Page 23 of When the Smoke Clears

I turn my head and blink at the family inside a black Honda Civic. A dad. A mom. A toddler licking ice cream like none of this is interesting.

The furthest thing from danger.

I exhale shakily, humiliation flooding my cheeks. That’s the third time today I’ve eaten pavement. Some people do yoga retreats to reconnect with their roots. I do public faceplants.

Standing, I wipe gravel from my skin and try to savage some shred of dignity. “I’m fine. Just getting some cardio in.”

God. Kill me.

The dad gives a hesitant wave before pulling into the inn’s parking lot. I don’t bother picking up the wind chimes. They clearly have it out for me.

I drag myself up the stairs, alternating curses and the Bill of Rights under my breath. When I reach my room, I collapse onto the bed.

“It was just an accident,” I whisper. “Just an accident.”

But the words fall flat, flimsy as tissue paper. Tears spill over before I can stop them. Everything I’ve been clenching tight since I arrived begins to slip.

In less than forty-eight hours, my mom died; I returned to a place that still tastes like smoke and regret; I almost got hit by a car; I humiliated myself more times than I can count. And worst of all…

I saw Luke.

Luke, who pulled me from a burning house. Luke, who carried my secrets and touched me like I mattered. Luke, who looked at me today like he wished he didn’t recognize me.

I press both hands to my face, trying to dam the tears. It doesn’t work.

And then there was Stacy and her tiny hobbit hands sliding up his arm like she owned a deed to him. Jealousy burned through me, fast and vicious. A decade apart, and somehow she could still flip that switch.

I didn’t think love could imprint like trauma, but I could not have been more wrong.

But none of this matters, because it can’t matter. Luke Wild is not my future, and he will never be, even if he’s somehow grown into a man who looks like a storm you want to stand in. Even if his voice still moves through me like heat. Even if the moment he saved me today is burned into my body in ways I don’t want to analyze.

I sob until something inside me empties out.

Eventually, I force myself into the shower. The warm, soapy water maps my skin, and I wince as it stings the raw cuts on my hands and knees.

In the city, I move through chaos without blinking. But put me in Wildhaven for an evening, and I’m running from shadows and engines and ghosts. Maybe this place is a wound. And maybe seeing him tore the stitches loose.

After drying off, I slip into yoga pants and my oversized 49ers sweatshirt. The soft cotton feels like armor. It’s thin, but better than nothing. When I head out, I tell myself I’m ready to see my childhood home.

The drive takes only a few minutes, and before I realize it, I’m parked in front of the petite craftsman with its white shutters and small porch.

Turns out I am not ready. My hands tremble around the steering wheel. The house stares back at me with hollow windows, waiting for me to remember everything I tried to forget.

I step out on wobbly legs, find the spare key beneath the porch stone, and grip it so hard it leaves indentations in my palm.

I need reinforcement, so I call Erin. Her voice flows through the line, instantly easing the knot coiled in my stomach.

“I’m at my old house,” I whisper.

“Oh, Isla.”

While she keeps me anchored, I glide the key into the lock with the memory of countless repetitions, and I inhale before nudging the door ajar.

I step inside. The air smells like lavender and old summers. Like memories that weren’t all bad, which somehow makes this more difficult.

The old couch stands in the center of the living room. Its floral upholstery is slightly faded, but unmistakably the exact piece that occupied this spot a decade ago.

“It looks the same,” I murmur. “Like I never left. Like she never changed.”