Page 34 of When to Call a Blitz

I sift through the photos, unable to help myself from intruding on private moments, yet hating myself for it all the same. I shouldn’t be doing this, but there’s something that’s so incredibly beautiful about it all.

Because photos are important. The passage of time stops for no one, but photos are forever, as long as they’re kept.

McKenna is one of the prettiest people I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I can see in her eyes how loved and cherished she was.

I sit there thinking about all the different memories she’s missed out on, and I wonder how often Emmett thinks about her. Because if I were him, it would be all the time.

I don’t think there’s a day that goes by that I don’t think of who I’ve lost in my own life. I can’t imagine losing someone I clearly loved so much.

And I can feel the huge, heartbreaking loss weighing heavily on my own heart.

I’m sifting through some more photos when I hear a key in the door, and ice coats my veins as I place everything back in the box as carefully and respectfully as possible while also knowing I’m about to get absolutely screwed. And not in the good way.

I’m closing the lid to the box when Emmett enters the front door, his eyes immediately meeting mine before lowering to the box in front of me.

His jaw ticks, our eyes locked in a silent battle of who will look away first. My heart is racing, my skin ice cold under his gaze.

And I break contact first. “Hey,” I say, hoping he’ll take it as an invitation to just yell at me already.

But instead of yelling, instead of screaming at me to get out of his house, Emmett simply sets down his things and heads down the hallway to the garage without a single word.

It’s been an hour, and I’ve heard nothing from Emmett. He’s been in the garage the whole time, and although I know I fucked up, I’d much rather he yell and scream at me now than give me the silent treatment for the next week, or pretend like nothing happened.

After sitting on the couch for what feels like a million years, I get up and grab a smoothie from the fridge, wincing before opening the door to the garage.

Emmett has the hood of the car open, his whole torso bent over it as his hands work something inside.

“Hey,” I say quietly, taking a couple steps inside.

Emmett’s blue eyes meet mine, and when they zero in on the smoothie in my hands, he points his wrench at the workbench to the right of him.

Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I silently walk further into the room, placing the drink where he requested.

I want to say something. I want to do something. But I don’t know what to do or say to make this situation any better, half because Emmett hardly opens up about anything. I don’t know if he’s mad, or if he’s upset with me, or disappointed, or if he’s simply unaffected at all. Maybe he had a bad day at practice and isn’t really thinking anything.

Maybe he’s just closing off again, and he’ll never let me in.

I don’t know. And that’s the hardest part of the whole entire thing.

I turn to go, and just as I reach the door, Emmett’s soft voice echoes through the garage. “Thank you,” he says simply.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, gripping the icy door handle between my moist hands.

“If you can grab Juniper and drop her off, you’re good to go home,” he says with a finality that makes my heart squeeze in my chest.

I silently grab my things and head outside to my car with only a quick fleeting look back at the box now carefully back in its place.

The first thing I do is call Mila as the tears start to fall.

“Hey,” I choke. “I think I fucked it up.”

“What?”

“Everything, Mila. I think I fucked everything up. And I don’t know what to do.”

18

EMMETT

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