Page 54 of Riding the Curve

EM: New phone. Who’s this?

Seriously? Rolling my eyes, my fingers fly over the keys. But before I could send my reply, my phone lit up with another from him.

EM: Don’t roll your eyes at me, Trouble.

ME: Don’t be creepy and watch me text you.

EM: Kind of hard not to when you look like that. I guess watching has kind of become my thing.

Goosebumps ripple over my bare legs. My body hums while I think about the intensity of that same gaze only a few nights ago.

EM: How long have you been staring at me, Trouble?

The muscles in my spine straighten. Had he seen me practically drooling over him earlier? I start to type once more, but again he cuts me off, and I growl inwardly.

EM: Was it before or after the water?

Taking a chance, I glance up momentarily to catch his searing gaze on me.

ME: You did that on purpose, didn’t you?

As I hit send, my head whips up to watch his reaction. He throws his head back in laughter. The vibrant sound renders me breathless. I’m unprepared for the tug it pulls against my heart. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard such an exuberant laugh from him.

Collecting himself, he types something quick, then his head rolls up to meet my gaze.

EM: Looks like I’m not the only one who likes to watch, Trouble.

EM:

I don’t have to look up to know he’s giving me the same look. I can practically feel the smolder from here.

EM: Count me in for dinner.

EM: I’m starving.

As he walks away into the barn, I bite my lip, left wondering if it’s only food he’s starving for.

CHAPTER 21

Henley

The door creaks as I crank the windows down on the old, rusty pickup Emerson has been loaning to me. It was already old when he drove it in high school, but it’s definitely aged more since I’ve been away. Luckily, both Lane men know how to take care of their cars. This beauty will have several more years left.

It only took me a few jerky trips down the old country road before I finally remembered how to drive a manual again, but I eventually got it. As well as a free spine adjustment.

The breeze swirls through the open windows, the last bits of summer heat warming the air. In just a few weeks it’ll shift to the familiar chill of autumn, my favorite time of the year. It’s hard to believe I’ve been home for an entire month. Not once have I thought about New York, which I find strange.

For so long, my dream was to be a professional chef. On weekends, you could find me in the kitchen instead of the orchard parties my friends were attending. Watching shows about restaurants and reading culinary blogs was my idea of a good time. I had a singular focus, and New York had helped me accomplish it. I had everything I thought I’d wanted, then it all came crashing down.

Do I still feel like a failure? Absolutely.

Am I terrified about figuring out what the hell I’m going to do next? Obviously.

Do I miss being in New York? Undecided.

That surprises me most. Every morning, I wake up expecting to feel some pull, shed some tears over the life I no longer have. But besides the first days I was back, none have come.

When I first moved, life felt vibrant and exhilarating. Culinary school pushed me to my limits, but in the best of ways. For once, my anxiety was more a whisper than a shout, because I didn’t feel like I was making mistakes all the time. There was never a moment that I felt like I was failing. I was completely in my element, and felt in control. Cooking was something I was always good at. When I struggled with anything in life, like school or friendships, the kitchen was always the place I could find myself again.