Page 4 of Embers in Autumn
Dean gave her a look that was half stern, half indulgent. “Killjoy or not, you’re not lighting those candles in your room.”
“Dad,” she groaned, rolling her eyes as if she’d heard the speech a thousand times.
I slid the bag across the counter, my fingers brushing his as he reached for it. “Don’t worry,” I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips. “I promise, no unattended flames in here. Cross my heart.”
For just a heartbeat, his gaze held mine. Something unreadable flickered there—intensity, protectiveness, maybe even curiosity. Then he cleared his throat, straightened, and placed a gentle hand on Lana’s shoulder.
“Thanks for the help,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” My voice was steadier than I felt.
Lana glanced back once, flashing me a grin before tugging her dad along. The door swung shut behind them, and silence settled over the shop again.
I sank into the old armchair by the front window, tugging my cardigan tighter around me. Outside, leaves skittered down the cobblestones, bright and careless, while inside the only sound was the faint crackle of the record turning on the player.
And just like that, memory crashed over me.
It always seemed to come in waves, these little ambushes of the past. I could see Mark standing in the kitchen of the apartment we used to share, sleeves rolled up after work but hands firmly in his pockets, like the dishes in the sink didn’t exist. Like I didn’t exist.
I’d just come home from a ten-hour day at the advertising firm, my body aching from sitting at a desk, my brain fried from clients and deadlines. And still, I’d put my bag down and startedcooking, because if I didn’t, no one would.
He’d sit on the couch, TV blaring, claiming he was“too tired”after his day.
“You know I make more than you,”he’d say when I dared to complain.“I’m the breadwinner, Amber. You should be grateful.”
Grateful.Fuking Grateful?
The word still made my stomach twist.
When I wore pajamas, he called me sloppy. When I put on makeup, he eyed me sideways and muttered that I was “probably trying to impress someone.”If I was quiet, I was angry. If I spoke, I was annoying. God forbid it was the wrong time of the month.
It was like living under a microscope that only magnified my flaws.
And I played along. Smiled when he wanted to go out, laughed at the right times, nodded when his coworkers’ wives looked at me like I was lucky. Because when I wanted to go out, or suggested a vacation, it was always a “waste of money.”
So I shrank. A little more each year. Until I hardly recognized myself.
The worst part wasn’t even the endless criticism, the exhaustion of being both partner and maid while he sat smugly in front of the game. The worst part was how he made me question my own worth.
How, after ten years, I believed him.
And then came the final blow.
It wasn’t me sneaking around, after all. It was him. I found the messages first—saccharine, ridiculous, enough to make me sick. Then the receipts. Then, finally, the truth he couldn’t hide anymore.
A year later, I was still picking glass out of the wound.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, willing the tears back.It wasn’t that I still loved him. God, no. But the bitterness of betrayal still lingered. The rage at wasting so much of my life with someone who never saw me.
That was the worst of all: how invisible I’d been to a man who promised to love me. The silence of the shop pressed in, heavy, and I leaned back in the armchair, staring at the ceiling beams. I hated how easily the old memories clung, like cobwebs I couldn’t quite sweep out of the corners.
And then… that man from earlier.
It wasn’t the first time a stranger had caught my eye since the breakup, but something about him had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. The broadness of his shoulders, yes... but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he’d looked at Lana when she spoke. That softness. That devotion.
It made something ache deep inside me, because I knew men like that existed—I just hadn’t been with one.
Not that it mattered. Men like him were already spoken for. He was probably married, the type of husband who brought his wife flowers just because, who carried her coffee into the kitchen in the morning with a kiss on the cheek. The kind who made reservations once a year for her birthday, nothing extravagant but enough to remind her she was worth celebrating.
