“Here’s the thing,” she began.

“I hate when women lead with that.”

“Suck it up. Here’s the thing. Jack.” She folded her arms. “I told you this would happen.”

“You told me what would happen?”

“This! This messy, upsetting thing between us.”

“That’s a nice way to describe it.”

“Well, you’re the one who hasn’t spoken to me in four days.”

“I’ve been busy the past four days! By the way, why would you turn off my phone without telling me, huh?”

“Perhaps you remember the reason, Jack? No? The kitchen floor mean anything to you? The bathtub? Nothing’s coming back?” Sarge whipped her with Squeaky’s leg. “Look. I shouldn’t have done that. It was an impulse, and I am sorry about it, and I did apologize.”

“Fine. I forgive you,” he said.

“Gosh, how great. But the thing is, Jack,” she said, her voice getting tighter, because of course he was a man and would try to hang this on details when the big picture was staring him right in the face.

“What is the thing, Emmaline?”

“The thing is that at first this was a fake relationship. Then you needed a distraction. Then you wanted fun. Then I fell in love with you.”

Well, shit on a steak sandwich. She hadn’t meant to say that.

Jack’s mouth opened. Nana’s grandfather clock ticked from the living room. Sarge growled and bit Squeaky on the head, getting a soft hiccupping sound.

Otherwise, nada. “Right,” she said. “Moving along.” She looked at the wallpaper pattern, the little white cherry blossoms against the brown backdrop, and tried not to cry.

“Emmaline—”

She’d give him this chance. This one microscopic chance to say he loved her, too.

He looked at the floor. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, shut up! Of course I do. You’re Jack Holland. Everyone loves you.” Tears stung her eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid Emmaline. “And you’re never going to feel that way for me, and you want to know why?”

“I sense a trap.”

Now was not the time for jokes. “Because I’m never going to be that woman who needs saving. If I twist my ankle, I can tape it up all by myself. If my ancient pet dies, I won’t wrap myself around you like a python.” She glanced apologetically at Sarge. “Even though I’d be very sad, puppy.”

“I don’t—”

“And if I cheat on you and my lover dies, I won’t need you to hold my hand in the hospital.”

His head jerked back. “How did you hear about that?”

“Everyone’s heard about that.”

He didn’t answer.

“So,” she said, her face hot, “I guess I’m not your type. You get off on being a white knight, and I don’t need one. Not everyone has to be in a relationship to feel good about themselves. Some people are better off on their own.”

“Wow. Glad you figured that out.”

“But Hadley will always need you. She’s the damsel in distress, and you’re her hero, and part of you gets off on that. And guess what? I hate that you’ve put me in this position. I told you we shouldn’t have started this. I’ve already competed for a man’s love, and I lost. I’m not doing it again.”

“I don’t want Hadley,” he snapped.

“Then why is she still in town?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because she’ll always have some kind of crisis, and you can always rescue her and be the big hero.”

“Stop saying that word!” he barked, and Em actually jumped, she was so surprised. “You think I’m a hero? Josh Deiner is dying a little more each day, literally rotting away on life support, because I’m not a hero. Because my best wasn’t good enough. Because when the time came, I failed. You think Hadley on a bender makes up for that? Are you out of your mind?”

Sarge barked, thinking this was terribly exciting, and dropped Squeaky Chicken on Jack’s shoe. Jack looked down.

“You know what?” he said, his voice quiet now. “This is fine. You’re right. We should be done. I wasn’t really looking for a relationship and neither were you. You just wanted a date for a wedding, and I pushed it, and I’m sorry, and that’s fine. Take care.”

He turned around and went into the foyer, just as Angela was coming downstairs, clad in black yoga pants and a yellow T-shirt. “Namaste, ass**le,” she said, the curse word sounding quite elegant with her accent. “Stop yelling at my sister.”

“Yeah.” With that, he opened the door and went down the steps.

Em followed him out. “Jack.”

He stopped but didn’t turn.

“I wish you’d see someone about that PTSD.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, just started walking down the street to his truck.

From the soot-colored sky, snowflakes, swollen and tired, began to fall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EM WENT BACK inside and sat on the couch, not chastising Sarge as he jumped up next to her and rolled on his belly for a scratch.

“First things first,” Angela said. “I’m calling the Chicken King—they deliver, did you know that?—and making martinis, and then we’re going to talk.”

Then she put a box of tissues next to Emmaline. “There. Just in case you feel like having a little cry.”

“Oh, I’m not the type,” Emmaline said, then promptly burst into tears. Yuck. She hated crying; it was so hot and embarrassing and uncontrollable, and yet here she was, sobbing on her sister’s shoulder while Sarge licked her tears.

A half hour later, the fattening and delicious chicken had been delivered and Angela was making a second batch of martinis and Emmaline was surrounded by tissues and a solemn-looking puppy. Sarge’s left ear was turned inside out, and she fixed it, getting a hand lick in return. Dogs were the best.

Sisters, too.

Angela came back, pressed a cold martini glass into Emmaline’s hand, then folded her supermodel frame into Nana’s rose-patterned chair. “I think you’re right about him having a white-knight complex. Men. You should become a lesbian, Em. It’s so much easier on this side.”

“Said the woman who fled across the country to avoid her ex,” Emmaline muttered.

“You have a point.” She sipped, looking like Africa’s answer to Audrey Hepburn. “I’m going to say this once, darling, and keep in mind that my IQ was measured at 158 when I was fifteen years old.”

“Already throwing around your creds.”

“If you have them, flaunt them. Have you considered that perhaps—only perhaps—that you might have let this go a bit easily?”

“What do you mean? Explain it for us imbeciles with IQs in the normal range.”

“Well, Kevin broke your heart, the horrible man. You’ve avoided relationships since then.”

“Not really. Not on purpose.”

“Please. Don’t insult my extremely high intelligence. As I was saying, now you’ve fallen for Jack, and at the first sign of his not being absolutely lovely and perfect, you jettison him from your life to avoid further distress.”

“Did I tell you Mom and Dad want to move to Manningsport?”

“Nice try at changing the subject. Does any of what I say ring true?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Emmaline blew her nose and had another slug of martini. “The thing is, Ange, I walked right into this. I knew he was kind of messed up, and I knew I’m not really his type, but I fell for him anyway.”

“Of course you did. He’s wonderful.”

Another hot line of tears streaked down her face. “He made me stutter,” she whispered. “When he got mad at me the other day, I stuttered in front of everyone.”

“And did the world stop spinning? Did you get fired? Did everyone throw trash at you?”

Em rolled her eyes. They may have gotten stuck, but her face was rather numb—Angela made a mean martini—so she wasn’t sure. “No, smart-ass.” Another sip. “But it’s a sign of weakness just the same.”

“It’s a sign that you care very much about how he feels, especially in regard to you. That’s not weakness. That’s being human.”

Sarge put his cute little nose on her knee. Her baby dog was getting enormous. She gave him a bite of drumstick in exchange for the drool-covered Squeaky Chicken.

“Okay, enough lecturing,” Angela announced. “Let’s watch Titanic. I have a terrible crush on Kate Winslet.”

They put the movie on, and just as Jack first saw Rose on the rich-people deck, Emmaline said, “Angela?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I’m so glad my parents adopted you.”

Then it was Angela’s turn to cry.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, there was a cheerful note from Angela on the kitchen table saying she’d be at Cornell for two nights to do some intensive research, but if Em needed her to come home, she would come as fast as a bumblebee, or if Em wanted to come to Ithaca, that would be lovely, too.

Angela. She really was flawless. Except she was a horrible slob in the bathroom and something of a flirt, from what Em had seen.

It would actually be nice to be alone for a night or two. Angela’s insight and brilliance made it a little hard for Em to know what to think.

She had the day off, and the sun was shining. Last night’s snow squall had melted, and it might even hit forty-five today, according to the notoriously unreliable forecasters.

“Do you want to go for a run?” she asked Sarge, smiling as the dog immediately grabbed his hideous chicken and ran to the door. She got changed, tucked her phone into her running shorts pocket, leashed up Wonder Pup and set out. People called to her and waved, and a few folks in the Village stopped to admire Squeaky Chicken and pet the dog.

The air smelled like spring. Sure, there’d be the heartbreak storm in April, there always was, but for now, it was warm (for New York) and soft and smelled earthy, the sharp scent of shale cutting through. She ran out of town, settling into a pace, Sarge easily keeping up beside her. Past the blue-and-purple Victorian where the nice Murphy family lived, crocuses peeking up from their lawn, past the old school that was possibly being turned into a community center. Shelayne Schanta was in her yard on Buttermilk Road, scooping soggy leaves from a flower bed. “Any news on the adoption front?” Emmaline asked, stopping.

“Just passed the home visitation,” Shelayne said, beaming.

“Fantastic! If you need a character reference, let me know, okay? Since I’m an upstanding citizen and officer of the law.”

She continued running, her legs strong and sure, despite it being a few weeks since her last outing. Nice mindless running.

Kept her mind off Jack.

She might not be his girlfriend anymore, but she was still worried about him. Even if he was a lost cause.

When she got to Meering Falls, she stopped, breathing hard. Sarge dropped Squeaky long enough to drink from the heavy stream of water.

She loved it here. Not just here at the base of the beautiful gorge, carved out by water and time, but here in Manningsport. In New York. The perfect weather and excessive wealth of Malibu had never felt right, and she said a silent prayer of thanks to Nana for taking her in, a heartsick fourteen-year-old who could barely get a sentence out.

Her phone rang, startling her. Given that she was a cop, you’d think that the phone wouldn’t scare her half to death, but such was not the case. Great. Mom again. She briefly considered letting it go to voice mail, but after the incident with Jack’s phone, she was a little wary of doing that. “Hi,” she said.

“I know you think we love Angela more,” Mom started, her voice prim, indicating hurt feelings.