The One You Can't Forget (The One, #1)

seven

Emyln

There's something about the forest, about the smell – the sweet and aromatic dampness – and the way the trees sway with the breeze, that makes me feel serene. After learning that I'd be working with Hainsey for the rest of the summer, it feels good to be standing outside and pressure washing the mud off of several mountain bikes that were returned today.

Mom has made a lot of upgrades to this place since I left. The building has been upgraded to look more modern, with windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, rows upon rows of different types of mountain bikes, and a whole section with the gear you can buy. And where I'm standing? A small patch of trees has been removed so a pad of cement could be installed. When Hainsey showed me the area, I thought the idea was stupid. Who puts a slab of cement in the middle of the forest and calls it a cleaning area? But you know what? It works. You're surrounded by the forest, and the water that runs off of the cement drains into the dirt, which also contributes to watering the trees around it.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Hainsey working on one of the mountain bikes that has been too stubborn to cooperate with the repairs he's been attempting for the past hour. I've been staring for a couple minutes now and he still hasn't noticed. I should really be watching what I do with the pressure washer, but I can't stop studying Hainsey.

The shirt he's wearing matches mine, meaning it's grey and the spots on his back that are drenched with sweat cling to his body like a second skin. And when he turns around for a moment, I can't help but notice the outline of his chest and shoulders. He's ripped. More than I remember. I know he likes the outdoors – camping, hiking, biking, and fishing – but, hell, how did he get that built? He must still play hockey. He must be in the gym ten hours a day. To say that Hainsey is arresting is an understatement. I drag my eyes off his chest and back to his face, but, unlike I hoped, he's not looking at me.

It doesn't surprise me, though – he's been aiming for minimal physical and verbal contact the whole day. I rub the scar on the bridge of my nose with my free hand, and then grind my teeth and take a deep breath. I want to confront him, fall to my knees and beg for his forgiveness.

Turning off the pressure washer, I set the hose part down and begin walking over to where he's working. The sun is blistering hot for June. I'm not complaining, though – I've always loved the heat even if it makes me sweat buckets.

When I'm about a foot away from him, he finally looks at me. Our eyes connect, and thousands of feelings bubble to the surface.

In the heat of the moment, I blurt, "I'm sorry."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he wipes at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. Hainsey shakes his head and looks down at the ground before looking up at me through his lashes. While he looks somewhat peaceful, his voice is robotic and ice-like. "You're sorry?"

A muscle in my cheek twitches. I don't speak. I know him too well, and because of that, I know he's angry with me. Normally, I would wait for him to blow off some steam and then say something funny to make him smile, but I know this situation is different. There's a space between us that needs to be repaired before we can get anywhere near what we once were.

He throws the old rag over his shoulder and crosses his arms. "You don't get to walk back into my life, say sorry, and expect things to go back to the way they were," he says.

I stay silent, feeling guiltier than hell and fighting back the lump that's forming in my throat.

"Things aren't the way they were, Emyln. Things have changed." He pauses and exhales deeply. "They're different. So different."

He looks like he wants to say more, yet he keeps his mouth closed. In his smoky grey eyes, I see genuine pain, and my heart throbs. What does he mean? Is he no longer the extrovert with the quirky attitude and great sense of humour? The player known for having the hardest slap shot? The kid who used to do backflips off the dock without any effort? It's hard to picture him acting differently when he looks so familiar.

I reach out to touch his arm. My fingers merely brush his skin before he's stepping away, frowning and shaking his head. "Don't do that."

There's hurt and pain in his voice.

"I just want to be friends, Hains," I say, not bothering to hide the pleading tone. I really want this to work. Badly.

Without saying a word to me, he turns around and starts heading back to the shop.

My heart aches. If he won't talk to me, what am I supposed to do? How do I show how truly sorry I am for what I did?

When he stops walking, a spark of hope ignites in my blood. Is he rethinking me? I hope so.

But I'm wrong.

Over his shoulder, he calls, "You don't get to be my friend anymore, Emyln. And stop whatever you're trying to do because it's not going to work. Five years changes people. You've changed. I've changed. We don't know each other anymore."

There's a pause. "So does that mean everything would be okay if we got to know each other again?"

I can hear the fake laughter in my voice. I'm trying to make a joke, trying to make him laugh. Trying to defuse his defences.

It doesn't work, though. He keeps walking and doesn't say a word.

Maybe he's right. Maybe it was pointless of me to show up here to try and reconnect with him. Perhaps I should give up and go home, back to Abbotsford and spend my remaining time with Rosa and Dad until I leave for Ontario in September.

But the thing is, I don't want to leave Hainsey behind.

"Okay, then," I call out when he's stepping through the open door. "I won't come back, and you can deal with this busy store. Let's see how you get through without me."

Even from afar, I see him flinch. I have a valid point. Before Mom hired me, it was just Hainsey, and he could barely keep up with the busy summers of tourism.

Whether he likes it or not, I'm here to stay.