Page 63 of Kellan & Emmett
I’d thought I knew what waiting felt like. Back when he left the first time, I’d counted Saturdays like they might call him home. But this—this was different. We texted every morning, every night. FaceTimed when his schedule let him. I saw his smile, heard his voice, but the bed still felt empty when the lights went out. And every day past the month he promised to be back, the whisper in my chest got louder: maybe he won’t. Maybe something will keep him. Maybe I’m a fool for thinking forever’s finally ours.
Work helped, the way it always did. Guests didn’t care if I was knotted up inside—they wanted hot coffee, clean rooms, and peach cobbler that didn’t collapse in the middle. I gave them that, smiling until my cheeks hurt, laughing at their stories, pouring tea like I wasn’t hollow. But under the bustle, every clang of a plate or rustle of sheets only underlined what was missing. His whistle tossed on the hook, his boots in the corner, his voice somewhere in the house instead of three time zones away.
I couldn’t stop replaying the airport. The way he’d kissed me in front of strangers, not giving a damn. The rasp of his voice in my ear:I’ll be back, Em. For good this time.His arms had been strong around me, his certainty enough to make me believe. I wanted to keep believing. God, I did. But my heart had its own memory, twenty years old and sharp-edged, whispering that promises break.
The dining room buzzed that evening like it always did. The honeymooners whispered over shared dessert, foreheads tilted together like they’d invented love themselves. The Petersons were back in their usual seats, Mrs. Peterson carrying the conversation, her husband chuckling at every punchline like he hadn’t heard it a hundred times already. The author hunched over his laptop at the corner table, glasses sliding down his nose, fingers tapping like the world might end if he stopped.
I moved between them with plates stacked on my arm, the automatic smile set firm. Roasted chicken, garden vegetables, the lingering sweetness of peach cobbler in the air. Cutlery scraped, someone laughed too loud, and it all should’ve felt warm, whole. Instead, it only threw my loneliness into sharper relief. My inn was full, but my world still felt half-empty, waiting for one man to walk back through the door.[44]
I slid a plate off the Petersons’ table, balanced it against the stack on my arm, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Just the faint vibration, but my heart jumped anyway. I shifted the plates, thumb fumbling to pull the phone free.
Kellan’s name glowed across the screen. For a second, I swear the room blurred.
The preview line sat there, casual as breath, but it might as well have been a knife.
Kelly: Got a job offer to coach—
That was all I could see before the text cut off.
The rest cut off. I didn’t open it. Couldn’t. The words blurred, my breath catching like I’d swallowed glass.
Around me, the dining room carried on—Mrs. Peterson laughing, the honeymooners whispering, forks clinking on china—but all of it went hollow, distant. That one half-sentence rang louder than every voice combined.Job offer. Coaching. LA keeping him.[45]
The plates tilted in my grip, porcelain clinking loud enough to make Mrs. Peterson glance up. I steadied them, forced a nod, and turned away before she could ask.
Job offer.My chest went tight. My throat pulled so narrow I could hardly swallow. Coaching—back in LA. What else could it mean?
Of course. Of course he wouldn’t come back. Why would he trade a career, a city, a whole life, for this? For me?
The phone felt hot in my hand. I couldn’t open the message. Couldn’t read the rest. I was too afraid it would spell out the truth, the ending I’d been bracing for since the day he walked onto that plane.
My breath sawed shallow, every scrape of a chair and murmur of conversation in the dining room fading under the roar in my ears. It was happening again. Twenty years collapsing in on me, sharp and merciless.
And I’d been fool enough to believe this time would be different.
I moved through the dining room like my legs weren’t mine, plastering on a smile that felt brittle as glass. Plates clattered in the bus tub, silverware chimed, guests laughed at jokes I didn’t hear. Every sound scraped at me.
“Emmett?”
I startled. The author had lifted his head from his laptop, glasses low on his nose. His gaze was sharp, curious. “You all right?”
My mouth opened, but the words snagged. I forced a chuckle, a wave of my hand. “Yeah. Just—need a little air.” My voice cracked onair. I didn’t stop to see if he believed me.
I forced something that was supposed to be a smile. “Yeah. Fine. Just—need some air
He studied me like he knew better but nodded. I didn’t wait for more. The keys dug into my palm before I even realized I’d grabbed them, and a minute later I was out the door, the screen banging shut behind me.
The plates rattled when I set them down too hard. I wiped my palms on my apron, tore it off, and headed for the back hall. My keys were on the hook. I snatched them down, shoved into my jacket, and shoved through the door before anyone else could look at me too long.
The late sun hit me square, warm but heavy. My boots struck hard, too fast, echoing louder than they should. The truck door slammed, the engine roared awake, and I gripped the wheel so hard my knuckles ached.
The road stretched ahead, familiar in the way muscle remembers an old wound. I didn’t decide where I was going—my body already knew. Past the bend where the oak leaned low, past the rusted sign half-swallowed in kudzu. My chest heaved, breath too quick, every mile dragging me closer.
I killed the engine, and stillness fell hard. Cicadas hummed, insistent in the heat. Water whispered, a steady rush over stone I could almost feel in my chest.
I sat there, both hands braced on the wheel, shoulders locked tight. My pulse hammered so loud it drowned the world. Then I shoved the door open and stumbled out, gravel crunching under my boots, the air damp and cool against my skin.
This was where I’d come when he left me the first time. Where I sat, Saturday after Saturday, waiting for a boy who never showed. And here I was again, twenty years older, still waiting like a damn fool.
