Garnet Flats (The Edens)

The snow on the Jeep was melting. It dripped onto the garage floor in plops.

I’d been sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to the plop, plop, plop for so long that the cab’s lights had shut off. The heat from my drive home was nearly gone. My fingers were cold, but I couldn’t seem to unwrap them from the steering wheel to go inside.

There was too much space in the house. Too much light. Too many distractions.

But here, in the darkness with the plops, maybe I’d be able to sort through my feelings.

The Jeep, parked in the garage, had become a sanctuary of sorts. A cocoon where I could block out everything except the emotional hurricane raging inside my chest.

The last time I’d sat here like this had been six months ago.

There’d been a bad car accident on the highway outside of town. Both drivers had been rushed to the emergency room, and I’d been there with Dr. Herrera. He’d taken the most severely injured patient, a pregnant woman, and left me with the other.

It was a man who had lost a leg in the crash. I did exactly as Herrera instructed—stopped the bleeding, cleaned the limb and got it bandaged.

The man cried the entire time, so hard it shook the bed and made it difficult to work. But his tears weren’t for his missing leg. His tears were for the woman in the other car.

He sobbed, saying how he’d never forgive himself for speeding. For texting. He prayed through the tears, asking God to take both his legs and his arms—his life if necessary—to save hers.

He cried until the medicine finally kicked in and he fell asleep. I woke him up the next morning to tell him that the woman and her baby would be fine. Dr. Herrera had saved them both.

I’d never forget that man’s face in that moment. The relief. The gratitude. The tears, silent this time, that streaked down his face. Three hours later, he’d had a massive heart attack and died.

Dr. Herrera had assured me there was nothing I could have done. Yet I’d felt like a failure.

I hadn’t lost many patients in my short time as a doctor. In a town the size of Quincy, we didn’t have a lot of trauma, not like hospitals in big cities. That man had been the third patient of mine to die.

There were three tally marks at the bottom of my locker door, not written in dry erase, but with a Sharpie.

That day, after driving home, I’d sat in the garage, in this Jeep, and it had been my turn to cry.

There were no tears tonight. Maybe they’d come after the shock had passed.

Foster had almost kissed me.

I’d almost let him kiss me.

It had taken years for me to pick up the pieces of my broken heart. But I’d gathered them all, painstakingly stitching them together again. My instructors had always commended me on my suture technique.

Yes, there were times when I’d feel the pinch of those old wounds. But time had healed. So had distraction. Medical school had been my savior, followed by my residency.

Except here I was, dumbstruck, because an almost kiss had left me unraveled.

Shouldn’t this attraction have faded? If anything, it felt more powerful. More urgent. More desperate. The magnetism between us was as potent as ever.

He’d almost kissed me.

And I’d almost let him.

What was wrong with me? What had happened with Vivienne? Why hadn’t he forgotten me?

The curiosity was gnawing at me. It was getting harder and harder not to type his name into my phone to see the search results. But I’d held off for seven years. I wouldn’t cave. Yet.

Foster had come to the hospital today and promised answers. God, I wanted those answers. Not knowing was eating me alive. And yet when I’d had the chance tonight, I’d bolted. One look at Vivienne’s face, and pain had sent me scurrying out of that gym.

My phone rang and I jumped, knocking my leg into the steering wheel. I plucked it from the console’s cup holder, Lyla’s name on the screen. “Hey,” I answered.

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing.”

I hadn’t told her about Foster yet. Maybe I should have found the time over Christmas, but she’d been swamped at the coffee shop and I’d been avoiding the conversation. With everyone.

Lyla knew I’d dated a man named Foster. She knew we’d broken up my senior year of undergrad, but I’d led her to believe it was because of my move to Seattle.

She’d be pissed when she learned the whole story. She’d be mad that I hadn’t leaned on her after he’d broken my heart.

But I wasn’t like Lyla.

I wept alone in dark garages. She wasn’t afraid to shed a hundred tears in her coffee shop, even if there were employees or customers around to witness her cry. Lyla shared her life daily on Instagram. The last selfie I’d taken had been months ago.

If she had a crush on a guy, most of Quincy knew about it before they’d even had their first date. The last time I’d gone on a date had been during my last year of medical school when another guy in the program had asked me out. I’d faked a stomach bug in the middle of dinner when he’d hinted at going back to his place after dessert.

I’d tell Lyla about Foster. Eventually. Just not tonight.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“Just got home from the shop.” Lyla yawned. “I wanted to say hi.”

“Hi.” I smiled at my sister’s voice. “Want to do something this weekend? I’m not working or on call for a change.”

“Sure. As long as I can be in bed by nine.”

“I’ll come to the shop on Saturday afternoon. We can hang out until you close, then go to Knuckles for dinner. I’ll buy the wine.”

“Perfect. See you then.”

“Bye.” Saturday, I’d tell her about Foster. Probably.

I closed my eyes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Garage time over.

On a long sigh, I climbed out of the Jeep and trudged inside. I flipped on the lights as I moved through the house, shedding my coat and shoes before heading to my bedroom.

But I didn’t strip off my scrubs and dump them in the laundry to take a shower. Instead I walked into my closet, fished the stepstool from the corner and hefted down the tote I hadn’t touched since I’d moved in three years ago.

I set it on the floor in my bedroom, sitting next to it as I popped off the lid. The scent of plastic and paper and stale air filled my nose as I lifted out my high school yearbooks. Beneath them was a disorganized mess of photos and mementos.

At the top of the pile was a Wicked program from when I’d taken Mom to the show one weekend in Seattle. She’d flown out to visit me while the musical had been traveling through the city. Beneath the program was a seashell necklace from my senior trip to Cabo. There was a silver dollar my great-uncle had given me before he’d died.

I lifted out the unorganized clutter of photos. Most of the pictures were old, taken by Mom or Dad when I was a kid.

There was an envelope from the one-hour photo shop that had closed years ago on Main. It was a photography studio now, the owner specializing in senior portraits and newborn photo shoots. She’d come to the hospital a few months ago because she’d been having migraines, so I’d written her a prescription.

Everything in this box, the pictures or trinkets, was linked to a person in Quincy.

Except for a single photo, buried at the bottom of the tub.

A photo I should have thrown out seven years ago but hadn’t been able to let go.

It was a photo of Foster and me at Lake Mead. Vivienne had taken it with the disposable waterproof camera she’d brought along—she hadn’t wanted to risk dropping her phone in the water.

We’d rented paddleboards and spent an afternoon on the water. Foster was sitting on his board, his legs dangling in the water. I was standing on mine, holding my paddle with its blade in the water. My red bikini was nearly the same color as his board shorts. Vivi had teased us for coordinating outfits.

Foster and I were smiling at each other. Talking. I hadn’t realized Vivi had even taken the picture until she’d gone to a CVS and come home with a stack of pictures. Most had been scenery shots. There were a few of Vivi and me that Foster had taken. Another shot had been of Foster and me kissing.

Those I’d left in a scattered pile on Vivi’s floor the day I’d moved out. I’d wanted her to have to throw them away. I’d wanted her to have to clean up the mess she’d made.

But this one hadn’t been with the others. It had been stuck in a notebook in my backpack, hidden for me to find the day before I started at the University of Washington.

Maybe I should have ripped it up. But I’d been so relieved that this little piece of him had survived. So I’d tucked it away, buried it beneath the tokens from my childhood and hadn’t let myself look at it again.

Knowing it was here had been enough.

I pressed a hand to my sternum, rubbing at the ache.

We’d been so attached to each other. So addicted.

Foster had been training for a fight and his body had been ripped. We’d spent a lot of that summer hiking, soaking up the sun and each other before I moved to Seattle.

He’d planned to help me move. Foster had insisted he’d drive the U-Haul, then fly back to Vegas after I was unpacked.

We hadn’t really talked about him moving permanently. I’d assumed it would happen when he was ready. After I’d settled into school. Long distance for a few months hadn’t worried me in the slightest. Whenever the topic would come up, he’d always say, Don’t worry, love. We’ll figure it out.

So I hadn’t worried. I’d had that much confidence in us.

Until he’d come to the apartment one night, stood in my bedroom with the boxes I’d already packed and dropped the bomb.

He couldn’t be with me anymore, not when he had feelings for Vivienne.

Not when he was going to marry her.

Sometimes, I still couldn’t believe it was real. Even after all this time. Even after he’d married her.

Was that why I’d gone to the gym tonight? Because deep down, I wanted—needed—it to have been a lie?

It was because of Vivienne that I’d even met Foster. She’d grown up in Vegas. We’d met our freshman year at UNLV because we’d lived in the same dorm and both majored in biology.

Her plan had been to teach. Mine, medical school.

My sophomore year, I’d moved into a condo with two women from the dorms, but I’d always felt like the third wheel. Vivienne had been in a similar situation, so our junior year, we’d moved in together.

Her father owned a gym in Vegas, the type where they trained boxers and mixed martial arts fighters. One day Vivienne convinced me to tag along with her for a workout.

I walked through the door and Foster was in a ring. He was sparring with another guy, both dripping sweat. I didn’t notice him at first, too busy taking in the place.

Vivi and I were the only women in the building.

Then a timer dinged and the fight in the ring stopped. Foster took the mouthguard from his teeth and laughed. Then his smile drifted my direction and that was the beginning.

It took time for us to get together. There were months of flirting at the gym before he asked me out. But after that first kiss, he was mine. For over a year, he’d been mine.

Why the hell did I have this picture? I’d positioned my fingers on the top edge, ready to tear it in half, when the doorbell echoed through the house.

I dropped the photo like it was on fire.

I scrambled to my feet, backing away from that box as the doorbell rang again.

It was Foster. And at the moment, it felt safer to answer the door, to face him, than to hold that photo. To know I didn’t have the strength to rip it in half.

So I hurried downstairs and to the front door.

He stood with his arms crossed and his jaw set in that adamant line. When I flipped the lock and turned the knob, he strode inside before I could object, forcing me to shuffle backward as he kicked the door closed behind him.

“Foster—”

He silenced me by inching closer. So close I had to crane my neck to keep his gaze.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Did you feel it? At the gym?”

“No.”

“You’re still a horrible liar.” He bent lower, so close that his breath caressed my cheek.

His hand trailed down my arm, and even through the cotton of my scrub top and my long-sleeved shirt beneath, I felt tingles. It was like a spark running along a fuse, moving faster and faster, until it reached the firework and boom.

Foster leaned in closer, his mouth a whisper from my own.

Why couldn’t I push him away?

“Feel that?” he whispered.

Feel it? It was burning me alive.

“I came here to talk.” He reached for my hair, touching the same place he had at the gym.

My gaze dropped to his lips.

“Fuck it,” he growled, then his mouth was on mine, soft and supple and exactly like I remembered.

He swept me into his arms, holding me tight as his tongue stroked my bottom lip before sliding inside. The scrape of his beard pooled desire in my core.

The scent of his cologne swirled around me, rich and masculine. Like fresh-cut cedar and leather. His taste was another memory, Foster with a hint of cinnamon gum.

His lips moved over mine as our tongues tangled in perfect unison. He groaned against my mouth, the vibration sexy and deep in his chest. His hold grew tighter.

Foster kissed me like our lives depended on it.

I kissed him with every bit of frustration and longing and heartbreak and hope I’d kept locked away.

God, what were we doing? Why was I so weak when it came to this man? But I didn’t stop. Not until I felt his arousal dig into my hip.

It was the turning point. Either we ended this kiss. Or clothes would hit the floor.

I tore my mouth away and squirmed to get out of his arms. We were both panting, our eyes locked. His gaze searched mine, maybe for forgiveness. Then he reached for me, but I swatted his hand away.

“Don’t.”

He froze.

I took a step away. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“Talia—”

“You need to leave. Please.” My voice cracked. “You need to leave Quincy.”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

“You promised you’d leave if I asked.”

“You promised to hear me out.”

I raised my chin. “And what if I said it didn’t matter? It’s over, Foster. It’s been over.”

He dragged his thumb across his wet lower lip. “That kiss was not from two people who are over.”

No, it wasn’t. But it was just chemistry. Attraction. That toxic addiction that had ruined me once. “Did you cheat on me with Vivienne?”

I’d asked him that question years ago, the night he’d dumped me.

“Never.”

I’d wanted so badly to believe him then. I wanted so badly to believe him now. I studied his face, searching for the lie. Except I couldn’t see it. I hadn’t seen it years ago either.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked.

“I believed everything about you once. That changed when you married my best friend.”

Foster’s jaw clenched as he shook his head. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I was there.” I tossed out a hand. “I lived it. Nothing you say will change the past. Nothing you say will make me forgive you.”

He gritted his teeth. “Nothing? And you call me stubborn. I forgot how infuriating you can be.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you turning this around on me?”

“I’m asking you to just fucking listen.”

“And I’m asking you to leave. I guess neither of us is going to get what we want.”

“You want me gone? Fine. I’m gone.” Before I could speak, he turned and yanked the door open.

My heart cracked as it slammed behind him. The silence that followed was deafening.

I’d asked him to go. I’d wanted this, right?

So why did I feel like going to the garage to cry?