Page 61 of Blurred Lines

The clock ticks on, relentless, a reminder of the plane that will take me away from Emberton, from Flora, Caeleb, Finn, Silas, from the possibility of facing my ghosts with the support of those who love me. But the fear of repeating our mother's history, of being left alone to pick up the pieces, is a narrative I can't seem to rewrite.

I stand, wiping away tears, determined to follow through. The suitcase snaps shut, a finality that echoes in the hollows of my heart. I grab it. Before I step out, and perhaps fueled by sheer instinct, I scribble a note and leave it on the front porch. As I step out of the mansion, the air of Emberton wraps around me like a familiar embrace, a reminder of what I'm leaving behind.

A nondescript cab ride later, I'm at the airport. The sheer business of everything assaults me as soon as I step through its automatic doors. My suitcase, a small island of my existence, trails behind me, its wheels a constant thrum against the polished floor. I navigate through the sea of travelers, each with their destination, their stories, as lost and found in their journeys as I am in mine.

Ahead, a family catches my eye—a tableau of warmth amidst the sterile airport hustle. A father swings his laughing daughter in the air, her giggles a melody of pure joy; while the mother, holding an infant, watches with a smile that speaks of love profound and unshakeable. It's a snapshot of what could be, what should be, and the sight gnaws at my heart, a painful reminder of the future I fear my child will never have.

For a moment, I stand there, an outsider looking in, witnessing the embodiment of all my hopes and all my fears. The laughter, the connection, the evident bond—it's beautiful and heart-wrenching all at once. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard against it, the realization hitting me with the force of a tidal wave: this is what I'm walking away from, this chance for my child.

But fear, like a vise, squeezes the air from my lungs. I can't afford this kind of hope, not when experience has taught me so harshly that it might be snatched away. I turn, forcing myself to step away from that poignant scene, a self-inflicted cruelty necessary for survival.

Hunger, or perhaps nausea masquerading as hunger, claws at me. The smell of processed food and stale coffee hangs heavy amidst the hum of fluorescent lights. My stomach twists, a protest against everything—the emotional turmoil, the physical exertion, the dread of what lies ahead. Yet, I know I need sustenance.

Mechanical movements guide me toward a generic food court. I order a salad I have no desire to eat and a bottle of water I force myself to drink. Every dry mouthful of lettuce, every limp tomato wedge, is a form of self-inflicted penance for the choices I'm making.

The plastic chair digs into my back. The airport buzz, once a background hum, now feels like an assault on my senses. A child's wail echoes through the cavernous space, grating. I press my hands over my ears, seeking a moment of solitude in this place designed for transit, not refuge.

Meal half-finished, I discard the paper plate and stand, my head swimming. Yes, I felt safe here, with the men in my life. But that could change once a child comes into the equation. It did for my parents, didn't it? This child, if they do come, deserves a better chance than I had. And sometimes, being a good mother starts with an act of desperate, painful love.

I press on, certain in the knowledge that, despite the ache in my heart, leaving is the best I can do for my baby. To protect them from the potential heartache of a father's abandonment, to shield them from the shadows of my own insecurities—this is what I choose.

As I approach the departure gate, the finality of my journey looms large, a stark line drawn between my past and my uncertain future. I find my seat on the plane, the hustle around me fading into a dull roar as I sit with my thoughts, a tumultuous sea of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

I pull out my phone, intending to turn it off. But as I do, the screen lights up with a message. It's from Caeleb. "Trust us, we're going to get through all of this together."

"Prepare for takeoff," the captain's voice resonates through the cabin.

26

CAELEB

Soft streaks of buttery sunlight pour in through large, paneled windows, bathing my kitchen in warmth. I look around, breathing easy as the old comfort of my favorite childhood space envelopes me. The yellow walls hold an array of antique copper pots and pans, their patina worn and beloved. Open shelves crafted from reclaimed wood display a colorful assortment of spices and herbs, each jar a nod to my British and Brazilian roots. A large, rustic farmhouse table dominates the center of the room, its surface marked by generations of use.

In one corner, a vintage cast-iron stove, now restored, stands. This is where my grandmother and mother inculcated my love for cooking, where my history was made with freshly baked bread, simmering fruits, and the unmistakable aroma of coffee brewed to perfection. Next to the stove, a modern espresso machine sits incongruously.

The countertops, made of polished soapstone, bear an array of ingredients freshly sourced from local farmer's markets: vibrant vegetables, herbs so green they seem to pulse with life, and eggs with yolks the color of the setting sun. This bounty is a means for me to express my passion for sustainable food practices and my commitment to ethical food sourcing. Hanging above the island, a set of well-used knives gleam in the morning light, each one chosen for its precision and balance. Nearby, a series of black-and-white photographs capture the essence of street food cultures around the world.

I get to work, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull my senses, although I've had a very disturbed night's sleep. A good cooking session can fix the worst of moods. The sizzle of bacon on the griddle, the gentle bubbling of berry compote, and the soft thud of a knife chopping through fresh produce—these are the things that bring renewed life to me, that remind me of my journey from a young boy learning at his mother's side to a chef advocating for the convergence of taste and sustainability.

I smile as I delve deeper into my work—cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes, and stirring a pot of simmering berries that fills the air with a tantalizing aroma. The sizzle of bacon competes with the soft hum of the refrigerator. A glance at the clock tells me I'm on schedule, but there's no room for complacency. Every detail, from the fluffy golden pancakes to the crisply fried bacon, must be perfect.

With the last pancake done, I begin the delicate process of assembly. I layer the pancakes, drizzling each with a generous amount of syrup and a scattering of berries, their juices seeping into the fluffy stacks. The bacon, crispy and glistening, finds its place next to the pancakes, and a freshly brewed pot of coffee completes the ensemble. It's more than just a meal; it's a message, a promise of the day ahead. I carefully pack everything, wrapping the warm dishes in towels to retain their heat, and place them gently into a large basket. The weight of it feels satisfying in my hands.

Before I head out, I pause, pulling out my phone to send a quick text to Silas and Finn. "Morning, gents. Headed to Emily's with breakfast. Big day ahead—planning to hunt for the secret room after. Join us when you can." The message sent, I pocket my phone and grab the basket, my heart thrumming with anticipation.

To be honest, this breakfast is more than a means to surprise her. I actually want to apologize for making her feel out of sorts during the last conversation we had. I saw it in her eyes—she knew I suspected that she'd run whenever things went south. A part of me still feels that way, but that wasn't the right time to unload on her.

I sigh as I get in my car and start the engine. I don't want to alienate Emily. In fact, what I want most of all is for her to see that … that she's the best thing to have happened to me since Brian. I didn't think I'd ever get a chance to feel the way she makes me feel. If only she'd just stop running.

Maybe I can convince her today, after breakfast.

I don't know why, but as I pull into the driveway, a sense of unease creeps up my spine. What if I can't convince her? That night at the vineyard … I couldn't find out who the man was. I thought of asking Flora, but it didn't happen, and now Emily could easily think I don't care enough to find out the details of a possible stalker.

Great job, Caeleb, I think bitterly as I step outside, basket in hand. Don't do anything useful, just make her breakfast.

I tell myself the first thing I'll do once I get out of here is contact Flora and try to get to the bottom of the mysterious figure from that night. But before I can, the mansion door holds another surprise, and not a pleasant one. It's locked. I'm about to turn around when my foot kicks a stone and I wince in pain. What the hell is it doing on the porch? I kick the stone away, uttering a stream of curses as I do. And then I see it. A folded note. And a key.

This can't be good. Nothing good happens with a letter and a key, unless it's in a movie.

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