Chapter 2 — Collisions at the Diner

Emma

The bell above the diner’s door jingled as Emma stepped inside, the sound as familiar as the scent of frying bacon and the faint tang of coffee grounds that lingered in the air. She paused just inside the threshold, letting the warmth of the space seep into her bones after the chill of the morning drive. The diner hadn’t changed a bit—red vinyl booths, chrome-edged tables, and the jukebox in the corner that hummed faintly, though it hadn’t worked properly since she was a teenager. It was like stepping into a time capsule, a place untouched by years that had changed so much else.

Her eyes scanned the room out of habit, a reflex from her youth when she, James, and Tom used to claim their favorite booth by the window. Her stomach twisted at the memory, and for a moment, she imagined James’s laughter ringing out, loud and carefree, over the clatter of dishes. She shook the thought away quickly, her gaze dropping to her shoes. The last thing she wanted was to catch someone’s eye and have them call out her name—an invitation for pity-laden questions or awkward smiles. This town had a way of feeding on its own stories, and her return was bound to rekindle whispers she wasn’t ready to face.

Sliding into a corner booth at the far end of the room, Emma set her bag down beside her, careful to keep the journal hidden in its folds. It felt heavier than it should, its presence a reminder of what she couldn’t ignore. When the waitress came by, Emma ordered coffee and a bagel, keeping her voice low and her answers clipped. The woman lingered for a moment, her eyes flicking over Emma’s face like she was trying to place her, but Emma quickly buried her nose in the laminated menu until the waitress sighed and moved on.

The coffee arrived quickly, steaming in a chipped white mug. Emma wrapped her hands around it, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. Outside the window, the town was beginning to stir to life—cars rolling slowly down Main Street, the elderly florist unlocking her shop, a young mother herding her children across the crosswalk. It all felt so small, so suffocating. For a moment, Emma allowed herself to think about what was in her bag—the journal, James’s words, his fears scribbled across the pages in a voice so alive it almost felt like he was sitting beside her. The list of locations danced in her mind: the Old Bridge, the abandoned mill, the forest clearing. And the guardrail—the scuff marks she’d noticed yesterday. Too deliberate. Too strange. A knot formed in her stomach. Where was she supposed to start?

The sound of the diner door opening pulled her from her thoughts. She glanced up, expecting an anonymous customer, but her breath caught in her throat.

Tom Reynolds.

He stood near the threshold, scanning the room, his tall frame framed by the morning light streaming in behind him. His broad shoulders filled out the casual flannel shirt he was wearing, and his dark brown hair was neatly combed, but there was a tension in his posture she hadn’t remembered. Something about him looked different—older, sharper—but still unmistakably him. Her heart gave the faintest flutter, quickly smothered by the surge of emotions that followed: anger, hurt, and something else she didn’t want to name.

Before she could look away, his eyes landed on her. There was a flicker of recognition, followed by something softer—hesitation? Regret? She couldn’t tell.

“Emma,” he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the diner like a blade. He took a few steps closer, stopping at the edge of her booth.

Her hands froze on the mug. For a moment, she considered pretending she hadn’t heard him, but what was the point? She looked up, her green eyes meeting his piercing blue ones.

“Tom,” she said flatly, her voice betraying nothing.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the seat across from her.

She did, actually. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of sharing this space with him, but she was too tired to argue. And maybe, a small, defiant part of her wanted to confront him, to see if he’d squirm under her gaze. She shrugged instead, a noncommittal gesture he took as permission.

Tom slid into the booth, moving deliberately, like he was trying not to startle her. He rested his forearms on the table, leaning slightly forward, his eyes searching her face. His presence was overwhelming, pulling memories to the surface she had spent years trying to bury.

“I heard you were back,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Emma wrapped her fingers tighter around the mug, as though it could anchor her. “News travels fast.”

“In this town? Always.” He gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “How’s your dad?”

The question surprised her. She blinked, trying to gauge his sincerity. “He’s… managing.”

Tom nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’m glad you’re here for him. He’s a good man.”

Her grip tightened on the mug, her chest tightening with the effort to suppress her irritation. “Is that all you wanted to say, Tom? Or did you have something else on your mind?”

His jaw tightened slightly, and she saw his confidence falter for just a moment. “I wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” she replied curtly, refusing to offer anything more.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking to the window before returning to her. She watched his hands clench briefly before relaxing again. His calm veneer was cracking. “I know things didn’t… end well between us. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Emma interrupted sharply, her voice low but firm. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend we can just pick up where we left off. That nothing happened.”

Tom’s blue eyes darkened, frustration flashing across his face. “I’m not pretending, Emma. I know what happened. I know I—”

“Stop,” she cut him off again, her voice trembling this time. Her heart was racing. She couldn’t do this. Not here, not now.

The clink of dishes and the low hum of conversation filled the silence between them, and for a moment, Emma thought she might be able to leave unscathed. But when Tom spoke again, his tone was softer, almost pleading. “You’re angry. I get that. You have every right to be. But I never stopped—”

“Caring?” she interrupted coldly, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his gaze steady despite the tension radiating from his body.

Emma laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. “You have a funny way of showing it, Tom. Years of silence. No explanations. No apologies.”

“I wanted to reach out,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I just didn’t know how.”

“That’s convenient,” she shot back, her voice sharp. “It’s been a long time to not know how.”

Tom exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Look, I know I messed up. I know I should have done things differently. But I’m here now, and I want to make things right.”

Emma stared at him, her heart pounding painfully. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he was sincere, but the scars—visible and invisible—were too fresh, too deep.

“I don’t think you can,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Tom didn’t reply. He just looked at her, the weight of his regret etched into every line of his face. “I’m not giving up,” he said quietly, the resolve in his tone unmistakable.

Emma shook her head, a humorless smile tugging at her lips. “That sounds like something you’d say.”

Before he could respond, she slid out of the booth, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said tersely, though she hadn’t taken more than a sip.

“Emma, wait—”

But she was already walking away, the bell above the door jingling again as she pushed it open and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The cold bit at her cheeks as she made her way to her car, her hands trembling against the strap of her bag.

She needed to get out of here. She needed space to breathe. But even as she started the engine and pulled onto the quiet street, Tom’s words lingered in her mind, like an echo she couldn’t silence.

Something had shifted. Something she wasn’t ready to confront.

Not yet.