Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(75)

It’s been four years now since that summer. Since Emerson. It took everything I had to pull myself back together, to crawl out of the empty wreckage of my life and build something new in its place. This time, I made it storm-proof. Strong. I barred shutters over my heart, and found myself a steady breeze to love. I swore nothing would ever destroy me like that summer again.

I was wrong.

That’s the thing about hurricanes. Once the storm touches down, all you can do is pray.





1.


I’m doing eighty on the highway with all the windows down, my dirty blonde hair whipping like crazy in the wind. I’ve got my Ray-Ban sunglasses on, and the radio playing country classics as loud as my beat-up old Camaro will go, trying to drown out the whispers of memory that started the minute I took the freeway exit onto the familiar coastal road.

45 miles to Beachwood Bay.

45 miles to Emerson.

I shake it off. We were coming here for years before I met him, I remind myself sternly. Every summer when I was a kid. Months filled with playing in the surf and reading out on our shady back porch. I should have other, better memories of this place without him.

But you haven’t been back here since.

I block out the treacherous voice in my mind, yelling along with the radio instead.

“Gone like a freight train, gone like yesterday…”

The song is right, I decide. It’s gone. That summer is so far behind me, I couldn’t see it in my rearview mirror if I tried. I’m a different person from the screwed up, headstrong girl I was the last time I drove down this sandy road. I’m twenty-two now, just a month away from graduating college and starting out a whole new life. I’ve got a perfect boyfriend back in the city, and a great career all lined up. Despite everything that happened here that summer, I made it out—made myself into the person I wanted to be—and even though coming here to Beachwood Bay makes me feel sick and dizzy, like I’m about to jump out of a plane in total free fall, this weekend won’t change any of that.

It can’t.

Besides, I tell myself, trying to calm the shiver of nerves in my stomach, I don’t even know if he’s still here. I don’t know anything about Emerson anymore. My idle midnight searches online always come up blank. He could be halfway around the world by now, trekking in the African jungle, or knocking back beers on some beach in Australia with a tall, stacked bikini model at his side.

Tucked under his arm, the place I used to be…

I crank the radio even louder, the country twang ringing so hard I don’t even hear my cellphone, I just see the screen light up from where I tucked it in the cupholder on my dashboard. Lacey. My best friend. I answer, struggling to turn the volume down and keep a hand on the steering wheel. I know I shouldn’t talk and drive, but way out of the city out here, I won’t see a cop for miles.

“Hey Lacey, what’s up?”

“Are you there yet?” she demands.

“Close.” I check the clock again. “About a half-hour away.”

“I still can’t believe Danny boy didn’t go with you.” There’s a muffled noise as she gets comfy, and when she speaks again, I can just picture her, curled up in our student apartment in Charlotte, looking out the window over the bustle of downtown. “Isn’t this the kind of thing future fiancés are legally obligated to do?” she asks. “Packing up the summer house you haven’t stepped foot in since…well, you know.” She trails off.

The silence sits in the air between us, heavy with grief. Emerson isn’t the only ghost lurking in this town. The pain he caused me was only half my broken heart.

I gulp a lungful of fresh, salty air and force the demons out of my mind. “First of all, we don’t know he’s planning to propose.” I shift the phone to a more comfortable position under my ear.

“Please,” Lacey snorts. “His parents love you, you’re moving in together after graduation, and he’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about your taste in jewelry for months now.”

“You didn’t tell me that!” My stomach kicks, but this time, it’s with a whole different kind of nerves.

“It’s been kind of hilarious,” Lacey adds. “So, do you think Juliet prefers modern or art deco styles?” she mimics Daniel’s careful East Coast voice.

“What did you say?” I ask, curious. Even though Lacey is right—I’ve figured this was coming for a while now—it still feels strange to talk about it like this. Marriage. The future. Forever.

With someone who isn’t Emerson.

Lacey continues, oblivious to my thoughts. “Princess-cut, classic setting, nothing under two carats. Duh.”

“Lacey!” I flush.

“What? You said you wanted to build a life with him,” Lacey reminds me. “That you could picture growing old and gray together.”

“I did. I mean, I do,” I correct myself quickly. “Daniel is great. He’s kind, and sweet, and smart—”

“—and perfect, I get it!” Lacey cuts me off. “So I don’t get why he’s not going with you. Not just for all the heavy lifting and packing, I mean. If my girlfriend was going back to see her ex—”

“I’m not here to see Emerson!” My protest comes way too loud, and I flinch, swerving wildly on the road.