Page 39 of Beautifully Broken
“You don’t have to put on a show,” he added. “Just show up. See some old friends. Let people love you a little.”
I looked at what was left of the panini.
Maybe it wasn’t about forgetting Hannah.
Maybe it was about remembering I was still here.
“I’ll think about it,” I said quietly.
“Just come,” Nate said, standing.
I watched him go, the summer sun slanting through the window, warming my hands.
Maybe showing up wasn’t about letting go.
Maybe it was just letting the light in again.
Chapter 2
Emily
It was only when I stepped back out into the heat that I let myself exhale.
The sun was relentless, pouring down from a wide-open Oklahoma sky like it had something to prove. My cowboy boots scuffed against the pavement as I walked, bracelets jingling with every swing of my arms. They were a comfort. A sound that said I was still moving, still breathing.
Caleb had looked like he was trying to make peace with a sandwich. And not just any sandwich. Hannah’s sandwich. The one that had lived on in his routine long after the woman who loved it had gone.
He had stared down at it like it was something sacred, like changing the ratio of pickles to mustard would somehow undo the ache in his chest. I watched him lift the top slice of bread and stare at it like it might whisper a memory back to life. It hurt to watch.
So I’d done what I always did. I stepped in with something warmer, something that reminded him he was still alive. I had handed him the turkey panini without a word, the same way he used to hand me pencils during tests we weren’t supposed to take together. An unspoken offering. A peace treaty. A reminder that he wasn’t alone, no matter how much it felt like he was.
I’d sat down, unwrapped my salad, and tried not to take it personally when he barely touched the panini. I tried not to see the guilt flicker behind his eyes, like eating anything else was a betrayal. It wasn’t fair. To him. To her. To me.
God, Hannah.
I missed her. Of course I did. She was laughter and sharp wit and the kind of smile that made people feel seen. She loved Caleb with the kind of devotion that made the rest of us cheer for them…even when it stung a little. But I was angry with her, too. For dying. For leaving. For letting him become this half-version of himself that wandered through the days like he was afraid to exist without her permission. He wasn’t okay. And I was so damn tired of pretending like that was fine.
Caleb Hawthorne had been my best friend since we were six. The boy who shared his fruit snacks and chased away my middle school heartbreaks. We were never a will-they-won’t-they. We were never secretly in love. We were the kind of best friends people envy. Easy, solid, unshakeable. Until lately, when things started shifting. Small things. Quiet things. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long. The way my stomach flipped when he laughed, not because it was new, but because it was rare.
I didn’t know what that meant. Maybe nothing. But once, a long time ago, I’d let myself imagine something more. Then Hannah happened, and I folded those feelings up and tucked them away because loving her mattered more. She was my best friend, too. And I lost her.
That grief sat in my bones, sharp and familiar. It showed up in the quiet moments—when I was brushing my teeth or folding towels or standing in a bakery choosing between lemon bars and snickerdoodles. She was everywhere and nowhere. And sometimes, when I caught Caleb staring off into the distance, I knew he felt it, too.
“You always leave like you’re storming out of a country song,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned to find Nate leaning against his truck, arms crossed, one boot kicked out.
“You always sneak up like a damn serial killer,” I shot back, but the corner of my mouth lifted.
He shrugged. “I like to keep it interesting.”
I walked toward him, the heat rising off the pavement like waves. Nate looked too clean for the weather. Too composed. He always did.
“He’s not going to the reunion,” I said, not bothering with preamble.
Nate exhaled. “Didn’t think he would.”
“I don’t get it. Two years, Nate. I know grief doesn’t have a timeline, but this—this isn’t living.”
