Page 42 of Beautifully Broken
Maybe Irene was too.
Maybe living looked different now. And maybe… maybe noticing wasn’t the same as letting go.
Chapter 4
Emily
The house had potential.
That was the nicest thing I could say about it as I pulled into the gravel driveway, coffee in hand and a half-eaten protein bar on the passenger seat. Cozy craftsman, one owner, wide front porch—but too many florals inside and a cringeworthy combination of burgundy and pink on the outside. Someone’s sweet old aunt had definitely lived here, and she’d loved her throw pillows like they were pets.
My cousin and fellow realtor Jordan was already on the porch when I stepped out of my car. Cutoff shorts, a soft gray T-shirt, white sneakers so clean they probably had a sworn vendetta against dirt—and of course, full makeup and hair like she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. It was almost offensive.
“I brought lemons,” she called, lifting a canvas tote like it was a trophy. “We are not staging this house with fake fruit, Emily.”
“I already tossed the fake fruit,” I said, coming up the steps. “It was sticky.”
“God, I hate sticky plastic fruit.” She leaned in for a quick hug, then stepped back and gave me a once-over. “Cute dress. Freckles are freckling.”
“Thanks. You look like you’re heading to Sephora, not staging a house.”
“It’s called balance.” Jordan smirked. “Besides, a full face of makeup is my version of battle armor. You think I’m letting potential buyers catch me bare-faced and vulnerable?”
I rolled my eyes and unlocked the door. The cool air hit us first. Then the smell: roses with a top note of lemon-scented cleaner. Not bad. Just... floral. Very floral.
Inside, the living room was drowning in patterns. Chintz roses on the sofa, daisies on the throw pillows, some kind of purple flower on the armchair. Theonly break from the pattern was a cozy throw blanket with tassels draped over the back of the couch like it had been gently posed.
“I told you,” I muttered, setting my coffee down. “Aunt Margie vibes.”
"Aunt Margie would never." Jordan wrinkled her nose. “Where do you even buy this much floral? Like, is there a secret grandma catalog?”
“Pretty sure there is,” I said. “It’s next to the catalog where you buy those extra-long shoehorns and quilted toilet paper covers.”
She laughed, plopped the lemons into a wooden bowl, and carried it to the kitchen counter. “Much better.”
I followed her in and opened the fridge. Empty, except for a lonely bottle of water and an ancient box of baking soda. “So, what’s our plan? Hide the florals, add a little life, call it a day?”
“That, and try not to kill each other when we disagree about throw pillow placement.”
“I don’t think I can be friends with someone who likes fringe on pillows.”
Jordan raised a perfectly arched brow. “Seriously? This is your line in the sand?”
I shrugged. “Everyone’s got one.”
We fell into our rhythm. Jordan rearranging furniture while I set out some neutral throw blankets and swapped out too-busy pillows. I tucked a fresh bunch of daisies into a mason jar and set it on the side table, then replaced a dusty wreath on the wall with a silver framed mirror I’d found at an antique store last week. The space felt lighter already. Lived-in, but in the best way.
Jordan plopped down on the de-flowered couch, her legs tucked beneath her, and watched me stare out the front window.
“So,” she said casually, “you gonna stare at Caleb’s house all afternoon, or...?”
My face flushed immediately. I hadn’t even realized I’d been looking in that direction, but his place was right across the street. Hard not to notice. Especially since I could still hear the way his voice had gone soft yesterday when he said he’d think about coming to the reunion.
“Subtle,” I muttered, straightening a stack of books.
Jordan just smiled, unbothered. “I’m just saying. He’s our favorite grump.You’ve been checking for signs of life over there since we pulled up.”
“He’s my best friend.”
