Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Instead, I sink onto the arm of the couch, elbow on my knee, and rub my temples.
The truth is: I hate this house.
It’s too clean. Too quiet. Too far from everything that matters.
I thought distance would help. That putting miles between me and Pittsburgh would keep my chest from caving in every time I thought about her.
It hasn’t.
I still see her in every detail of my day.
And I still hear his voice in every corner of my life.
So, no. The silver frames won’t fix it.
But at least it’s one more thing I can choose for myself.
30
EMILY
Campus shifts with the season—green giving way to gold, gold to fire. By mid-September, the breeze carries that first bite of cold, and students start layering their hoodies over T-shirts, clutching coffee cups like anchors.
I walk the same paths every day: to class, to the library, to the bus stop, to nowhere. Leaves crunch beneath my boots, and I start to like the quiet. I start to crave it.
The texts from my mom come like clockwork.
Long blocks of over-explaining. Passive-aggressive updates. Photos of the backyard swing set she thinks I care about. I stop reading them after a while. Stop opening them altogether. One day, I hold down her contact and press mute.
No sound. No buzz. No reminder.
Just silence.
The occasional “I’m sorry” arrives through snail mail—printed on floral stationery with just enough faux elegance to feel performative. But I get the feeling they’re from Aidan’s staff and not her.
My mother has never spelled out the word your. She always writes UR, even in birthday cards. She hates writing anything longer than a paragraph by hand. Always has. She says pens make her fingers “cramp up.”
So no, I don’t buy the sudden surge of heartfelt effort. I don’t believe in her ability to change.
I’ve done that too many times before.
And every time, I’ve been wrong.
Sometimes—just for a second—I check my inbox.
Not for her.
Just to see if anyone else remembered I still exist.
31
EMILY
Ionly agreed to go to Hoboken for Thanksgiving because Taylor wore me down. Somewhere between late-night phone calls and shared playlists, she managed to become an actual friend—like, a real one. The kind that doesn’t push when you’re quiet but always knows when to nudge anyway.
She dropped out of college last month to pursue songwriting full-time, and, to my surprise, she’s actually good at it. Really good. The kind of good that makes me think, maybe, I’ll follow her to Nashville this summer if I don’t burn out first.
Coming along for the trip is Justin—a guy I met in my essay writing class. He’s what you’d call Cole-lite. All the surface-level charm without the emotional weight, without the knots and shadows. He lives in Hoboken too, so we’re riding up together. He’s stopping by to say a polite hello to my mom and Aidan.
Me? I’m not staying for dinner. I’m not spending the evening pretending.
Just a quick “Hi. I’m still alive. Bye.”
The sooner I get to Justin’s family’s place, the sooner I can disappear into the holidays and back to the bubble I’ve built for myself in Pittsburgh.
When we arrive at the house, I feel the same kind of stunned awe I did the first time I saw the place in the Hamptons. Except this house is even bigger—and somehow warmer. More rustic. Less like a magazine spread and more like a very rich person’s attempt at pretending they’re grounded.
Stacks of Aidan’s newest book are everywhere. Arranged with sticky notes: Signed, Not Signed, For Giveaways. His smiling face on every glossy cover.
As the butler leads us through the kitchen, Cole walks in.
My heart kicks the inside of my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
His hair’s longer now, brushing the tops of his ears. The sleeves of his gray shirt are rolled to the elbows, revealing new ink winding down his forearm—ink I’ve never seen before, and yet it feels familiar.
“Oh, Mister Cole!” the butler says with a wide grin. “We weren’t expecting to see you this holiday season.”
“That makes two of us.” His voice is flat. Then his eyes find mine. “I was just dropping Matt off and grabbing a few things.”
“Well, I hope you’ll stay,” the butler says brightly. “Emily’s been delighting us with stories from her first semester—and she even brought a boyfriend.”
Cole arches a brow. His gaze flicks between me and Justin.
“If you need me,” the butler continues, “you know where to find me, Cole.” He gestures for us to follow, but we linger.
“So, you’re Cole,” Justin says, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I highly doubt that.” Cole doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. “How long have you been dating my stepsister?”
“Oh, I see what this is.” Justin laughs like it’s funny. “We’ve been dating since October. But I can assure you, I only have the best intentions.” He presses a kiss to my cheek and drapes his arm around my shoulder like he’s claiming a prize.