Page 50 of The Love Rematch
Let her move on.
You’re going to hurt her.
Let her be free.
When he sits on his windowsill late in the evening, his bags packed for the flight to England tomorrow, his hand itching for the seam of the fabric, his mind already picturing the glowing guesthouse on the other side of the curtains, Jake finally hears something else.
The voice still belongs to Sam, but it’s from another time, another life, as he’s flung back into the past.
“What the FUCK are you doing here?”
Her words were vicious. Her tone was hateful. The venom spewed like lava, pent up for months and finally able to blow. She stood in the front doorway of her parents’ home with an oversized sweater hanging from her shoulders, soft flannel pants clinging to her legs, and fuzzy slippers on her feet. He froze where he was—crouched over the front steps, about to put a thick envelope on their doormat. She closed the door behind her and took two steps forward.
“I said, what the fuck are you doing here, Jake?”
He was afraid to look at her because he knew he’d see Emily in her face. She was everywhere in this town—every street, every stop sign, every store holding some memory. He’d been a fool for coming here, for coming home. His mother had begged him. It was Christmas, she’d reasoned. She hadn’t wanted to spend the holidays in some cheap hotel in Los Angeles without a single decoration in sight. She’d wanted him home. So he’d come.
Idiot.
He hadn’t even lasted twenty-four hours before showing up at Emily’s door, his willpower only as strong as the distance between them. When three thousand miles had kept them apart, he could at least pretend he’d moved on. But with nothing more than three blocks standing in his way, he’d had no hope.
I’ll leave her a note, he’d reasoned.I just want to apologize. I just want to explain. She deserves that much from me.
Of course, in the back of his head, he’d been unable to fight the image of her opening the door and running into his arms—a naive hope. More likely, she would slap him in the face. Still, he would have taken it. He would have taken anything. He’d missed her so goddamn much he couldn’t breathe sometimes from the ache. The sight of her would be enough.
Instead, he’d gotten Sam.
Fuck.
He finally looked up. “I’m leaving this for Em. I wasn’t going to knock. I’m not trying to stay. It’s just a note, to explain, to apologize. I don’t even know, but—”
“Take your note,” she spat, “and get the fuck off my front porch.”
“I’m leaving this for her, Sam. She can decide if she wants to read it or not.”
Sam scoffed and yanked the letter from his hand. “You don’t get to make decisions like that anymore, Jake. You don’t get to leave her in the dead of night without a word, and then show up four months later trying to get back in her good graces. You don’t get to rip her heart to shreds, and then decide one day you’d like to try to put it back together.”
“Sam—”
“No.” She cut him off and stepped closer. With him on the bottom step and her on the porch, they were at eye level. She jabbed her finger into his chest and stood taller, prouder. He cowered beneath the fury in her eyes. “You have no idea what we’ve been through these past four months, Jake—what she’s been through. You have no fucking idea, because you weren’t here. You left. You already made your choice. Emily doesn’t want to see you. She doesn’t want to hear from you. She sent me out here to get rid of you, so just go. And take your fucking note with you.”
She ripped the envelope down the middle and shoved him in the chest. He stumbled back, clutching the fragments of paper as if they were the pieces of his broken heart. Nothing would ever put him back together. But it was what he deserved.
Why had he ever thought he could have a happy ending? After what he’d done?
This was who he was.
Shattered bits. Sharp edges. Poison. Pain.
The memory burns so sharply that Jake’s heart aches even now, as he sits on the windowsill in the dark. His hand drops from the curtains. He knows Sam is right. He wishes he could say he never looked back after that idiotic night, but he did. He looked back all the time. That was why he never let less than three thousand miles stand between them again—otherwise the urge to go to her would be too strong, like it is now, with Emily no more than three hundred feet away.
His phone lights up in the dark.
It’s an unknown number. The area code matches Los Angeles.
His heart catapults up his throat.
It’s too much to dream, too much to hope. He lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
