Page 53 of It's Only Ever Been You

Easier said than done.

I watch him go, his words echoing in my mind.You know, Emma’s the kind of woman who deserves all or nothing.

The thing is, I don’t think I can.

Sliding my phone out again, I open Emma’s contact. My finger hovers over the screen, debating whether to call or text her. Instead, I close the app and shove my phone back into my pocket.

If I’m going to do this, I have to do it right. And that starts by figuring out what the hell I want to say.

I head back inside, the crisp lobby air a stark contrast to the mild warmth lingering outside. Tomorrow’s another day, another chance to get this right.

I just hope I don’t fuckit up.

The elevator ride to my room feels endless, the faint hum of the machinery doing nothing to quiet my racing thoughts. By the time I reach my floor, my palms are damp, and my pulse pounds in my ears. The conversation with Emma keeps replaying in my head, every word, every pause magnified.

The way she looked at me—like she was still deciding if she wanted to be here at all—it’s a knife twisting in my chest.

I unlock my door and step inside, letting it close behind me with a soft thud. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. I toss my keys on the desk and collapse onto the edge of the bed, my elbows resting on my knees as I stare at the floor.

She said goodnight when she walked away. That’s something, right?

But it’s not enough.

I run a hand through my hair, the years catching up with me, heavy and unrelenting. Every missed chance, every time I could’ve called or texted but didn’t—it all feels like a chain wrapped around my chest, tighter and tighter with each day that passes.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me from my thoughts. I fish it out, half-expecting Jace again, but it’s just an email from my agent. I swipe it away without reading it and open Instagram instead, my thumb hovering over the search bar.

Don’t.

But I do.

Her profile is the first to pop up, and I tap on it, scrolling through pictures I’ve already seen a hundred times. Each one is a snapshot of a life I’m no longer part of—Emma at a book signing, Emma laughing with Sarah, Emma in a sundress with the sun in her hair.

She looks happy.

The thought sends a sharp pang through me, and I toss my phone onto the nightstand, rubbing my hands over my face.

I should leave her alone. Let her keep building whatever life she’s created without me.

But when I close my eyes, all I can picture is the way her voice caught on my name, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite figure out.

Fuck.

I push off the bed and start pacing the room, the carpet muffling my footsteps. My chest is tight, my thoughts tangled, and the urge to do something—anything—buzzes under my skin.

Finally, I grab my phone again, opening my messages.

Me: Can we talk tomorrow?

Istare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the send button. For a second, I consider deleting it, convincing myself it’s better to wait until the wedding.

But I can’t.

I hit send, the text whooshing away before I can second-guess it.

The seconds stretch into minutes, and my stomach twists with every one that passes without a reply. I toss the phone back onto the nightstand and head to the window, pulling the curtain aside to look out at the city.

The view is nothing special—a parking lot and a strip of fast-food joints—but it’s enough to distract me for a moment. The light from a passing car sweeps across the room, and I let out a long breath, leaning my forehead against the cool glass.

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