by Cassie Mae
“Come on,” I say, tugging on his arm, but it’s hard at this angle. I’ve got no leverage in the shopping cart, but after a couple of grunts, Eric gives in, pressing his cheek against mine.
“Awww! That’s a good one.”
“And I bet it’s going right to Facebook.”
I playfully tap his hand before he starts pushing the cart toward the baby toys.
“Twitter, actually.” But I’ll probably put it as my profile picture soon. We look adorable together, and to be honest, I love it when my friends tell me how hot my boyfriend is. That’s right, people, I snagged a good one!
@Eric_Matua helping me shop for @Evenstar’s baby! #goodboyfriendpoints #someonemightgetlucky
“Hey, what do you think about this?” Eric asks, pulling me out of my phone. His arms huddle around me as he squeezes the center of a Cookie Monster doll. It growls “Coooookies” at me, and I snort and take it from him.
“I like it. Little guy can roll over on it in his crib and keep Eve and Paul up all night.”
“We should get them a lot of things that make noise.”
“Yes, I know Eve would love that.”
He laughs and kisses the side of my head before setting the toy back on the shelf. “I’m going to get my kids lots of noisy toys.”
“Really?” I adjust in the cart, wincing as the grate digs into my butt. “Bet your wife will end up tearing out all the batteries.”
“And she’ll hand them books instead.” He winks, and my stomach twirls.
“Well, books are better anyway.”
Eric turns down the diaper aisle. “How many do you think she’ll want?” His voice is light, but there’s a serious undertone that has my twirling stomach spiraling into my throat. I know he’s talking about us—or he’s really mean and asking about some other woman—but I’ve never seriously thought about kids.
I reach over the cart and grab a pack of Pampers, then shove them under my butt for comfort.
“I’ve always pictured two,” Eric says when I don’t answer, and I play with the metal on the cart.
“Let me guess. One boy, one girl.”
“Of course.” He tugs on the end of my ponytail so my head tilts toward him. “But not for a while.”
I smile and kiss his nose. “I can’t even imagine handling kids right now. And here I am buying my pregnant roommate diapers.”
Eric runs his hands over my arms, then rests his hands on my cheeks. My forehead hits his chin when he nips at my bottom lip, and it makes me smile and giggle and love that he’s getting more and more comfortable with expressing his feelings physically.
“I bet whenever it happens, even if it comes out of the blue, you’ll be a great mom.” He winks again and I start to wonder how much he’s actually thought about this. Because sitting here in the diaper aisle, getting sweet kisses from the man I love, and talking about our future, I want to think about it. And it’s not as scary as I thought. It’s kind of exciting.
“I’ve always wanted two,” I say, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “One boy, one girl.”
Eric grins against my lips. “Boy first?”
I nod. “And we’re putting that Cookie Monster on the registry.”
“We?” he teases.
“I’m not good with the metaphorical thing.”
He twirls the shopping cart around, nearly throwing me to the floor when the wheels pop up on the left side. I squeal and he’s laughing, talking about how we could totally do the parent thing. Spend our days lying on the floor with the kiddos, and our nights reading them Dr. Seuss. He’d call our son Bubba and teach him how to play bongos, while our girl, Babsy Jane, learns how to beatbox. The whole time he’s spinning me, even though I know he’s joking, I’m thinking, why not? After college, I could jet off to Vegas with him and get hitched, settle in a suburb and raise some cute half-Samoan children with this superhot man. I never thought about a future with anyone before. I want to have what Scott had with his Mia. And then I toss my head side to side to rid my brain of his name.
Eric. The guy who’s out of breath and smiling so huge I’m surprised he’s able to form words. He’s the guy I’m with. The guy I want a future with. Or at least can picture this wacky future he’s painted for us with.
I’m totally, 100-percent knocked senseless in love with this man.
He leans over the basket, wiggling his nose against mine, his warm breath on my face. I lose all sense of where we are, the basket digging into my butt bone, the smell of diapers in the air . . . it’s just Eric and me and my winged heart that’s about to fly out to him so he can have it forever.
“Make love to me.”
Chapter 22
Eric Matua’s birthday is tomorrow
Send him a gift
***
If requests could cause heart attacks, I’m pretty sure Em’s just did. I blink and grip the side of the cart, putting most of my weight on it. Breathe, damn it.
“Eric?”
I clear my throat, eyes never leaving hers. After my gut unties, I force a half smile. “Right here? I mean, I’m all for making statements and such, but I don’t think I want my first time to be in the diaper aisle at Target.”
Em smiles and wraps her arms around my neck. “I’m serious. I want you to make love to me. Tonight, tomorrow, next year . . . at some point, I want you to love me with all of you. Please?”
I wait for my breath to leave me, but it doesn’t. And it makes my mouth curve into a grin. “I thought you couldn’t get any sexier, and then you throw this one at me.” I lower my lips to hers, lightly tapping them before I smooth my hands around her waist and pull her from the cart. “I’ll make love to you, tonight, tomorrow, next year . . . or whenever it’s right for us.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but . . . we’re going to have to go—”
“Slow.”
“I’m sorry.” I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips, then squeeze her to breathe in her neck while she breathes in mine. “You work tonight?”
She sighs into my collar. “Yes.”
“I’ll get you to myself tomorrow, though, yes?”
She jerks back, eyes wide as she nods.
My fingers dig into her lower back, bringing our hips even closer. Every single nerve in my body zaps to life and I wait for Ali’s voice to break into my thoughts, but Em scratches the bottom of my chin, keeping me here with her. A breathy laugh flies from her gorgeous lips.
“What?” I ask.
“I really wish we weren’t in public right now.” She nods at a man who just turned the corner, baby in the seat of the cart.
“Damn the public,” I whisper into her ear.
“Why can’t we be the only two people in existence?”
“You want to get out of here?”
“I have to be at work in an hour.”
“Yep.”
“So we better leave now.”
“Yep.”
She pulls the diapers from the cart and tucks her hand in mine. I didn’t think Em was that strong, but she’s tugging me toward the checkout lanes so hard my arm might come out of its socket.
Before we can get too far, she says, “Oh, wait!” and drops my hand, bolting back to the toys. She comes back with two Cookie Monsters, cheeks flushing deep red. We don’t say another word, but I can’t stop touching her anywhere I can reach, even with her pulling her phone out and answering whatever it is on there.
The next time she talks is when she asks the cashier to put one of the Cookie Monsters in a separate bag.
* * *
Ten minutes into our drive home and my excitement at having Em to myself for an hour is shot to hell. She has her phone out, texting every ten to twenty seconds. I grind my teeth as she looks at her phone resting on her thigh again.
“Em, the road.”
“I know, I’m watching,” she says, but she’s not watching. She’s sliding her thumb around the screen, eyes flicking to the windshield in half-second interva
ls.
“Can it wait till we get home?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, but I’m shit out of luck. “Or do you want me to answer for you?”
“No.” She jerks the phone away and sets it on her opposite thigh. Her eyes settle in front of her, and I relax for a minute . . . then her cell vibrates and her hand is back on it.
Pressure builds up in my chest as I bite my tongue. My hands curl into fists over my knees. She’s swerving, but she pulls back to the lane whenever her eyes flash back to the street. I want to rip that phone from her and toss it out the window. I know she’s messaging someone, and every time she opens Facebook, she cuts a quick glance at me. My limbs feel tight. I keep fidgeting in my seat. The pressure in my chest tightens my airway. And Em keeps sliding her thumb around the keyboard on her phone like she’s not driving, like I didn’t ask her to put the phone away, and I can’t stop my paranoia that she’s talking to that damn guy again, and she’s afraid to tell me.
She laughs, and my fingers dig into my palm, because why the hell is she laughing? Pay attention to the damn road!
The light in front of us turns yellow, but she’s got her eyes on her cell.
“Em . . .”
“I know, I’m stopping.”
Her foot doesn’t move to the brake. I grip the shit handle as she casually tucks her phone into the cup holder.
“Em . . .”
“I’m stopping, Eric!”
“The light’s red!”
Her hands shoot to the wheel, and the Camaro squeals as she pushes the brake to the floor. My seatbelt locks against my chest, and that’s it for my breathing. I was already having difficulty, but now I can’t get any oxygen. The car stops in the crosswalk, slightly in the intersection, but we’re out of the way of oncoming traffic.
My hands are shaking as I try to unhook my seatbelt. I need out. I need air. I need away from that damn phone and whoever the hell she’s talking to who’s more important than the road. More important than me.
“Where are you going?” she yells after me. I don’t care that we’re in the middle of the street. I sprint to the sidewalk, gulping down air, blowing it out, and pace.
My heart pounds in my chest, blood pulses in the vein in my neck. I don’t want this to be a big deal, but it is. I’ve tried the calm thing. I’ve asked her about it. I’ve been pissed. She knows it bugs the hell out of me, and she still can’t even drive down the road without looking at that damn phone.
She pulls over to the side of the road after she goes through the intersection. The door slams behind her and her flip-flops slap the pavement.
“What the hell, Eric?”
I glare at her. “Why are you mad?”
“Seriously, backseat driver?” She stops about an arm’s length away and returns my glare. “I was watching.”
“You were watching your damn Facebook page.” I pull at the back of my head. “You can’t put your phone down for ten minutes till we get to the house.”
“Because I didn’t want to be on the phone when we were going to . . . I don’t know . . . whatever we were going to do before I had to go to work.” She crosses her arms, her phone still tucked in her palm. “But obviously that wasn’t going to happen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean.” Her voice starts to shake, and a notification bings from her cell, but she ignores it. “You won’t even touch me, Eric. You keep giving me signals, and just when I think we’re moving forward, you pull back.”
Damn it, I knew she was frustrated. She said I could take it at whatever speed I want, but . . . “Is that what this is to you?” I wave my hand between our bodies. “Is it just about sex? Is that why you take your phone out every two seconds? Because it gives you the attention I don’t?”
Her eyes dart around us, but I don’t give a shit who’s listening. She was the one who brought it up.
“I’m not in front of my phone every two seconds, Eric. But at least my phone doesn’t shut me out.”
“You know why I shut you out? I have to take a step back because the anxiety gets so bad. Sometimes I have to pop a pill. Sometimes I have to go to therapy. And sometimes I just can't breathe.” It rushes from my lips before I can stop it. Faster than I can say it without yelling it. Screaming it. Em takes a step back and hugs her arms around her torso.
“Pop a pill?” she squeaks. “Therapy? What are you talking about?”
I run a hand over my face and take a deep breath, but my voice is still louder than I mean for it to be. “I’m messed up. I have social-anxiety disorder and I’m not talking just a minor case. I’m talking I have to go see a doctor. I pull back when I feel an attack coming. I pull back when I’m afraid of hurting you. And I pull back because I’m afraid to touch you in a way that you don’t want. Ali always told me I . . . shit, I just, that’s not the point.” I shake my head. “I see you on your phone all the time. When I talk to you and you’re not listening, it drives me insane. Like you’d rather be with whoever is on the other side of that thing than be with me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your anxiety?”
“Would it have made a difference? Were you on your phone because I wasn’t paying attention to you, or because you can’t help it? I don’t get it. I just want to be more important to you than that.”
“And I want to be important to you, too.” She drops her voice and takes a step forward. Her phone goes off. “Every time we touch I worry that you’re going to slam on the brakes. So sometimes I don’t even want to start because I’m left disappointed. It sucks, and it’s embarrassing.”
My breath is gone again. Disappointed. Will I ever have a relationship that isn’t tainted with how disappointing I am? If it’s not because of how I touch her, it’s how I don’t touch her. Maybe I’m pushing Em toward the Internet. It’s more interesting than I am. But then my mind races back to when we weren’t dating at all, and she was still on the damn thing. My head starts to hurt, and I curse at the sidewalk and turn from her, because I don’t know who I’m more upset with, and I need to get some space.
“Em, you are important.” I breathe in and shut my eyes. “I think that’s why my anxiety is so bad. Because I’m in love with you. All I can think about is how I won’t be enough, and I don’t know how to be enough.”
She reaches for my wrist, and I resist the urge to jerk away. “You’ve always been enough.”
“Then why are you somewhere else when you’re with me?” I look over my shoulder to her hazel eyes, and ignore the way they’re covered with unshed tears. “If it’s not your phone, it’s your computer or your Kindle. I get the online thing. Hell, I’m grateful for it because it kept me close to you when we were apart. But . . . it’s all the time. I’ve caught you sneaking peeks at your phone when we’re together. There are times when I’m trying to talk to you and all you do is nod.”
Her mouth opens, but it takes her a few seconds to respond. “I’m . . . I’m really trying to get better at that.”
“But why is it so hard to be with me? So we’re not having sex. We didn’t have sex before and you seemed to like being with me. What the hell changed?”
She shoves her phone in her pocket. “Nothing’s changed. I loved you then, and I love you now.” Her hands slam against my cheeks, and she brings my face to her lips. It’s so sudden, I can’t respond the way I probably should. I shake my head and push her back.
“No.”
Her neck goes red and she hugs her torso again. A notification bings from her pocket. “Of course, no,” she says. “It’s always no.”
“Damn it, Em. It’s no because you’re not answering me. You can’t kiss this problem away. We’re not one of your damn books. We’re not some fantasy couple that you can post online to show off to your friends. We go through shit and it’s not going to disappear because you say you love me or I say I love you. I’ve been in a relationship where things were swept away and seemed forgotten, but that shi
t comes back. It ruins you. That’s not going to happen with us.”
“So, what do you want, Eric?”
I let out a breath. I want an apology that sticks. She says she’s sorry about the screen time, but she does it all over again. I want to be able to touch her and know I’m not disappointing her. I want to get through a week without a pill. And I’m about to tell her all of that, but her phone goes off in her pocket, and it only infuriates me.
“I need a breather,” I say. “And you can answer that. I know you’re dying to.”
Then I step around her to the Camaro and plop my ass in the driver’s seat. I check the rearview and watch Em’s back. She’s curled into herself, and I feel like shit for blowing up, but I know if I go to her side and hear that phone I’m going to lose it again. I reach in the back for the scrubs I left there when she picked me up from work yesterday, and fish around for the bag of Xanax I keep in the pocket. But I can’t find it. Must’ve put it in the other scrubs.
I flick my gaze to the rearview again. Em’s wiping her face and my hand is on the door handle, but I snatch it back after I see her reach into her pocket.
I stop watching when she puts her phone to her ear.
Chapter 23
Emilia Johnson posted a picture to Eve Ferguson’s timeline
32 minutes ago
Lookie what I got you!
16 people like this
***
I stopped the tears for a good twenty minutes while Eric drove us back home. But I feel them start up again when he opens the door to the condo and lets me slide past him.
“Em?” he says, stopping me from darting straight to my room. His fingers wrap around mine. A long breath falls from his lips. “I’m sorry.”
My forehead wrinkles and I turn around to look at him. “Why are you sorry? You’re right.”
He closes the door. “What?”
I step up to him, cautiously testing the physical boundaries we have right now. “I spend too much time in front of a screen and not enough with you.”
He shakes his head. “I still shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”
