Run Away with Me

by Mila Gray

  I wish I could tell him more—about how many times I made her come last night and again this morning, and the way she looked when she did. I want to tell him how open she was with me, how trusting, how giving, how alive and fucking beautiful she was. About how damn amazing it was being with her—but I’m not giving him that.

  Rob’s face crumples into a comical frown—all the parts rearranging themselves like a caveman cartoon, before clarity comes and his mouth drops open.

  I smile at him, then swivel on my heel and walk off, laughing to myself. Let him stew on that.

  * * *

  I’m sitting on my deck the next morning at eight with a steaming cup of coffee. My phone sits beside me and I stare at it, willing it to ring. Em still hasn’t returned my calls, and I’m not sure what to do. She always did need space to cool off, but I’ve given her that, so why is she still ignoring me? I left a message explaining that Lauren is my ex-girlfriend, emphasis very much on the “ex,” but I need to explain to her face-to-face. And, as well as that, I need to tell her the whole truth about why I’m here.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  I look up and almost spill my coffee down my front. I stand up and set the mug down on the window ledge.

  “Shay! What are you doing here?”

  She jogs up the steps and we hug. I pull back and hold her by the tops of her arms just to get a good look at her, still trying to process that it’s Shay standing on my deck. She’s still rocking the same dark brown hair cut in a bob and the same thick bangs she had at thirteen. She’s updated her glasses, though, and is now wearing some tortoiseshell square-framed ones. She’s accessorizing as she did when she was younger, with a string of pearls and bright red lipstick.

  “I just got back,” she says to me. Then she takes a step back and lets her gaze wander the length of me. “Wow,” she says, nodding to herself. “She really wasn’t lying.”

  “What?” I ask.

  She grins at me. “Nothing.”

  “How’d you find me?” I ask.

  She gives me an arch look. “Not difficult, Jake. I asked Toby.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Does Em know you’re back?”

  She nods. “I spoke to her yesterday.” She gives me a pointed look.

  I take a deep breath. “So I guess she told you what happened?”

  Shay nods. “Yeah.” She glances over at my coffee mug. “So, what does a girl have to do to get a coffee around here? I’m so jet-lagged I could die.”

  I smile. I haven’t seen Shay in years, but she’s still the same: forthright, direct as a missile, smart as a whip too. I go inside and make her coffee, wondering what the real purpose of her visit is and feeling a little nervous, I have to admit. After it happened, Shay sent me a couple of e-mails basically bawling me out and telling me what a shit I was and that I had better never show my face in Bainbridge again. I never replied.

  She follows me inside and I catch her glancing surreptitiously around.

  “She’s not here.”

  Shay gives me an innocent look, like butter wouldn’t melt.

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I ask. “To check that I’m not hiding a girlfriend in my closet?”

  Shay shrugs and gives me a half grin. “Okay, maybe that’s part of the reason I’m here. I told Em that she needed to hear you out, but I want to check that what she’s going to hear isn’t going to hurt her.”

  I turn to face her. “I’m not going to hurt her, Shay. I promise.”

  “So who’s Lauren, then?” she asks.

  “My ex-girlfriend,” I say, handing her a mug of coffee. I lead us back outside to the deck.

  “Definitely ex?” she asks.

  “Yeah, definitely ex.”

  “So what was she doing here, then?”

  “She thought we were on a break.”

  “And are you?”

  “No. We were never on a break. We broke up before the summer. And I made it clear to her that I’m not available anymore.”

  Shay sneaks a smile in my direction. “Well, Emerson needs to know that too.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’ve been trying to call her. She’s not picking up and doesn’t seem to be checking her messages, either.”

  “Go see her,” Shay says.

  “I’m going to. I tried yesterday, but she was out. At Rob’s.”

  Shay looks up in alarm. “Seriously? She told me she wasn’t going to do anything stupid.”

  “I don’t think she has,” I say. I put my coffee down and rest my head in my hands, sighing loudly. “What the hell did she ever see in him, Shay? Why did she date him?”

  “Because I think she thought that was the best she could do.”

  I look up at Shay in disbelief. That’s insane. But it also echoes what her father told me and the little that Em has mentioned too.

  Shay shrugs at me. “And when she started dating Rob, people stopped saying shit about her.”

  “How bad was it?” I ask, bracing myself. I haven’t wanted to press Em for details, but I need to know.

  “How bad was what?”

  “After I left. What was it like for her? She’s told me a little, not much. I want to know.”

  Shay puts her coffee mug down and pushes her glasses up her nose. “It was awful, Jake. You know what school is like. Kids are fucking horrible. I’m amazed she didn’t drop out, to be honest. People accused her of all sorts of stuff: of coming onto your uncle, of making it all up, of being a slut, of screwing the entire hockey team. They called her every name you can think of and then some. The bathrooms were a no-go zone—the graffiti was . . . inventive, shall we say. And when she wouldn’t back down or change her story, it got worse. It’s why she won’t go near social media. The trolling was so vicious.”

  I stand up and kick the veranda post hard. Shit. I fucking hate myself for not being there for her. And more than that, I fucking hate my uncle. If he were still alive, I think I’d kill him. I kick the post again, pretending it’s his head.

  “No one stood up for her?”

  Shay gives me a pointed look. “I did. Denton did.”

  “I would have if I were here.”

  There’s a long pause while I try to imagine what it must have been like. I never knew it was that bad.

  I turn to look at Shay. “I didn’t want to leave—you know that, right?”

  Shay doesn’t say anything in reply.

  “My grandmother had a stroke.” I laugh quietly under my breath. “You know, I never put the two things together.”

  Shay cocks her head at me, not understanding.

  “The stroke. It happened after she heard the news about my uncle. I never realized that’s what caused it until years later.”

  Shay puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “I’m sorry.”

  “You think it would have been any different if I’d been around?”

  Shay gives a small shrug. Yes. I know that’s what she’s thinking. “Maybe,” she answers. “Who knows? She really missed you, Jake, even though she wouldn’t admit it.”

  “I missed her too. So much. I thought you all hated me.”

  Shay squeezes my arm again. “You’re here now. You get to make it up to her.”

  We stand there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the forest.

  “When she told me she broke up with Rob for good, I was so goddamn happy, Jake, I can’t even tell you.”

  I glance over at Shay, who is now staring out at the trees.

  “He’s such an asshole to her. And she just puts up with it and takes him back every time. When she told me you were back and that Rob was out of the picture, I actually started to hope that maybe she’d seen the light. Finally.” She turns to me. “So, please, I’m begging you, as her best friend, don’t mess things up.” She pauses. “Or I swear to God I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands. She’s been through enough.”

  I give her a wry smile. “Can I ask you something?” I say after a moment has passed.


  Shay nods.

  “Why do you and everyone else call her Emerson now? Why isn’t she Em anymore?”

  Shay sets her coffee cup down, her expression solemn. “She made everyone stop calling her Em after it happened.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because she said it reminded her of him. He kept saying her name. While he was . . . you know . . .” She grimaces tightly and looks away.

  My mug slips, splashing scalding coffee over my hands. “Shit,” I whisper. I’ve been calling her Em this whole time without even thinking about it. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to go back in time, change everything, stop what happened from happening. Why didn’t I go into the goddamn locker room?

  I’m so fucking frustrated that I kick the post again. Shit. I hop on one foot. I think I broke my toe.

  Shay puts her arm around my waist. “Stop kicking the post, Jake, and make things right.”

  Emerson

  There’s a soft knock on my bedroom door. Before I can yell at whomever it is to wait, the door opens and Jake appears.

  His eyes widen when he sees me standing in just a towel, my hair dripping from the shower. “Oh, sorry,” he says. He closes his eyes and moves to shut the door again. “Your mom said to come on up.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You can come in.”

  Jake opens his eyes, frowning. “You sure?”

  He turns around, giving me privacy, and I quickly pull on some clothes, catching him surreptitiously sneaking a glance in my direction. He looks away fast, embarrassed. As I dry my hair, I watch him taking in my desk and the shelf of books and journals above it.

  I should have hidden them. Jake hasn’t been in my room since we were thirteen. It feels weird, him being here now.

  “I’ve been calling and calling,” Jake says.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Yesterday . . . I needed to get my head together.”

  After I went around to Rob’s, I came home meaning to talk to Jake and hear him out like Shay had encouraged, but I found my mom struggling to wrestle my dad back into his wheelchair after a fall. We spent the day at the ER with him getting X-rays. I didn’t have the energy to call Jake after that. I couldn’t face the conversation. Not on top of dealing with my mom’s worry about medical bills and my dad’s depression as the doctor told him his symptoms were accelerating.

  “Did you get my messages?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns around then. I’m standing there in just my jeans and a bra and I see his gaze dip to my chest before he looks up, flushing, apologetic. I almost smile as he turns his back again.

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Em.”

  I take a deep breath. I want to believe him. I really do.

  “We broke up before I came back here.”

  I pull on a T-shirt. “You can turn around.”

  He does. We stare at each other awkwardly. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Why, when he looks at me, does it feel like a drum circle is taking place inside my chest? It makes it hard to focus or think straight. But I remember what Shay said. I need the truth. “How long were you dating for?”

  “Eight months.”

  Eight months. I swallow, my brain immediately assailed by images of Jake and her in bed together. Is that how he’s such a good lover?

  “Why is she here?”

  Jake sinks down onto the bed, exhaling loudly. “She’s not here any longer. She’s gone.”

  My body sags with relief. “Why was she here, then?”

  Jake looks at me sheepishly. “She wants to get back together with me.”

  “Oh.” A lump rises up, blocking my throat. “Okay.” Does he want to get back with her? Is that why he’s here? To tell me that he’s made a mistake with me? Why would he choose me, after all, over her? She’s beautiful.

  I walk toward the window so he can’t see my face, which I’m pretty sure must look stricken, but Jake grabs my hand and turns me toward him. He rests his hands on my hips and holds me there, in front of him, looking up at me from the bed. His touch ignites a million signal fires in my body.

  “Em. She’s not getting me back. I don’t want to be with her. I want to be with you.”

  The leaden feeling in my bones starts to dissipate at his words. Hope reignites, but as easy as it would be to link my fingers through his and fall on top of him, I hold back. I want to believe him. I want to trust him, but I don’t know if I can. I pull out of his arms.

  “What did she mean about you getting your shit together?”

  Jake studies me carefully for a few seconds before he starts speaking. “When I left for the summer, I told her that I needed to deal with some things.”

  “What things?” I ask.

  I can see him struggling with his words. He takes my hand and tugs me gently down onto the bed beside him. “Look, I haven’t told you everything,” he says to me, threading his fingers through mine.

  The lead feeling returns—anesthetic creeping through my veins. What now?

  Jake looks at me, suddenly shifty-looking. “About six weeks ago, I went to a party,” he says. “I’d just broken up with Lauren, and my head was a mess.” He sees my jaw set and hurries on: “Not about her, about other stuff. Anyway, I got drunk. I don’t usually drink, not during hockey season at least, not really ever. But all I could think about was how you were screwing everything up.”

  I pull my hand from out of his. “What?” How was I screwing everything up?

  He shakes his head, wincing again. “I don’t mean that literally. It wasn’t you screwing things up. It was just . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for the last seven years.”

  I hold my breath, unsure where he’s going with this.

  “When my uncle died, I started having these nightmares . . .”

  I stand up. Nightmares? He had nightmares after his uncle died. Am I supposed to feel sympathy or something? I was having nightmares every night until his uncle died. It wasn’t until he was dead and buried that they finally stopped.

  Jake’s on his feet too. “Shit, Em. I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I’m saying this all wrong. I’d always thought that one day I’d get to confront him, you know? And then it was too late and I felt as if I’d failed you all over again. Why the hell did I wait?” He shakes his head. “I was so angry at myself. And Lauren—it was just too much. She kept wanting something I couldn’t give her.”

  I pull away from him. Is that what it will be like with us, too? Am I expecting something from him that he can’t give? Is it because he has to focus his all on hockey?

  “So I broke up with her,” he continues. “And then I went to this party and I got drunk, way too drunk. Someone offered me a smoke. I got high. I don’t even remember the party. I just remember waking up on someone’s floor.”

  Oh God. I almost want to cover my ears so I don’t hear the next part. All sorts of things are crossing my mind.

  “The next day, there was a random drug test, and I failed it.”

  My mouth falls open in shock. Jake gives me a grim smile. “My own stupid fault.” He sees the question forming on my lips. “My coach agreed to keep it quiet if I agreed to sort out my shit over the summer.”

  “So this is why you’re here, then?” I ask, looking down at my feet. “To sort out your shit? I’m your shit?”

  “No,” Jake says, then, “Yes.”

  I look up, vibrating with anger.

  “Not in a bad way,” Jake adds quickly, seeing my expression. “But yeah, I needed to see you again. I needed to make things right. Finally.”

  I nod, striving to contain my rage. “So do you feel better now?” I ask, and watch as Jake flinches away from the razor edge of my voice. “Have you made things right? Is your conscience salved? You got me to like you again. You good to go now?”

  “No,” Jake says, pained. “I can’t ever make things right. That’s the fucking
problem, Em.”

  “I’m not some kind of pity project, Jake!” I shout. “I’m not here to help you get over whatever feelings of guilt you might have. I have enough to deal with on my own!”

  “I know that,” Jake says. He turns away, banging his closed fist against his forehead with frustration. “That’s not what I mean. I’m sorry.”

  “You thought you could come here and wheedle your way back into my life and get me to forgive you so you could go away feeling better about yourself and get back into your coach’s good books?”

  “No!” he says, outraged, and I know that I’m not being fair, but I’m so angry and tired and frustrated. And a part of me is absolutely terrified of giving any more of my heart to Jake. It’s easier to salvage what I can and push him away. And it’s working. He moves to the door. “I’m going to go,” he mumbles.

  “Mmm,” I say, laughing bitterly. Go on, then, go. It will make everything simpler if he does.

  He turns around to look at me, one hand on the doorknob. His expression is so wounded and hurt that I almost feel bad. Almost.

  “You know, Em—the reason I broke up with Lauren?” He pauses. “It was because she wanted me to say I loved her. And I couldn’t.”

  He takes a giant breath in and then lets it out in a rush while talking. “And the reason I couldn’t say it to her is because I’m in love with someone else and I always have been.”

  My breath catches. My anger evaporates like breath on a cold day. I don’t want to lose him again. The thought lodges like a dart in my brain. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  I glimpse the scar on his chin, the one I gave him when we were kids. I glance at his hands, the ones that held me last night, that touched me in a way no one has ever touched me before or probably ever will again. I feel the invisible thread between us—that’s always been between us—pulled taut and about to snap in two.

  It doesn’t have to be this way! a voice in my head yells. I can let the past go. It doesn’t need to define me anymore. The choice is mine. I can speak up and stop this from happening.

  But Jake’s already out the door and striding down the hallway.

  I listen to his footsteps, willing myself to run after him. He’s jogging down the stairs. If I let him go, it’s giving his uncle even more power over me, letting him dictate even more of my life than he already has. My feet finally respond to my brain, and I rush out of the bedroom. I race down the stairs and yank open the front door. Jake’s nowhere in sight. Where did he go? Panic flaring, I dart outside onto the veranda in my bare feet, ready to sprint up the road after him.