.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just a dirty kennel.”
“Uh-huh.” She taps a pen against the clipboard. “So, what happened with Bryan?”
“Nothing.”
Stella lifts a brow. “Liar.”
I sigh, setting the rag down. “It’s fine. We… kissed.” The word tastes strange on my tongue, too heavy with everything I don’t say.
"Oh, my goodness! I knew it!"
"Hey, lower your voice," I whisper while glancing around.
"Sorry, but I need details. How was it?"
"It was good. But…"
"But what?" Her face bright with excitement eager to scoop the juicy details.
“And then he said it was a mistake. That’s it.”
Stella’s mouth falls open. “He what?”
I shrug like it doesn’t sting. “It doesn’t matter. I mean we aren't dating anymore so he’s right.”
She snorts. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.” I shoot her a look, but she keeps going.
“Emma. You and Bryan have history. He doesn’t just kiss you and feel nothing. That man looked like he was ready to set the world on fire the night of the funeral when he saw you.”
I shake my head. “Well, according to him, I’m just history he won’t repeat.”
Her face twists. “He said that?”
Before I can answer, a voice filters in through the open restroom door. Mia and Jen, two of the other volunteers. I stiffen.
“…Emma and Bryan thought they’d rekindle, but he told Old Man Pete it’s nothing. Just platonic.”
My breath catches. Jen’s voice follows, a laugh in her tone. “Ouch. And here I thought she had a chance. ‘It's just business’... his words, not mine.”
The air drains from my lungs. There it is. Confirmation. Stella watches me, eyes sharp. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. It’s stupid how much it hurts.
I knew what he thought. He said it himself. But hearing it from someone else? Knowing he told Old Man Pete that I’m just his past, nothing more? Shows he wants to make things clear to everyone.
It feels like a fresh cut, bleeding out slow. Jen snickers. “Poor girl.”
I squeeze my fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. I don’t know how long I stand there, spine stiff, every inch of me screaming don’t let them see it hurts.
Because it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. It was one kiss.
“A mistake.” His words. So why does it feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched?
Stella’s jaw clenches, but before she can say anything, I force out a breath. I won’t react. I won’t let them win. I straighten, smoothing my face into a calm mask. “Forget it.”
Stella’s eyes flash as she tells me that I don’t have to pretend to be fine. “Yeah, I do.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Because I am.”
She doesn’t believe me. But she lets it go.
A soft whimper catches my attention, and I turn toward the kennels. A small, trembling dog barely more than a puppy huddles in the corner, its thin frame curled tight. Something about the look in its eyes, the fear, the uncertainty hits too close to home. I push everything else aside.
Bryan, the gossip, the stupid ache in my chest. None of it matters. I kneel in front of the kennel, my voice soft. “Hey there, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”
The dog hesitates but doesn’t back away. And as I unclip the latch, focusing on what I can control, I pretend that I’m not breaking inside.
***
The house is quiet when I step inside, the dim glow of the old lamp in the corner casting soft shadows across the half-painted walls. The scent of fresh paint still lingers, mingling with the salty breeze sneaking through the slightly open window.
Buddy lifts his head from the rug, tail thumping lazily before he stretches and pads toward me, nudging my leg in greeting. His warmth is a small comfort, but it doesn’t touch the sting in my chest.
Mia’s voice still loops in my head. "Just Business."
I drop onto the couch, my body heavy with exhaustion that has nothing to do with the long hours at the shelter. My clinic sketches sit on the coffee table, but I can’t focus. I stare at them, the lines blurring, my mind trapped in that bathroom stall, replaying every word.
Bryan told Old Man Pete it was just business between us. The ache deepens, sharp and humiliating. I knew he regretted the kiss, I knew he wanted distance but hearing it from someone else, knowing he said it so bluntly, as if I was just some fleeting mistake that he had no intention of repeating…
It hurts more than it should. I grip the edge of the couch, nails pressing into the fabric, willing myself to let it go.
I don’t get the chance. The front door opens, and Bryan steps in, dropping his keys onto the entryway table. His gaze lands on me instantly.
I know what he sees, stiff shoulders, clenched jaw, the rawness around my eyes I can’t seem to shake no matter how much I will it away.
His brow furrows, that quiet, perceptive concern in his face that used to make me feel safe. That used to undo me completely. “You okay?” His voice is low, steady.
I force a shrug, keeping my gaze locked on my sketches. “Fine.” The word is flat, brittle.
A beat of silence. He doesn’t buy it.
He steps further in, slow, cautious, like he’s trying to read between the lines I don’t want to give him. His presence pulls at me, his cedar scent wrapping around me in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I hate that I still respond to it. Hate that even after everything, after hearing exactly how he feels, some ridiculous part of me still wants him close.
Buddy sits on the floor beside me, resting his head on my knees. I stroke behind his ears absently, using the motion to ground myself.
Bryan sighs, running a hand through his hair before moving toward the couch. He hesitates, then sits down next to me, leaving just enough space between us to make it clear he’s keeping things neutral.
“Something’s up,” he says, his voice softer this time. “Talk to me.” The words make my heart twist painfully. Because for a second, it almost feels like before. Like the Bryan who used to care. Like the boy who used to listen to everything, who’d pull me into his arms and let me spill whatever was weighing on me without judgment.
But that’s not this Bryan. This Bryan thinks I’m a mistake. This Bryan doesn’t want me. I grip the hem of my sweatshirt, fingers curling into the fabric, my pulse a dull roar in my ears.
I want to talk. I want to ask him why he’s announcing my business around town. I want to ask if he really said those things, if I was just fooling myself thinking he genuinely cares instead of all his kindness being just business.
But I can’t. So, I press the words down, bury them deep. “I’m just tired,” I murmur instead.
Bryan watches me for a moment, like he’s weighing whether to push or let it go. Then, slowly, he nods. His silence should be a relief, but it isn’t. Because he doesn’t leave. He just stays.
He’s sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, close enough that if I let my guard down, if I let myself shift even slightly, my shoulder would brush his. I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I focus on Buddy, fingers scratching behind his ears, the steady rise and fall of his breathing the only thing keeping me grounded.
Minutes pass. Neither of us speaks. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Thick with everything we don’t say.
Then Bryan exhales, shifting slightly, his voice lower than before. “He knows you’re off,” he says, nodding toward Buddy. “Me too.”
My fingers still. The air between us tightens. My throat locks up, the fight to keep everything contained suddenly so much harder than before.
I swallow, gripping the fabric of my sweatshirt so tight my knuckles turn white. I should brush it off again. I should get up, pretend like I don’t care, make some excuse and escape upstairs.
But I can’t move. Because he’s looking at me now, really looking. And for the first time since this whole mess started, I don’t know if I have the strength to keep pretending.