Page 37 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
I pop the tab and take a swig to buy time. “Define ‘that.’”
Liara cocks her head. “Don’t play dumb, Bright. You ghosted. Again.”
“I didn’t?—”
“You did. Don’t start with semantics.”
I glare at her. “I needed air.”
“You needed to flee,” she corrects, stepping closer. “You looked him in the eye, saw that maybe he still loves you, and you ran.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” she says, voice low now. “You’ve been here two weeks, Evie. You’ve gotten the lay of the land, mapped out the exits, catalogued the risks. But you haven’t taken one damn step toward staying.”
I stare down into the can, bubbles rising like accusations.
“You know what scares me?” Liara continues. “It’s not that you’ll leave again. It’s that you’ll do it and convince yourself it’s some noble sacrifice instead of just fear dressed up pretty.”
My throat goes tight. I don’t answer.
She sighs, softer this time. “I get it, okay? Love wrecks. Staying costs. But if you think for one second Aeron isn’t worth the mess, you’re lying to yourself.”
I finish the drink in one swallow, then hand the can back to her. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Chaos.”
She gives me a look—sharp but warm. “You’re welcome. Now go home before you spontaneously combust.”
Home.
God, what a loaded word.
I kick open the door of the beach house like it insulted me personally. My boots are full of sand. My bra’s digging into my ribs. And my chest won’t stop aching like I left something vital back on that couch last night.
I throw my bag on the armchair, strip off my camera harness, and head for the kitchen—where the real ghosts live. And by ghosts, I mean paperwork. Estate crap. Stacks of mail I’ve been dodging like a coward.
I make it five minutes into sorting before the attic calls.
No. Not “calls.”Accuses.
I grit my teeth and stomp upstairs. I tell myself it’s just to clear space. Just to get things moving toward a sale. Just to prove I’m in control.
But I know better.
The box is labeledMisc – Sentimentalin my mother’s elegant, looping script. I hated her handwriting. Too perfect. Too delicate. Like everything she touched would break.
I pry the lid open.
Photographs. Mostly of me. Some of her and me. A few of just her, younger, wild-eyed, barefoot at some protest or another.
And then—letters.
One envelope sits right at the bottom, thick and sealed. No name. JustIf She Comes Homescrawled across the front in faded red ink.
My fingers go numb.
I sink onto the attic floor and rip it open.
It’s long. Pages folded over pages, yellowed and fragile.
