But I’m just not strong enough to not give a shit. I never have been.
After what feels like a decade, I settle into the passenger seat of Emerson’s Chevy. As he rounds the car, sinks into the driver’s seat, and slams the door shut behind him, the bubble of my fear and apprehension bursts. Shame and relief crash simultaneously over me, rendering me speechless as Emerson turns to take me in. His look, infused with compassion, undoes me completely. Fat tears roll down my cheeks as I stare straight ahead, wishing that I could actually be as small as Tucker makes me feel. If I was, it would be easy enough to slip through the cracks and disappear forever.
“Abby,” Emerson says quietly, “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
I draw in a deep, ragged breath, trying to muster the strength for words. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Abby, is it OK if I hold your hand?”
His simple request acts as a life preserver, saving me from going under in this rush of emotion. I look over at him and nod silently. Without pause, Emerson reaches for the hand that is currently gripping my thigh, uncurls my fingers, and laces them with his own. I cling onto him like a drowning woman, amazed that he took the time to ask me if I wanted to be touched. I remember, through my thick fog of misery, that he must have plenty of practice being the comforter. How many times has he sat with Deb as she descended into a depressive stupor?
“Thank you,” I manage to tell him through my tears.
“Any time,” he replies, giving my hand a squeeze. “Are you with me now?”
“I am. I’m here,” I gasp. His simple touch was enough to drag me through the thick of my panic. I can feel the world coming back into focus around me.
“If you want to talk about what just happened back there,” Emerson says, rubbing his thumb against my still-trembling hand, “We can.”
I look over at him, leaning toward me from the driver’s seat. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s calm. Gentle. Caring. And all for me. I desperately want to explain myself, to tell him why I had to get out of that diner the second Tucker walked in. But letting him in on my shameful secret...what if it wiped that compassionate look right off his face? What if he was never able to look at me the same way again? We’re so close to figuring out how to talk to each other, how to spend time together despite everything. I don’t want to ruin that. Not for anything.
“Would you mind if we just...went home?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“Sure,” Emerson says, “Yeah. We can go home, Abby.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment before turning back to the wheel. Delicately, he extricates his fingers from mine to start the car. But the second we’re in motion, I reach for it again. His hand is my anchor in this moment. I need it. I need him.
We ride home in utter silence. The radio stays off, the windows stay closed. I gaze out the window at the darkening landscape, the familiar contours of the town I’ve called home all my life. The incident at the diner only makes me want to speed up the days until I finally get to leave this place behind, go somewhere where nobody knows me at all. But how can I wish these days away knowing that my flight from here will mean being separated from Emerson?
Anger floods in to replace my fear and shame. Tucker has already taken so much from me. Caused me so much pain. Now my long-awaited conversation with Emerson about where we stand has been ruined, thanks to him. If he proves to be the thing that keeps Emerson and I from every truly getting a chance at being close, I’ll never forgive him. Then again, I never plan on forgiving him anyway. There are some things that no amount of time or patience can mend.
I know that from experience.
Chapter Four
* * *
Despite Emerson’s offer to listen if I want to talk about the “diner incident”, we don’t get into it upon arriving home. Dad and Deborah have gone out for dinner, as they do most nights when Emerson and I aren’t around. The house feels cavernous and cold tonight. This place hasn’t felt like home since Mom passed away, but after what just happened with Tucker, the entire town feels uninhabitable to me. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again. Scared, confused, and so, so lonely. Only now, there’s actually someone here to help me through it.
“We still need to rustle up some grub,” Emerson says, moving ahead of me into the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to mind my radio silence about what just went down at the restaurant, but there’s definitely been a shift in his demeanor. His usual grin has been replaced by a comforting smile, and his entire attitude toward me seems gentler. Nicer. It isn’t that he’s pitying me, thank god. It’s almost as if he’s recognized something of himself in me. Go figure—I’m sure he has more pain hidden inside of him than anyone should be made to live with.
“Well, I’m a terrible cook,” I tell him, leaning my elbows on the kitchen island. “Couldn’t even boil water if I tried.”
“Huh. Lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent chef,” Emerson says seriously, opening up the kitchen cupboard.
“Wait. Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Really,” he replies, “I had to cook for Mom most of the time growing up. Letting a wasted person near sharp knives and open flames is a terrible idea.”
“That follows,” I reply. “So, what do you have in mind, master chef?”
“Well,” he says, plucking a few items down off the cupboard shelf. “How do you feel about risotto?”
“Are you kidding?” I blurt. That’s one of my all-time favorite foods. I used to ask my mom to make it every year for my birthday. But there’s no way he could have known that.
“I’ll take that as a ‘fuck yeah’,” Emerson smiles, plunking a container of Arborio rice down onto the counter. “Why don’t you find us a movie on demand to watch or something? I’ll get this thing whipped up in no time.”
I follow his suggestion and head for the living room. Stealing a glance at Emerson over my shoulder, I feel my heart warm up a few degrees. His face is composed, free from the scowl that usually rests there. With Dad and Deb out for the night, I can almost imagine that this is our place—mine and Emerson’s alone. We’ve never once spent time like this together. He hardly ever stays in for a night, and I’m mostly preoccupied with extracurriculars and long study sessions at the library. After our disastrous outing before, this evening is suddenly looking up. Maybe we’ll even get around to discussing this sudden shift in our relationship. He’s cooking me dinner, after all. Clearly, miracles do happen.
I scroll through dozens upon dozens of movies as Emerson cooks. The savory fragrance of his recipe makes my stomach growl in eager anticipation.
“Jesus. Was that you?” he calls from the kitchen. “Not very ladylike, Sis.”
“What do you want from me?” I grin back. “Your gourmet masterpiece is taking forever. I’m starving in here.”
“I could always just scrap it and make you some Easy Mac instead,” he teases.
“You’re not that inhumane,” I shoot back.
“That is true,” he chuckles, filling two bowls with the steamy, decadent meal he’s prepared. “Besides, this looks too good to waste.”
Emerson walks over to the deep sectional couch where I’ve made myself a nest of pillows and blankets. I let out a low moan as I smell the garlicky, mushroomy goodness of the food. Emerson hands me a heaping bowl topped with a mound of parmesan cheese and plops down onto the couch beside me, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Almost reverently, I scoop a bite of risotto onto my gigantic silver spoon and raise it to my mouth. Emerson watches expectantly out of the corner of his eye as I sample his cooking.
“Oh my god,” I mumble around a mouthful of rice, “I think I just came.”
Emerson lets out a bark of surprised laughter at my crass joke. “So you like it then?”
I nod eagerly, burrowing into the couch while I take bite after delicious bite of the food he
’s prepared. It occurs to me, as I nosh, that I haven’t had an honest-to-god home cooked meal since my mom died. That awareness only makes this gesture of Emerson’s that much more meaningful to me.
“So, what’re we watching?” he asks, taking a bite of risotto for himself.
I grab the remote and click through to the film of my choice. It’s an old favorite of mine. “Ta-da!” I say happily.
“The fuck?” Emerson scoffs as he sees what movie I’ve picked out for us tonight. “I thought you were gonna go for something with super heroes. Or vampires. Anything but this.”
“What?” I reply. “Dr. Zhivago is a classic!”
“Classically depressing,” he says.
“Have you ever even seen it?” I press.
“Well. No,” he admits, “But look at all that snow and shit on the poster! Unless we’re talking about Snow Dogs, that’s never a sign of a cheerful movie.”
“Cheerful is overrated,” I tell him, “And this movie is fantastic. Just give it a chance. I promise, you’ll love it.” He raises an eyebrow at my fervid vow. “Well...” I amend, “I promise you won’t absolutely despise it, anyway.”
If it were any other day, I’m sure Emerson would never submit to watching an old, tragically romantic movie with me. I can practically see him swallowing his pride like a big old bite of mushroom risotto as he says, “Fine. Put it on. I’ll try not to fall asleep.”
With a gleeful squeak, I queue up the film and settle back against the couch. As the opening theme swells to fill our living room, Emerson eases over on the couch so that our bodies are almost, almost touching. His closeness, his kindness, and his understanding very nearly erase the upsetting events of this afternoon. I let myself get swept up in the film, in his company, in the wonderful, unprecedented feeling of comfort that’s wrapped around me like so many blankets.
As we fill our bellies and turn our attention toward the movie, I’m amazed at how normal this all feels. Spending time with Emerson feels natural. Easy. Maybe there was a little silver lining to being so vulnerable in front of him earlier today, scary as it was. Of their own accord, our bodies drift closer together over the course of the long film. The big meal has made me happy and sleepy, and I can feel my eyelids growing heavy. Emerson’s long, built body relaxes next to mine. And as we both lose ourselves in the epic story, he casually encircles me with a strong, muscular arm.
I’m elated to be close to him, but more surprised at how effortlessly our bodies fit together. I snuggle against his side, resting my head on his shoulder. The warmth of his body is like a balm to my frayed nerves, and we stay cozied up for the duration of the film. At long last, when the final credits roll, I’m reluctant to reach for the remote, to let reality come sweeping into this perfect, suspended moment. I think I can sense hesitation in him too, but that could just be a lot of wishful thinking.
At long last, the screen goes black. The house is almost entirely dark without the blue glow of the TV. But even so, neither of us makes the first move to disentangle our bodies. If there was any question before, I know that this embrace is more than merely platonic. Emerson’s hand moves slowly along my side, sending sensation sparking along each nerve he brushes. I turn my face gently toward his, peering up in the dim light. His blue eyes gleam even in the darkness, and his caring expression gives me the courage to rest a hand on the firm panes of his chest. I take a deep, steadying breath, willing myself to be strong. Steady.
“Thank you for this,” I say, unsurprised to find that my voice has slipped low in my register with wanting him. “I know you were out to make me feel better after this afternoon, and...well. It worked. This was exactly what I needed.”
“I’m glad,” he says, tugging me just a hair tighter against him. “I hated seeing you so upset back at the restaurant. I figured dinner and a movie was the least I could do. Was that a panic attack, or—?”
“Anxiety attack, yeah,” I reply, scooting up so that our faces are level. “I’ve been having them for a few years now.”
“Did they start when your mom passed away?” he asks.
“Um. No,” I say, averting my eyes, “Not exactly.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Emerson insists.
“No. I do want to. I want you to know what today was about, I just...” I sigh, trying to find the right words. “Hardly anyone knows. And this whole us-getting-along thing is pretty new, you know? I just need to know...that I can trust you.”
I swallow a gasp as Emerson lays a hand on my cheek, his eyes burning intently into mine. “You can trust me,” he says, “I promise you that much, Abby. How can I prove it to you?”
“Trade me a secret for a secret?” I laugh, only half joking.
“OK,” he replies, his gaze unwavering, “Deal.”
“Wait, seriously?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter.
“Seriously,” he says, letting his fingertips trail over my shoulder, down my arm. “I want you to know I’m for real. I’ll tell you a secret if you’ll let me in on one of yours.”
I try my best to take deep breaths, suddenly afraid of knowing Emerson’s secrets, being bound to share mine as well. But I know I have to be bold, now. I’ve spent too much time living in shame and fear.
“OK,” I whisper, inching closer toward him, “Tell me a secret, Emerson. Make it a good one, too.”
“All right,” he says, his voice hoarse and low, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you for two weeks straight. Since the night of the party. I got to see a side of you that night I’d never seen before. In the closet, during that stupid game...you were so direct. So ready. And so fucking sexy. If the cops hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would have happened. But I damn well know what I wanted to happen.”
“What?” I breathe, so close to him that I can feel his warm breath against my skin. “What did you want to happen?”
His eyes glint with something that looks like longing. Lust. Can this seriously be happening right now? Is someone about to leap out from behind a houseplant and tell me I’ve been Punk’d or what?
“It would probably be better for me to show you than tell you,” he growls. “Is that OK?”
Unable to formulate a single word, I simply nod my assent. With a fiery intensity I’ve never seen in him before, Emerson catches my face in his broad hands. I can feel my heart barreling against my ribcage as he takes one long, steady look at me. Before I can take another breath, he’s brought his lips to mine in a searing, earnest kiss. The entire world shrinks down to our two bodies as I feel myself subsumed by the sensation. His lips are unbelievably soft, his mouth so strong as it works against mine. I open myself to him, closing my eyes in rapturous bliss as his tongue glances against my own. The taste of him electrifies my senses. In this moment, there is nothing but him.
I gasp softly as Emerson pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as his tongue probes deeper and deeper. Pressing myself flush against him, I let a low groan escape from between my lips. I can feel through his signature blue jeans that he’s hard for me. The full, stiffening length of him presses against my sex, exactly where I’ve been dreaming of feeling him for the better part of four years.
My body has never been this alive with want. Not with anybody. Moving with him feels intuitive in a way it never has with any other guy. I grind my hips slowly, feeling him grow even harder beneath me. His hands slide down over my ass, running along the firm rise in my jeans. He pulls me tighter, letting me feel just how much he wants me. In a moment of daring, I close my teeth around his bottom lip, tugging gently. He looks up at me in wonder.
“Where the hell did you come from, Abby?” he breathes.
“I’ve been here all along,” I smile, running my hands through his chestnut hair. “You just haven’t noticed until now.”
“Please,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around the small of my back, “You honestly think I never noticed you before?”
“We
ll...you never said a word to me before our parents met,” I point out, bringing my lips to his scruffy throat and kissing deeply.
“Why would I? You were way out of my league,” he replies, running his hands down my sides. “I didn’t want to risk making an ass of myself.”
I start laughing so hard that I nearly topple off of him. “Now that is hilarious,” I crow, steadying myself. “Me? Out of your league?”
“Of course,” he says, “Can you seriously not see that?”
“All I can see right now is you, Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous Lacrosse Star,” I smile, feeling emboldened by his words. “And since we’re being honest, here...I’ve been carrying quite the torch for you these past four years. I’ve sort of been crushing on you from afar since...oh...the minute I saw you in school for the first time.”
“No shit?” he grins.
“No shit,” I assure him.
“How messed up is it that we only figured this out because our parents started boning?” he laughs.
“Ughh,” I groan, rolling off of him onto the couch, “Please don’t talk about our parents having sex right now. Or ever, for that matter.”
“Fine by me,” he says, shifting his body my way. Without another word, he lays me out on the sofa, lowering his muscled body onto mine. He runs his index finger along my jaw, tipping my chin up toward his face. “I don’t want to talk right now anyway.”
He kisses me again, his hands roving all over my body. My back arches as he cups my breasts through my thin cotton tee shirt, letting his thumbs brush over my hard nipples. As he kneads and caresses me, a low, pulsing pressure starts to build in my core. I can’t remember the last time I got off without my handy dandy vibrator. It’s been ages since I’ve hooked up with anyone, and the intensity of the pleasure Emerson is bestowing on me is almost too much to bear.
Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1) Page 20
