“Of course. I’ll change my sheets and everything.” He tries to make a joke, but it only makes me cry harder.
“I blamed him for the wreck.”
“Oh fuck, Emma! That’s pretty harsh.”
“Then he blamed me for not being there for Sarah after her first attempt.”
“God damn. This must have been some fight. Just come home. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’m on the way to the airport now.”
“You want me to buy you a ticket? We’re just next door at Murphy’s. I can run home and do it now.”
“Could you please? I’ll be at the airport in twenty-five minutes. Oh God, Hunter. This is so fucked up.”
“Just get your ass on the plane. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
“I love you, Hunt.”
“Love you too, Em.”
NOTHING PREPARED me for the way I would I feel when I lost Emma—not even losing Manda. To know she’s just down the block going about her life—a life that no longer involves me—makes my chest ache. I keep telling myself this is just a fight and together we will move past it, but I don’t think there is any getting past this. We aren’t just on different pages with the whole Sarah thing—we are in two totally different libraries. I’ve spent days walking around lost in my thoughts, replaying that argument, her words that slayed me, and my words to punish her. It was a vicious circle of hate, pain, and guilt.
I pull into my driveway, hopeful that she will be there waiting for me. It’s been two weeks, and I would give anything to feel her right now. I fell for Emma. I told her I was ready to stand again, but I was wrong. I was nowhere near ready for this. I’m not just on my knees these days. I’m flat on my ass. It’s been two weeks without her, and the image of her face as I slammed the door that night still shreds me. But we both said words that can never be taken back or explained away.
Sitting on my front porch is a small package. It’s not unusual for my mailman to leave them there. It’s probably a drill bit or something I ordered online. I scoop it up and walk inside, dropping it with my keys on the kitchen table. I grab a beer from the fridge and prepare myself for another night alone in the workshop.
Just as I pass the package, I catch a glimpse of the sender’s name—Emma Erickson. My heart jumps to my throat, and I quickly rip it open. A small, familiar black box falls out along with a handwritten letter.
Caleb,
I couldn’t let you give this up. If you want to leave this with Manda, do it for yourself—not me. I couldn’t have that on my conscience. We both knew from the start where this would end. But I’m not sorry we tried.
Love always,
Emmy
I stare at the paper for a minute, blinking and trying to figure out how the hell Emma ended up with Manda’s ring. I think back to the night I put it there and remember Emma’s sudden departure to go home and get her camera. Fucking hell. She was planning our breakup weeks ago. We weren’t even having problems when she went and got this. Maybe she knew where this was going to end from the start, but I apparently thought it was heading somewhere completely different.
She couldn’t live with what on her conscience? The fact that I was willing to give up everything for her? I take a sip of my beer, knowing that that’s not true. I would have given up everything...except for my vendetta against Sarah. Which just so happens to be the only thing she ever asked for. God damn it!
I immediately grab my phone even though I’m not completely sure why.
Me: I’m coming over. We need to talk.
Emma: I moved back to Savannah. That’s a long drive.
Me: You what?
Emma: I’m moving on. You should do the same.
What the fucking hell kind of response was that? I know it pisses me right the hell off though. I grab my keys, ready to call her bluff. I stop for only a second to get an honest answer.
Me: Did Emma move back to Savannah?
Brett: Yep.
Damn! I hurl my keys across the room. I feel like a mental patient right now. I keep flipping from being pissed that it seems she was planning for this all along to just wanting her back and willing to do anything to make that happen. But no, Emma said her goodbye on a stupid piece of paper. She had the balls to lie to me and go steal something so personal from Manda’s grave but not enough to return it in person? Fuck that! My spinning wheel of emotions finally lands on asshole.
Me: I hope that works out for you. And for the record, I AM sorry we tried.
I stare at my phone for a minute, daring her to respond. But as the minutes pass, I realize that no response will come. That was it. That was the end.
I find an old bottle of scotch in my cabinet and throw back shot after shot until the burn in my throat completely disappears. I long for the numbness I have tried so desperately to get rid of over the last few years. And as the scotch begins to do its job, that familiar feeling slides over me.