Unbroken

school would have been a stupid, reckless choice. I would have regretted it for the rest of my life!”
    My voice echoes on the windswept beach.
    Emerson takes a ragged gasp of air and flinches back. He looks like I’ve slapped him.
    Suddenly, I realize. We’re not talking about my college choice anymore.
    “Emerson…” I start, but then my voice fades. What am I supposed to say?
    “Don’t.” He cuts me off roughly. “I get it. It’s good to know, you made the right choice.”
    No! I want to cry out. That’s not what I meant!
    But Emerson is glowering at me, his chest rising and falling quickly with his barely-contained temper. I stare back, and for a moment, we’re frozen there, neither of us willing to back down.
    Finally, Emerson exhales. “So much for civil,” he mutters, almost to himself.
    “What?” I ask cautiously.
    He gives me a wry shrug. “I told myself, I’d at least try to be civil to you.”
    Civil.
    His words send a fresh ripple of pain through me as I realize the bleak truth behind his words. If that’s the best he can hope for—if he has to force himself to even say a polite word to me—then this is so much worse than I ever imagined.
    “I have to go!” I blurt, lurching away from him. I stumble in the sand, and nearly fall. Emerson puts his hand out to steady me, reaching for my arm.
    I freeze, feeling heat course through me from the contact of his hand on my bare skin. I look up, helpless, into his eyes. Emerson gazes back. Something ricochets between us, that undeniable flood of desire and longing and memories of his skin, hot and damp against mine…
    I pull back like I’ve been burned.
    “Bye,” I tell him quickly, before I come undone right in front of him. “Take care of yourself.” I add, and my voice comes out so clipped and distant, I sound like a stranger.
    Emerson blinks. “Uh, sure. You too.”
    I don’t stick around to humiliate myself any longer. I take off, scrambling back up the dunes as fast as my legs will carry me. My thighs burn as I clamber up the sand, but I don’t stop, even for a second. I know this is the last time I’ll ever see him, but force myself not to turn back for one more look. Not that I need to: I have the image of him burned onto my brain now, more permanent than any photograph. Face set with disappointment, harsh and angry to know what I’ve made of myself.
    His judgment stings, and I feel my protests rise up in me, all the drive home. I didn’t quit anything! I made the right call, I reassure myself. I had to. I picked myself up after his cruel rejection, and did what I could to mend my broken heart. The life I’ve chosen is solid, and real—not some flighty dream of art school, and God knows whatever would come after. After everything I’ve been through, I couldn’t face the insecurity that comes from that kind of life: living paycheck to paycheck, never knowing what’s around the corner. I’d had enough poverty and instability to last a lifetime—enough grief, at the tragic curveballs the world could fling my way.
    I was done with reckless, I wanted safe and sure and true.
    Emerson made sure of that.

CHAPTER FOUR
    By the time I reach the beach house, a storm of emotions are whirling through me. Pain over Emerson’s anger, defensiveness at the way he judged me, and a fresh wave of regret over everything else I lost that summer.
    Part of me wishes I never came back to Cedar Cove at all. I remember my stupid confidence on the drive out, so sure I could make it through without even seeing Emerson, let alone falling into a hundred shattered pieces with just one look, one touch… Now look at me, fleeing the scene of our meeting like I’m running for my life. If only my feelings could be packed away as easily as the house: wrapped up in tissue and plastic bubble-wrap, and stacked neatly in a box. No messy breakdowns, or treacherous longing, tugging at my heart every time I look at him. I could throw the lot in storage, bolt the door, and never have to think about him ever again.
    I drag my thoughts out of the dark past, and turn down the drive. There’s another car parked up by the house: a battered VW yellow Beetle, with fluffy dice and dream-catchers hanging from the rearview mirror.
    Right away, my heart lifts. I shove the Camaro into park and leap out of the car, racing across the lawn to where the person I need most in the world right now is waiting on the porch.
    “Lacey!”
    I hurl myself into my best friend’s