Page 27 of Life After You

Kayla

The ache in my wrist is the first thing I notice when I wake up, followed by the sterile scent of gauze and the faint traces of antiseptic clinging to my skin. For a moment, I’m disoriented. The unfamiliar ceiling, the lingering haze of pills—none of it feels real. Then it hits me. The emergency room. The X-rays. A sprain, not a break. I blow out a shaky breath, cradling my wrist to my chest.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I wince as I get out of bed, the sharp twinge in my wrist a reminder of last night. “Shit.” I mutter, clutching it closer as I shuffle to the door, yawning into my good hand.

Dean leans casually against the frame, the lazy smile on his face enough to disarm anyone. In one hand, he holds a steaming mug; and clamped between his teeth, a single flower, like some corny romantic lead. I can’t help it –I laugh, the sound surprising me as much as him.

He takes the flower from his mouth and offers the mug with a flourish. “Morning, sunshine. Thought you could use a pick me up.”

I roll my eyes but take the mug gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my uninjured hand. “Patty called, huh?” I ask, already bracing for the answer.

“Four times,” he says smirking. “She’s worried about you. And before you ask, no, she didn’t expect you in. I told her I’d check on you.” I nod taking a sip of coffee. The bitterness settles something restless inside me. Dean watches me carefully, his easy smile fading.

“You okay?”

I freeze. My first instinct is to say yes, to brush it off. But the words stick in my throat. Instead, I shrug, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Dean watches me for a beat, then strolls to the window, hands in his pockets. “I take it those pain meds worked a littletoowell? It’s coming up on lunchtime.”

“What?” My heart skips as I leap out of bed, nearly sloshing coffee over the rim of my mug. The sharp movement sends a jolt through my wrist, but I barely notice in my rush. Dean steps forward just in time to grab the mug I thrust as him.

“Easy,” he says, his voice laced with amusement. “What are you doing? Relax. It’s not the end of the world.” Ignoring him, I yank open my wardrobe and start rifling through the hangers, the rattling metal echoing my panic. “Those freaking painkillers knocked me out completely,” I mutter. I grab a tank top and shorts, tossing them onto the bed. “Can you call Patty? Tell her I’m taking a quick shower, and I’ll be there soon.” Dean quirksan eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Already told her I’d bring you in when you woke up. She practically swore me to secrecy not to wake you, but…by her fourth call to check if you were still alive, she said a coffee delivery was mandatory.” I nudge him aside with my shoulder to reach the dresser, pulling out underwear as if he isn’t standing there watching me. “Five minutes.” I call over my shoulder, waving vaguely. He lingers, looking like he wants to say something, but eventually shrugs and ambles toward the door. Two minutes later, I’m out the shower, towel-drying my hair as steam curls around me. I dress quickly, fumbling with my tank top and wincing at the tug on my wrist. Mascara and lip-gloss go on in a rushed, uneven swipe. Satisfied enough, I barrel down the stairs, through the parlor, and straight past Dean, pausing only to press against the door with my injured hand.

“MOTHERFUC—” I yelp, recoiling.

Dean is at my side in an instant, his hand light on my back. “Forgot about your hand, eh.” he says, with an exaggerated sigh.

“For a moment…” I admit through gritted teeth, pulling it against my chest.

“Want some painkillers?”

“What, so I can pass out at work? No thanks.” We both laugh, the tension breaking. Dean tilts my chin up with a knowing smile.

“She’s really not expecting you in today, you know?” he says, softly.

“Oh, stop being such a wimp and start the car.” I retort, brushing past him. He chuckles and heads toward the car while I follow, tucking my wrist close for comfort. Ten minutes later, we pull up outside Patty’s diner. The sight of the familiar building should bring relief, but my chest tightens instead. I know she wasn’t expecting me, but the thought of taking advantage of her kindness weighs heavy.

As I step out of the car, a low, familiar rumble freezes me in place. The sound rolls past shaking the glass panes of the diner’s windows. It’s impossible not to recognize it—a deep, guttural growl from an engine my brother spent years rebuilding. Braden’s car.

A shiver runs through me, gooseflesh prickling along my arms. Of course, it’s not really his car. Itcan’tbe. My rational mind knows this, but my body reacts anyway. Memories press in—the sight of his grease-streaked hands, the warm scent of motor oil lingering in the garage. He’d refused to touch a penny of the money our parent’s left us, insisting every part he bought with his own earnings.

I swallow hard, willing the past to loosen its grip. Not now. Not here.

“Oh, heavens! Look what the cat dragged in.” Patty’s voice rings out behind the counter, pulling me back to the present. Dean steps inside ahead of me, his tone cold but playful. “Bought her in one piece.” he says, glancing back with a grin. “Are you going to give her a written warning, or just fire her outright?”

“Dean.” I mutter, elbowing him sharply. Patty doesn’t acknowledge his jab, bustling out from behind the register to greet me. “How are you, dear?” she asks, her tone warm but her eyes sharp with concern.

The door jingles as it swings open behind me, but I barely notice. Patty’s warm hand is on my shoulder steering me toward the counter. “Sit. You shouldn’t overdo it.” Her voice fades into the background as I nod absently, still shaking from the sound of the engine earlier. I reach for the coffee pot, more for something to do than out of any real need. My thoughts are already swirling, Braden’s name like a whispered echo in my mind.

“Mac?”

The mug in my hand slips, the crash of ceramic against the floor echoing in the silent diner. I freeze, my breath catching in my chest as if the room has suddenly lost all its air.

That voice.

I turn slowly, feeling my pulse thunder in my ears, afraid that if I move too quickly, this fragile moment will shatter.

And there he is.

Logan stands by a side booth, framed by soft afternoon light streaming through the windows. His hair is shorter than I remember. His bronze skin has a sun-kissed glow, a testament to his Spanish heritage, contrasted sharply by his electric blue eyes. They were arresting, like a sky after a storm, framed by thick, dark lashes, that made them seem even more intense. His shoulders seem broader, his presence overwhelming the room. For a second neither of us moves. It’s as though time itself has stopped, trapping us in this endless stretch of silence. He says my name again, softer this time, like a prayer.

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