Run Away with Me

by Mila Gray

  “Hey.”

  I spin around, heart racing. He’s standing behind me in the hallway.

  He didn’t leave.

  Before he can say another word, I throw myself toward him. He opens his arms and catches me, holding me so tight that I instantly feel safe, like I’ve found my home.

  “Don’t go,” I choke out.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, his lips meeting mine.

  Jake

  When Em heads off to the store for a shift that afternoon, I convene with Em’s dad and Toby in the front room of the house.

  “Here are the plans,” says Toby, pulling up the CAD files on his laptop.

  “Wow,” I say, taking in all the detail. He’s put in a lot of time. “This is incredible.”

  Toby preens and Em’s dad leans forward in his wheelchair for a closer look.

  “We can put in a mezzanine floor, and if we take out the whole side wall and replace it with French windows, it will get the afternoon sun. It’ll be perfect,” Toby explains.

  “I like the deck. I think we should build it out another foot,” I say. “What do you think? Add a wood-burning stove too?”

  Em’s dad nods, but he’s frowning. I know why. “Forget about the cost,” I tell him. “We’ve already agreed on the business model. I’ll front the initial build costs, and then when it starts turning a profit, we’ll figure something out.”

  “Interest,” he slurs.

  I shrug. “Whatever you’re happy with.”

  It’s awkward talking and wrangling over money with him, and I’d rather not talk about it at all, but I can’t disregard his pride. The idea I had a few weeks back was to convert Mr. Lowe’s old workshop at the far end of their property into a rental studio similar to the one I’m staying in. I figured it could become a sustainable income for them and help a little with their financial issues. Thanks to Toby’s architecture skills, we now have a floor plan. The two of us are going to do all the build work on it ourselves, and I’m fronting the cost using the money from my modeling job. I’m not sure why I want to keep it quiet from Em. I want to surprise her, I guess, but I’m also wary of her reaction when she finds out I’m financing it.

  “I think it will take about six weeks in total,” says Toby.

  “Can we manage it in four?” I ask. I want it done before I leave.

  “If we get some help,” he says. His face brightens. “I could invite Aaron for a weekend.”

  “Aaron?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” says Toby. “We’ve been in touch.”

  “In touch?” I ask, wondering how literally he means that.

  Toby shrugs. “We’re just having fun,” he says. “I think I can get him over for a weekend.”

  “To work a construction site?” I ask skeptically.

  “Hard hats, sweaty torsos, the promise of my company for a whole weekend—what’s not to love about that idea?”

  Mr. Lowe makes a coughing, choking sound. I turn hurriedly back to him. “So, what do you think about the idea for the bathroom?” I ask.

  Emerson

  Shay pushes open the door to the store and grins at me. In one hand is a plastic bag and in the other a statue of the Eiffel Tower.

  “You bought me a statue of the Eiffel Tower?” I ask, stepping around the counter.

  “And some cheese,” she says, proffering the bag in my direction.

  I laugh and we hug. “I’m so glad to see you. Why didn’t you come by earlier?”

  “I had a few things to take care of,” she says mysteriously. “Where’s Jake?”

  “He’s out on the water.”

  She turns around and scans the bay through the open door. Shay has a sexy-professor look going on that she works to the max. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a vintage silk blouse with heels. Beside her, in old cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, I feel boyish and nondescript, a look I’ve carefully cultivated over the years. But Shay’s always been like this—wearing her grandmother’s vintage designer dresses to school. She came to my eighth birthday party wearing a feather boa and a tiara, an actual tiara, studded with diamonds, which had belonged to her Russian great-grandmother.

  The least sporty person in the school and one of the most girly, it was weird that we ever became friends, but we did. I’d been sent off the pitch during a soccer match for something—probably arguing with the referee or maybe for being too aggressive in my tackling—and Shay was already on the bench, having forgotten her gym kit for the third week in a row (she didn’t actually own a pair of sneakers—still doesn’t). We started a conversation about rules and how stupid they were and what a sexist pig the soccer coach was and about how Ice Cream Cherry Chupa Chups were the awesomest thing on planet Earth, and the next thing we knew, we were best friends.

  She hops onto the counter and scours the Chupa Chup stand. I reach under the counter, where I’ve stashed the Ice Cream Cherry–flavored ones just for her. I hand her one and take one for myself.

  “How’s it going?” she asks. “Did you guys talk?”

  “Yeah. He came by this morning.”

  “I told you that you just needed to hear him out. She’s his ex-girlfriend.”

  I frown at her. “Wait . . . how did you know that?” I glance out the window, then back at Shay. “Did you speak to him?”

  Shay shrugs and, grinning, chinks her lollipop against mine. “I might have.”

  Unbelievable. But she knows I’m not really mad.

  “How’s business been? Are things looking up?”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking of the enthusiastic reviews from the bachelor party that have definitely helped bolster the business. But then, after a second, I find myself frowning. Things are only good because Jake is here. When he leaves, I’m not sure what will happen. Maybe it will all fall apart when it’s back to me providing all the customer service.

  My gaze has drifted out of the door and across the water. Jake and the group are just dragging their kayaks out the water. Even from here you can see everyone is smiling. I can just imagine how he’s got them eating out of his hand.

  Shay hops down off the counter. She waves her half-chewed lollipop at me. “So, tonight, you around? You want to do something? I want to celebrate being back, and we’ve only got a few weeks left before I leave.”

  I bite my bottom lip, still staring out the door at Jake. “I can’t,” I tell her. “Jake’s planning something. I’m sorry. But after?”

  Shay follows my gaze, watching Jake walk toward us wearing just his board shorts, water dripping off his ripped torso. The Chupa Chup falls out of Shay’s mouth and hits the ground, bouncing out the door. “Holy hell,” she murmurs, “I hope he’s planning what I hope he’s planning.”

  Jake

  She doesn’t have any idea how beautiful she is, but when she looks up at me through her lashes, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips, I almost blurt it out. I stop myself. I don’t want to sound repetitive.

  Em holds a forkful of chocolate cake out to me. “Try some?” she asks.

  I take a bite. “That’s good,” I say. “Not as good as a s’more, though.”

  She grins and scrapes the chocolate sauce from the plate. I watch her. I could keep watching her like this for a year: happy, relaxed, laughing, eyes shining in the candlelight. Our feet are tangled beneath the table. All night I’ve been feeling this warm glow in the pit of my stomach.

  I really don’t want this night to end, but we’re the last customers and the waiters are starting to clear the tables as well as their throats. Em’s eyes widen when she sees we’re the only ones left, and she bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, what time is it?”

  “Nearly twelve,” I say, waving over the waiter and handing him my card.

  Em blushes and looks at the table as I sign my name on the receipt. “Em,” I say. “I want to buy you dinner. I can afford it, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, “but next time is on me.”

  I shrug. That’s not happening, but I’ll
deal with that when it arises.

  It’s cold when we wander out into the night, so I slip off my jacket and put it over Em’s shoulders. She leans into me and I put my arm around her waist. When we get to my car, I reach inside the inner pocket of the jacket she’s wearing to get the car keys, my hand brushing against her side.

  I feel her shiver in response and my hand lingers, tracing a pattern down the silk of her dress, feeling her rib cage rise and fall as rapid as a bird’s against my palm.

  I glance at her face, at her lips, then press my own against her neck. She tips her head back with an exhale that sends a shiver through me. The jacket falls open and suddenly I’m pressing against her, drinking her in. Her arms wrap around my neck and her hands run through my hair, tugging it, pulling me closer so I’m pressed up against the warmth of her body. I keep kissing up her neck, my heart pounding now in time with hers.

  After a minute or two, I have to pull back to catch my breath.

  Em’s eyes burn like coal in the darkness.

  I reach for the door handle. “We’d better go before we get arrested for public indecency. I want to get you home and get you naked.”

  “Not tonight,” she whispers in my ear. “Shay’s back. I promised I’d go see her.”

  I sigh. Damn. I’d forgotten about that. She slips inside the car and I close the door behind her, then jog around to the driver’s side, taking a few deep breaths as I go to try to get my blood recirculating to my brain.

  Em is curled up on the passenger seat like a cat, with my jacket still around her shoulders. Four weeks, I think as I start the car. Just four weeks. Then we’ll be apart a whole semester, unless I can convince her to fly out to see me. If my coach lets me back on the team, which I think he will as we have some major games coming up, then I’ll be busy every weekend and most of the week, too—between practice and academic work, I barely get a spare minute. How are we going to make this work? I have no idea. But I know that I’m determined to.

  “What are you thinking about?” Em asks me as I drive.

  I shake my head at her. I don’t want to ruin the mood by telling her.

  “Tell me,” she wheedles, leaning over the hand brake and kissing my neck.

  My hands grip the wheel tighter. She kisses the edge of my jaw.

  “Emerson, I’m going to crash,” I tell her, laughing.

  She stops and sits back in her seat, frowning. “Why did you call me Emerson?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “You just called me Emerson. You never call me that.”

  I turn to stare out the window. “I don’t know.”

  Em goes quiet.

  “It’s just that everyone calls you Emerson now, and I figured maybe you didn’t like being called Em anymore.”

  “No,” she says. “I like it when you call me Em.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Em it is.”

  It’s then I look up and see that I’ve taken a shortcut and it’s leading us right by the ice rink. It’s too late to turn around. Em’s body stiffens beside me as we pass it. She turns away, staring out the opposite window, and the smile vanishes. I could ignore it, talk about something else, but I don’t. Instead, I turn to her. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” I’ve been doing my best not to talk about anything from the past, figuring that Em doesn’t want to go there and I don’t want to do anything that might upset her.

  “It’s okay,” she says, swallowing nervously. “I haven’t been back on the ice, not since then. The only thing I kept up with was track. I didn’t want to do team sports after. And the track coach was a woman.”

  I nod, understanding.

  “Do you miss it?” I ask after another pause.

  Em doesn’t answer for a while. “I never used to,” she says finally. “But yeah,” she says, and her voice cracks. “I miss it.”

  Emerson

  Where are we going?” I ask.

  Jake keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Another surprise?” I ask. “I could get used to this.” My stomach dances with butterflies. Are we heading back to his place?

  I turn in my seat and watch Jake drive, taking him in, trying to memorize every detail and imprint him onto my memory. Even though we’ve talked about it and agreed we’ll commit to a long-distance relationship, there’s a little niggling doubt in my mind that refuses to quiet—an unspoken fear that when he leaves, that will be it—that he won’t come back, that things will fizzle and die between us.

  I brush the thought away, bury it deep, and watch him as he signals and turns right. I like watching him drive. Like everything he does, there’s a certain easy, graceful skill to it.

  Feeling me staring at him, he turns and smiles, but I note the smile doesn’t quite make it to his eyes and that there’s a furrowed line between them. He’s worried about something. He signals again and pulls into a parking lot. I glance out the window and my heart does a double slam into my ribs before starting to hammer madly.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Jake pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. His hands stay on the wheel, but he turns to face me. “Okay, you can tell me if you think this is a stupid idea, and maybe it is, I don’t know, but I want you to get back on the ice.”

  Dumb with disbelief, I look out the window again and catch a glimpse of the skating rink sign and a billboard advertising the Bainbridge Eagles. My pulse starts to skitter and slide like a puck smashed across slow ice.

  “Just hear me out,” Jake says in a gentle voice. He takes my hands in his. “You were good, Em,” he says. “And you loved it. And you had to give it up.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “I get why you did. I totally get it. But isn’t there a part of you that’s angry about it?”

  I scowl at him. “Of course there is,” I hiss.

  Jake gives a small shrug. “So take it back. Don’t let him win.”

  He already has! I want to yell, but I stop myself. I glance out the window at the rain-lashed parking lot and the entrance, and my gut does a sudden loop the loop, relief shooting through me when I see the sign on the door.

  “It’s closed,” I say, gesturing at the rink. “It’s Monday.” Lightness fills me up like helium.

  Jake pulls something out of his pocket and waves it in my face.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pulling back, my gut clenching.

  “The key.”

  “The key to what?” I ask.

  “To the rink.”

  “How did you . . .”

  Jake shrugs. “I still know the owner. And I promised to come teach a boot camp next weekend in exchange.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. No words can make it up my throat because my heart is in the way.

  Jake takes my hand again, his thumb stroking a pattern over my knuckles. “Come and skate with me,” he says. “It’s just going to be you and me in there. Just the two of us. Come on, we used to dream about breaking in and having the place all to ourselves.” He’s grinning at me, still a little uncertainly, trying to nudge me into it. His eyes have a low glimmer in them. “I dare you . . . ,” he whispers.

  I breathe in deeply, my body responding as much to his touch as to the look in his eye and the challenge he’s just laid down.

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I say. My gaze is tugged once again back to the door. And suddenly, out of nowhere, memories start to assault me, flickering thick and fast in front of my eyes: Coach Lee stepping toward me with that smile on his face, the echoing chill of the changing rooms, the metallic smash of my head against the locker doors, the stabbing of his fingers on my body as if I were made of clay and he was trying to shape me into something that was to his liking, the angry slash of his mouth.

  “It’s okay, breathe, just breathe.”

  I look at Jake, confused, then realize that I’m gripping his
hand hard and hyperventilating, sucking in air, which doesn’t seem to be filling my lungs at all.

  “Em,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  I rest my head back against the seat and Jake breathes with me, stroking my hair, trying to calm me.

  “You know,” I say to him after my heartbeat has gone back to normal and my lungs are cooperating once again, “for ages after it happened, I just wanted to forget about it. I actually wished that I could go back in time and change things. I wished that I had fought back. And even if I couldn’t change what happened, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut or lied to my mom. I used to think that maybe if I had, everything would have just gone on being the same.” I look at Jake. “You wouldn’t have left. My parents wouldn’t have been screwed financially. No one at school would have known. The teachers wouldn’t have treated me the way they did. I might not have dated Rob.” I pull a face. “Actually, there’s no way I would have dated Rob.”

  Jake’s scowl deepens.

  “All those things could have been different if I’d just kept my mouth shut. But you know what, Jake?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m glad I didn’t. Even though I had to go through so much crap,” I whisper, “and no one believed me, even though there were days when I honestly thought about running away or, I don’t know . . . giving up . . . I’m glad I told the truth. I don’t regret it. Because it was out there, you know?”

  He nods, still scowling.

  “Even if no one believed me, at least it wasn’t a secret. It felt like the only way to not be a victim was to come out and tell the truth. If I’d kept it a secret, it would have been worse in the long run.”