Then I hear it—the snarl of an engine starting outside.
I rush to the window, breath caught in my throat, and pull back the curtain just in time to see the blur of Cole’s car tearing down the drive. His tires kick up gravel, red taillights flashing once before they vanish into the dusk.
He’s gone.
Without me.
16
EMILY
Hey…
Are you coming back?
Truth or dare? (I picked dare for you)
I dare you to answer my texts.
Can you at least answer one?
What about calling me back…
Cole?
No reply. No read receipts. Just silence.
Cole’s absence is everywhere. In the echo of the balcony doors that stay shut. In the cold side of my bed where his warmth used to linger. In the mug I keep reaching for, then setting back down, pretending I’m not waiting.
I really need to talk to you…
Just say something.
Please.
—
Eight Days Later
17
EMILY
The Steinbeck Writers’ Retreat comes at exactly the right time.
I haven’t written anything in over a week—nothing I’d keep, anyway—and maybe a new location will force the words out. Maybe if I stare at a different ceiling, sleep in a different bed, I’ll stop replaying the silence.
Aidan stayed back in the Hamptons to give me and my mom “time to talk,” but the drive to Sag Harbor is quiet, save for old Mariah Carey songs.
Usually, when the first notes ofEmotionscome on, we look at each other and belt the chorus like we’re in on some inside joke. This time, I left it open for her to have a solo, but she never took to the stage.
When we pull in front of the cabins that overlook the harbor, I nearly jump out of the car.
“It’s number twelve,” I say, pointing to the one where I’m hoping I’ll finally find some peace. She pulls up to the front and I climb out with the key.
The moment I open the door, a small breath of relief slips from my mouth.
It’s beautiful. Simple. A queen-sized bed pressed against the far wall, two writing desks, a chaise, and a window that frames the sea like a painting. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub and a copper sink, with a quote etched on the mirror:
