Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1)

by Colleen Masters

  “Look at that,” he says, keeping those blue eyes locked on mine. “I am your big brother after all.”

  “Oh, that’s so precious!” Deb swoons. “I’m so glad you two are feeling more like family. That makes me so, so happy. What should we do to celebrate your eighteenth birthdays? Bowling? The movies?”

  “I was gonna buy a shit load of porn, cigarettes, and scratch off lottery tickets and have myself a private party,” Emerson says bluntly. “You all are more than welcome to join in. Though things might get a little...awkward.”

  I tear my eyes away from his at this last bit, feeling my cheeks burning hotly. He’s baiting me. I can tell.

  “Honestly, Emerson,” Deb says, her cheerful veneer cracking, “Do you have to shit all over every nice thing I try to do for you?”

  “Don’t worry, Deb. He was just kidding,” my dad coos, planting a kiss on his girlfriend’s forehead. “Weren’t you, Emerson?”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sport,” Emerson replies shortly, slapping his palms against the table. “Now, as fun as this has been, I’ve got things to do.”

  He strolls out of the kitchen, pausing for half a second to snatch a bag of chips out of the cupboard. Deb is so pissed off at his behavior that she and my dad don’t even try to stop me as I hurry off after Emerson.

  “Hey,” I call to him, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up. “Emerson, wait.”

  “What. Did I steal your afternoon snack?” he grins over his shoulder, holding the chips up over my head. His favorite game. “If you can grab ‘em you can have ‘em!”

  “Yeah, no. I’m not interested in your chips,” I say, standing before him on the landing. “I just wanted to know if we’re on speaking terms again now or what.”

  “What do you mean, Sis?” he asks, ripping open the bag and popping a chip into his mouth. This boy can even making chewing sexy. Goddamn him.

  “I mean...are you done giving me the cold shoulder?” I press him. “You’ve been avoiding me since that party the other night. When we—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Emerson chuckles. “You are way paranoid. I haven’t been avoiding you. I just haven’t noticed you. There’s been other shit going on. And you’re pretty easy to miss.”

  “Bullshit,” I snap, taking a step toward him. “I know you’ve been going out of your way not to see me ever since that stupid game in the closet. Something...happened between us, and—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, the joking laughter fading from his voice. “But I do know that I don’t want to hear another word about it out of you. OK?”

  “You can’t just pretend that nothing happened!” I cry out, exasperated.

  “Keep your voice down,” he growls, glancing down at the kitchen where our parents are still talking in hushed tones.

  “I won’t. Not unless we can have a real conversation about this,” I say at full volume, crossing my arms. “You owe me that, at least.”

  “You are so fucking impossible,” he says, shoving a hand through his chestnut hair. “OK. Fine. You wanna take a drive or something? Will that shut you up?”

  Despite the context of his offer, my stomach still does a thrilled somersault at the idea of being alone with him. “Sure,” I say, “Let’s hit the road. Bro.”

  “I hope you know I’m just using you as an excuse to get out of this house again,” he grumbles, dropping the chips onto the floor and storming off down the stairs. I follow right behind him, wondering whether or not he’s fucking with me. At this moment, it doesn’t much matter. I’m just happy that he’s speaking to me again at all.

  You’re just pathetic, I berate myself silently. Berating myself is something I’m pretty great at—I have a lot practice.

  “Are you leaving again already?” Deb cries from the kitchen as we try to make our exit. “You just got home!”

  “Yes Mother,” Emerson sighs, in his most over-the-top cordial voice. “Abigail and I are going to take a spin around town. Take in some fresh air. Cheerio!”

  “Oh. Well. Good. You guys are spending some time together,” Deb says uncertainly. “Um. Be back...sometime?”

  “Will do!” Emerson says, tipping an imaginary hat to our parents.

  I step out the door after him, shaking my head in amused befuddlement.

  “And I’m the weirdo, right?” I laugh.

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Sis?” he says, striding over to the beat up Chevy parked in the driveway. “We’re both weirdoes, you and me. Get in the car.”

  I trundle into the front seat, trying not to gawk as I settle in. I’ve never been allowed in Emerson’s car before. True, he and his mother have only been living with us for a few weeks. But still. Being admitted into this “sacred vessel” of his feels pretty significant. It’s all I can do to keep myself from caressing the worn out leather seats, the dusty dashboard, as if this car were a shrine to the boy I’m crazy for.

  “So. What kind of shit do big brothers do with their little sisters?” he asks, rolling down his window and lighting up a smoke. “Want me to take you to the playground or something?”

  “No. But you could bum me a cigarette, to begin with,” I say lightly.

  “You don’t smoke,” Emerson scoffs, looking over at me sharply.

  “Not anymore. But I did,” I inform him.

  “No fucking way,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

  “Yes fucking way, I assure you,” I reply. “Come on. Gimme one.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” he goes on, passing me his pack of Camels and a lighter, “Smoking doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”

  “There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Emerson,” I reply, plucking out a cigarette and lighting it up. “But if you’re real nice to me, I might just tell you a couple.”

  He stares at me for a long, silent moment. The same look he trained on me the night of the party is there in his eyes again now. I do my best to draw deep breaths, hoping he can’t read my thoughts. My desires. But instead of giving me any sort of clue as to what he’s thinking, he just starts the car and drives off toward town.

  We zoom along in silence, unsure of what to say. Or at least, I’m unsure. Maybe he just doesn’t care to spare any words on me. After a while, he flips on the car radio. A song by the Foo Fighters comes on, and I sit up a little in my seat. They’re one of my favorite bands—just heavy enough for my taste. I start singing along, nodding my head with the beat. Emerson lets out a short, surprised laugh.

  “Would have taken you for more of a Taylor Swift kind of girl,” he says over the music. “But I’m not supposed to make assumptions about you anymore, right?”

  “That’s right,” I smile.

  “Can I at least assume that you’ll want dinner at some point tonight?” he asks.

  I have to fight hard from letting a dopey, love-struck look escape across my features. He just wants to grab food. It’s not a date. I just happen to be along for the ride. But still.

  “Yeah, I’m starving,” I tell him.

  “Great. Me too. Let’s swing by the Crystal Dawn,” he says, turning off onto a main road in town.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  The Crystal Dawn is our local diner, frequented by just about everyone in our relatively small town. High school kids, senior citizens, working class parents—no one can resist the Crystal’s Dawn’s greasy spoon appeal. Emerson rolls up to the silver diner and swings into a parking space, cutting off another car with a laugh.

  “Do you just go out of your way to antagonize people?” I ask, stepping onto the sidewalk.

  “I don’t mean to antagonize them. Most people just happen to be assholes. I just treat them the way they deserve.” he shrugs, tossing his smoke into the gutter. I follow suit, relishing my final drag. It’s been over a year since I’ve had a cigarette. Damn, do I miss them sometimes.

  “What a charming attitude,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “T
hanks Sis,” Emerson winks, holding the door open for me like a real gentleman. Or so I think, until he lets it fall in my face at the last possible second.

  Yeah. Maybe all this lovey-dovey nonsense is just in my head after all.

  We walk across the crowded dining car, over to a red vinyl booth in the back corner. One of the regular waitresses, a woman in her forties with heavy blue eye shadow and a perm, plunks a couple of menus down onto the table. We don’t even have to look at them, of course. We’ve both lived in this town long enough to know exactly what we want. It’s said that you can tell a lot about a person by their usual Crystal Dawn order.

  “What’re you having?” I ask Emerson with a playfully grave tone.

  He wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially, perfectly aware of the weight of the question.

  “Bacon burger. Medium rare. Chipotle mayo.”

  “Of course you’re a raging carnivore,” I groan, shaking my head.

  “Well, what are you getting?” he shoots back.

  “Broccoli and cheese soup in a bread bowl,” I smile.

  “Wait,” he replies, laying his hands on the table. “You’re not...a vegetarian, are you?”

  “I sure am,” I reply with a chipper smile.

  “Of fucking course,” he grumbles, looking downright appalled.

  “You know factory farming is destroying our planet, right?” I tease him, putting on my best goodie-two-shoes voice.

  “You know that tofu is a sin against humanity, right?” he shoots back.

  That one takes me by surprise, drawing a real laugh out of me for once. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t start being a vegetarian for the environment’s sake,” I tell him. “I wish I was that noble. But the real reason is way stupider.”

  “Well. Why did you start?” he asks, halfway interested. That’s still halfway more than usual, at least.

  “When I was eight, my dad let me watch Jurassic Park with him,” I reply. “You know that scene where the goat gets eaten by the T-Rex, and its leg flies up and sticks to the window?”

  “Yeah, obviously,” Emerson replies. “Shit was groady.”

  “Yep. That’s what did it,” I admit. “I haven’t eaten meat since watching that movie. My mom was so pissed at my dad for turning me off chicken nuggets, I don’t think she spoke to him for days. They kept waiting for me to grow out of it, but I never did. And so, here we are.”

  “That’s hilarious,” Emerson says, smiling genuinely for perhaps the first time I’ve known him. It’s not like his usual, sarcastic grin. It’s something warmer, more honest. And it just about does me in.

  Luckily, the waitress comes back for our orders right at that moment, so I don’t end up throwing myself at him right then and there. We lapse into silence again as we wait for our food to arrive. He agreed to talk to me about what’s been going on between us, since the night of the party. But now that the moment has arrived, I can’t think of how to begin.

  “So. Are you and Courtney a thing or what?” I blurt out.

  Smooth, Abby, I grumble internally.

  “Courtney? Nah,” Emerson shrugs, “A little too high maintenance for me. And crazy as shit, too. Plus she’s always got show tunes on...Who listens to show tunes for fun?”

  “I’m sure she’s...nice. When you get to know her,” I reply. The last thing I want to do is go shitting on other girls just because they happen to have sucked face with Emerson. If I did that, just about every pretty girl in our school would be on my shit list. Girl on girl hate is something I try and avoid altogether, if I can help it.

  “I’m not really that interested in ‘nice’, is the thing,” Emerson scoffs, picking at a bit of loose paint on the table.

  “What...are you interested in?” I ask, my voice going soft on me.

  Emerson lifts his eyes to mine, the gold specks reflecting in the dying spring light outside the diner window. I swallow hard, waiting for him to go on.

  “I’m interested in someone who can teach me things. Show me things,” he says.

  I’m totally taken aback by his direct answer. “Oh?” I say meekly.

  “I could hang out with hot girls who don’t give a damn about me as a person, or look for someone who seems interested in something other than my fantastic body,” he continues, “I’m gonna go with the latter.”

  Of course, he can’t let a serious phrase go by without turning into a joke. Is that a defense mechanism or what?

  “Have you ever met someone like that?” I dare to ask him, “Someone you could be interested in for more than a weekend?”

  He lets me writhe under his gaze, taking his sweet time to formulate an answer to my question. I can feel my cheeks growing hotter by the second before he finally says one word:

  “Maybe.”

  The rest of the restaurant seems to fall away around us as Emerson trains his eyes on me. I have to choose my response very, very carefully here. This one little moment could be a turning point. A transformation. With my heart in my throat, I let my hand rest on the table, only a couple of inches away from his. Those mere inches of space spark with electricity, searing my already frayed nerves. I wish I could tell him that I want the same thing from a relationship—to be with someone who challenges me, like he does. Someone who’s not interested in being nice or normal, like he is. Someone who could show me a life I’d never be able to dream up on my own.

  Like he very well could.

  “Emerson,” I say softly, letting my hand drift slowly toward his, “I—”

  The front door of the diner flies open, slamming against the wall with a loud clatter. Emerson turns to look over his shoulder at the sound, and just like that, the spell is broken. Shit. I glance up, annoyed, to see who’s disrupted our near-perfect moment. But when I recognize the group that’s just sauntered inside, I feel myself going numb.

  “Goddamn it,” I whisper, “Not now.” I quickly hiding my hands under the table, not wanting Emerson to see how they’ve begun to shake. I pretend to be very interested in something out the window as I hear the boisterous voices of three guys from my school fill the enclosed space, one of whom I’m very intimately, and very unfortunately, acquainted with.

  To my horror, I watch from the corner of my eye as Emerson waves at the trio. Of course. They’re his lacrosse teammates. He has no idea why flagging them down is the worst thing he could possibly do to me right now. Against my silent prayers to any god that’s listening, the three boys stroll over to our table. Emerson swings his body around to greet them.

  “Hey guys,” he says to his three teammates.

  “Hey Tank,” says one of the guys, a blonde junior named Steve, using Emerson’s lacrosse nickname. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. As usual,” Emerson laughs, “What’s happening tonight?”

  “Some people will be over at my place,” says Roger, a lanky senior. “Got a couple of dime bags, if you want in.”

  “You know I do,” Emerson replies.

  “We interrupting you?” Steve asks. I feel their three sets of eyes fall on my face like laser beams. Shit. I was hoping I’d get out of this without having to say a word to them.

  “Just grabbing some food,” Emerson says, “Right Abby?”

  With great reluctance, I raise my eyes to the four boys before me. I try to keep my gaze trained on Emerson, or even Steve and Roger, but my eyes can’t help themselves. They flick masochistically up to the third boy standing next to our table. He’s as tall as Emerson, with jet black hair slicked away from his hard jaw, his full lips. His own dark eyes skirt away from mine the second we make eye contact. He hasn’t looked at me in years. I like to believe it’s because he can’t bear to, that the guilt and shame are too much for him to deal with. But in reality, it’s probably just cold indifference that repels his gaze from me.

  His name is Tucker Jacoby. He very nearly derailed my entire life, back when we were fifteen. And it’s abundantly clear that Emerson has no idea.

  “Yeah...” I finally manage to sa
y, my voice barely audible. “Just getting some food.”

  “You guys know Abby, right?” Emerson says to the trio. I can feel my skin starting to crawl with every passing moment they...he lingers beside me.

  “Sure. Yeah,” Steve nods, “You do all those cartoons in the school newspaper, right?”

  “Right,” I say shortly, my hands shaking violently under the table. “That’s me.”

  “I liked the one with the duck,” Roger puts in, “Didn’t really get the joke, but—”

  “I’m starving,” Tucker cuts in. The sound of his voice is like an ice pick to my composure. “Let’s get a table. See you, Tank.”

  He turns away without acknowledging me, just as he’s done for the past couple of years. Emerson raises an eyebrow at his retreating back before glancing over at me. He freezes as he catches a glimpse of my upset expression, taken off guard by the extremity of my discomfort.

  “See ya, Tank,” Roger says, turning toward the table that Tucker’s claimed for them. “Think you’ll swing by my place tonight?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get back to you on that,” Emerson says, his eyes still fixed on my troubled face. The sudden concern clouding his handsome face is enough to make my own eyes prickle with hot tears.

  Roger and Steve trundle away after Tucker, leaving Emerson and I alone again at last. Our food has yet to arrive, but I’ve lost any trace of my appetite. The air in the Crystal Dawn feels poisonous now. Contaminated. I’m finding it harder to breathe with every shallow gulp of air I can manage to force down.

  “Abby, are you OK?” Emerson asks, reaching for me across the table.

  “I. I need...” I gasp, struggling to form the simplest words. “Can we go? Please?”

  “Of course we can,” Emerson says, his voice soft but firm. He rises to his feet and offers me a hand as I stand, shakily. I feel the comforting weight of his arm as he drapes it over my shoulders, holding me snugly against his muscled side. Usually, I’d be all butterflies and giddiness to be this close to him. But in the midst of my anxiety attack, all I can feel is icy panic. I can’t help but glance over at Tucker as Emerson leads me out of the diner. I should be used to the uncaring expression he saves just for me by now. I shouldn’t let the mere sight of him unravel me like this.