Emerald

by Elle Casey

  “Would you like a bite?” I hold up my blueberry muffin.

  He reaches up and breaks off a piece of it, popping it into his mouth. This is the first tiny signal I’ve had since we arrived in LA that his will to carry on is still in there somewhere. It gives me hope.

  “Is there anything special you want to do first?” I ask. “We can arrange our day by priorities.”

  He sounds like a robot when he answers. “I’ve got to contact some people. I have to go get Sadie. And I need to arrange the funeral and memorial.”

  I nod. “Let me help. I can do the funeral stuff if you want.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He pushes the rest of his bagel away and hunches over his coffee.

  “How far away is Sadie from here?”

  “About an hour.”

  I reach over and brush some crumbs from his beard. “You can go get her while I do the funeral arrangements if you want. Or I could go with you.”

  “It’s probably better if you hang back.” He looks up at me with an apology in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you . . .”

  I wave away his concerns. “No, I get it. At some point you’re going to have to break the news to Sadie that her mother is . . . gone. I don’t know if you’re going to do that now, but I have a feeling when you see her it’s going to be tough. You’ll probably want to be alone.”

  “Yeah. You’ve seen enough crying for one day, huh?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” I shove him gently, trying to get a smile out of him. “You can cry all you want. I kinda like your eyes when they’re all red and puffy like that.” I point at his face.

  A sad little smile lifts the side of his mouth for a second or two. “You’re mean.”

  I reach over and put my arm around his shoulders, pulling him over to me. Our heads touch and we stay that way for a little while, decompressing from the sadness. “I’m not mean. I’m just trying to cheer you up, but I know it’s not possible right now.”

  “Keep trying. It’ll work eventually.”

  I kiss him on the forehead before withdrawing.

  He places his hand on my arm, stopping me from gathering up our napkins and other garbage.

  “What?” I look at him questioningly.

  “Do that again.”

  “Do what again?” I feel my cheeks getting warm.

  He puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me to him. “Kiss me.” His face is raw with emotion and there’s a storm in his eyes. There’s no way I can avoid this very public display of affection, and I don’t want to.

  My hand goes to his cheek as our lips touch. It’s a gentle kiss, full of longing and sadness. We’re in the middle of a coffee shop that’s busting at the seams with customers, so it doesn’t go too far, but it goes plenty far enough. When we pull apart I’m on fire.

  “Well.” That’s all I’ve got: Well. Sam has destroyed my ability to converse with a single kiss.

  “That was nice,” he says. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Butterflies are flitting around in my stomach. I busy myself with cleaning up our mess. It helps take my mind off the fact that what should have been a perfectly innocent kiss has me dreaming of the day that I can have him in my bed. This day will probably never come to be, but I’m not going to let that stop me from fantasizing. Besides . . . stranger things have happened, and life is too short to be afraid of taking risks all the time.

  “You ready to go?” he asks, getting to his feet.

  I stand and take my purse from the back of the chair, throwing it over my shoulder before gathering up our trash to bring over to the bins. He takes the pile from me and waits for my answer.

  “Yes, I’m ready. Where’re we going?”

  “My place.”

  Sam’s mind is occupied with the tragedy that just occurred in this life, so I know he’s not thinking what I am when he says, “My place,” which is: sex, naked man, sex! I’m picturing his bedroom, his bed, and him in it—no clothes on and ready to rock ’n’ roll . . . and I don’t mean with a guitar either.

  My body heats up as we make our way out to the curb and get a ride using an app Sam has on his telephone. I pray this will be the one time that he isn’t able to read my mind, because while I’m ready to throw caution to the wind for the first time in my life, I really don’t want him to think that I don’t care about his sadness or the tragedy that’s befallen him and his daughter. There’s a time and a place for the sexy stuff, and I know this isn’t it. I just wish my libido would get on board with that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sam’s apartment is nothing special. It does have two bedrooms, though, and one of them is definitely furnished for a little girl. It’s got pink and purple everywhere with highlights of yellow. There are toys in a big plastic bin in the corner, and a tiny bed with a Disney princess painted on the headboard. It smells like a little girl, too . . . a mix of strawberries and cotton candy.

  He opens his fridge. “Sorry . . . I don’t have any food or anything to drink in here.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not hungry or thirsty.”

  He leaves the kitchen and goes into his bedroom. I follow him, stopping in the threshold. He’s thrown both my bag and his down on his bed. My heart leaps into my throat seeing our things together like that. Is he expecting me to sleep with him in here?

  “You can take the bed and I’ll grab the couch tonight,” he says, catching the look on my face. “I don’t think we can leave until tomorrow at the very earliest. I need to get Sadie.”

  I shake my head. “If you want to stick around for the funeral, which I assume you will, we’re probably going to be here for the next several days.”

  He pauses and stares off into nowhere. “Yeah. You’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.” He turns to look at me, his face set with pain. “For a second, I forgot that she died.”

  I walk into the room and put my arms around him. He returns the hug without hesitation. It’s starting to feel normal to do this with Sam . . . to hold each other in a warm embrace as we wait for a sad moment to pass. How strange it is, not only that I’m doing this, but also that I’m so comfortable doing it with a man I just met. Was it New York that changed me, or was it Sam?

  “I think it’s going to take a while for her death to sink in,” I say.

  “Yeah, but how could I just forget? I’m such a shit.”

  “No, you’re not a shit. Don’t be mean to yourself like that. You’re a human being. Madison has been in your life for a long time. She was just a natural part of it, like your arm is part of your body. And now this natural part of your life has been cut away with no warning, like an amputation of that limb. It’s going to take a while for you to adapt to the idea that she’s not here anymore. I mean, she’s here in spirit, and she’s here in Sadie . . . she’s just not going to be here in person anymore.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in the afterlife,” he says.

  “That’s okay. Even if you don’t believe in that, you know that when she was here, you did your best by her.”

  “That’s the problem; I’m not sure that I did.” He pulls away from me and goes over to his bag, opening the top and digging some things out.

  “I don’t know you that well, but what I’ve learned since I met you yesterday is that you cared about her and you tried really hard to help her out.”

  “I should’ve tried harder.”

  We’re going to go round and round on this, with him trying to convince me he’s a jerk and me trying to convince him he’s not. What a colossal waste of time. “Is there really any point to this?” I ask.

  He stops digging in his bag and looks at me. “To what?”

  “To beating yourself up? Will it change anything?”

  He seems mad now. “No, it won’t. She’s dead and that’s not going to change.”

  I take a step closer. “Yes. But she’s not dead because of you, Sam. She’s not dead because you chose that ending for her. She’s dead because of the
choices that she made.”

  His expression turns dark, and he goes back to messing with his bag. “Sure. Whatever. Thanks for trying to help, but I don’t really need a lecture about it right now.”

  The temptation to snap back at him and tell him that I’m not lecturing him is great, but this is not the time or the place to have that argument. He’s hurting and my words aren’t helping, that much is clear. I turn and leave the room in silence, refusing to take his anger personally. He’s not mad at me; he’s mad at himself, and right now me talking sense to him isn’t going to do any good.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes sitting on his couch and twiddling my thumbs. There’s a permanent dip in the center cushion; somebody has spent a lot of time there. Maybe Sam likes playing video games, but the game console I see under the TV is covered in a thick layer of dust, and the controllers are buried under wires. They obviously haven’t been used in a long time.

  There’s evidence of Sadie everywhere around the room . . . a toy here, a little girl’s blanket there, a pink article of clothing draped over the arm of a chair across the room. Viewing his world from this perspective, I can see Sam more fully now, as not just a really good-looking guy, but also as a man with a child . . . a father with a life that revolved around a tiny girl and her sad mother.

  As I take in all the evidence of his life, I realize that I need to try to control my need to fix Sam’s sadness. He has to go through the process of mourning the loss of his friend and the mother of his child so he can move on eventually. It will be painful, but every person who experiences the death of a loved one must get through the pain of that loss to reach the happiness on the other side . . . the closure we crave as humans, the sign that life will go on, even when it deals us a shitty hand and shuts us down temporarily.

  I can’t even imagine what must be going through Sam’s mind right now. He’s a single dad for real, not just temporarily. I’m sure he had hoped in the back of his mind all along that Madison would get herself together and become a true mother to Sadie. Now there’s no chance of that happening, and he’s on his own with this little girl to raise.

  And as if that weren’t tough enough, apparently there’s some bad guy out there who wants to get in touch with Madison or Sam. What was his name . . . Drake? I can handle the death of a friend or the prospect of babysitting a little girl I don’t know for a few days, but dealing with bad guys? No, thank you. I’m not okay with that.

  A noise to my left catches my attention. Sam is standing at the entrance to the living room. “Sorry,” he says, leaning on the wall with his hands in his front pockets.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I snapped at you and was rude. You were just trying to help.”

  I stand and walk over, stopping a couple feet away. “I was trying to help, but I was also out of line. I know you need time to get through this stuff. I probably don’t know you well enough to say the right thing anyway, so I’m just going to shut up now and let you do your thing.”

  He comes closer and picks up my hands, holding them between us. His fingers intertwine with mine a little. “That’s the thing . . . You do know the right thing to say.” He stares into my eyes, the vulnerability I see there piercing my heart. “I might not want to hear it, but what you’re saying makes complete sense. I’ve had a hard time my whole life letting people in. I don’t trust anyone. I guess maybe that’s why Madison and I got along so well; we’d both been burned pretty bad, so we had high walls and we understood each other and our limitations. But I don’t want to push you away. You’re a special person, and I’d like to keep you in my life . . . if you want to be there, that is.”

  I squeeze his hands. “Of course I do. I think you’re really awesome too.”

  His smile is sad. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Stop fishing for compliments.” I shake his hands a little to wake him up out of his sad stupor. “When I tell you you’re awesome, you just have to accept it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I glance at the door to his bedroom. “And FYI, nobody is sleeping on the couch in this apartment.” I’m feeling super bold right now, like nothing I say could go wrong.

  “Is that so?” he asks, his eyebrow arching.

  “Yes, it is. You’ve just been through a terrible time, and I’m not going to make you get a backache on top of everything else. And I’m not going to let myself get one either. We’ll just share the bed. We can be platonic buddies who share a mattress.” I hold up our hands, still locked together, for him to see. “Right?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Why? Don’t you want to be my friend?” A little sliver of panic comes in. Maybe I took things too far. Maybe he doesn’t see us as being anything but two people who have siblings who date.

  He’s still shaking his head. “No, not really.”

  I try to drop his hands as my face warms with embarrassment, but he hangs on tighter.

  “Don’t run away.” His voice is liquid heat. He pulls me closer.

  “Why would I run away?” The realization that he’s flirting hits me and sends my heart fluttering.

  “Because I’m scaring you right now.”

  “No, you’re not.” I lift my chin. “It’s going to take a lot more than a little flirting to scare me away.”

  “So . . . if I get closer to you, that’s not going to scare you?” He takes one step.

  “Don’t be silly.” Part of me wants to run; he’s right. Maybe he knows me better than I thought he did. But I want to stay, too. I want to see how far this will go. I want to heal his pain, and there’s a crazy side of me that thinks physical intimacy could help. It could be that I’m just being selfish to think that. It’s true that I want to feel his naked body against mine more than anything in the world right now. Hell, I’ve been staring at him for most of the past twenty-four hours and dreaming of it pretty much constantly the entire time. It’s clear I cannot trust my motivations where he’s concerned.

  “You sure about that?” He takes another step, leaving mere inches between us.

  My heart is beating wildly, but I’m too far gone to stop. “I’m sure. I told you before . . . I’m not a virgin.”

  He chuckles low in his throat. “I do remember you mentioning that.” Now his body is touching mine, hip to hip. He reaches up to stroke my arms. “Maybe it’s wrong, but I really want to take you to bed.”

  “Why would it be wrong?” I ask in a whisper. My pulse is pounding loud enough that I can hear it inside my head.

  “We don’t know each other that well,” he says, his mouth moving toward mine.

  “We know each other well enough, Sam.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I put my arms around his neck and pull him to me. Our lips meet with a crash. Then his hands are all over me, and we’re stumbling into the bedroom.

  I imagined our first encounter together would be soft and hesitant, both of us fumbling around and shy, but boy, was I wrong. His hands are everywhere . . . my bottom, chest, my stomach, between my legs . . . his fingers sliding along my most intimate parts.

  I’m out of my clothes in a matter of seconds, and I don’t even realize how it happened. I’m naked, and so is he. We’re sitting at the edge of his bed, touching each other all over, kissing, licking, both of us moaning. His hand is on my rear end pulling me toward him, his arousal strong and hard.

  “Do you have a condom?” I ask. If he doesn’t, I do, but I’m going to hate having to run into the other room to get it.

  He reaches over and yanks on a drawer, pulling it out completely. Several condoms fall to the floor along with various other things. He bends down to grab a foil packet, quickly ripping it open.

  I stroke him while he removes the condom and throws the packaging off to the side. He pauses to kiss me some more before putting it on.

  His fingers move across my thigh and slide down into my folds. “Are you ready for me?”

&nb
sp; I hold his face in my hands, breathing heavily through my arousal. “I have never been more ready for someone in my entire life.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  He pushes me backward and I fall across the bed. I scoot over to make room for him. He joins me, his giant body looming over mine. I rub my hands over his chest, looking up at him. When I see the ragged look of his face and tear-swollen eyes, a brief flash of guilt hits me. Am I taking advantage of a man who’s too full of sadness to make good decisions?

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, breathing heavily, praying he won’t say no.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing.” He lowers himself slowly down to me, the muscles of his arms bulging with the effort. I close my eyes in a mixture of relief and pleasure as I realize he’s giving me his answer. He’s sure.

  He goes slowly, gently pushing against and into me. My body is slick down there, but he’s big and it’s been a really long time for me.

  “You are so tight,” he says with a hiss.

  “You’re too big,” I say, and not just to pump his ego.

  “Here, let me help you.” He lifts one of my legs, spreading me open. He eases in a bit and then out, very gently, teasing away the tension I was feeling, making it easier for both of us. My hips start to move with him, welcoming his thrusts and opening for him.

  When he’s finally buried to the hilt, we moan together in pleasure and relief. He stays that way for several seconds, pausing to kiss me for a bit before pulling out and burying himself inside me again. The super-slow rhythm he’s using is killing me. I know I should probably just relax and enjoy it, but I’m having trouble doing that. The sensations are building too quickly. I’ve never been in such a hurry to reach orgasm before.

  “It’s been a while for me,” he says, grunting with the effort of speaking and exercising extreme control over his movements. “I’m not going to last very long; you feel too good.” His eyes are closed and the muscles in his face show the tremendous strain he’s under.