by Cat Carmine
“What kind of business?”
“A flower shop. Just a small one, but they do okay.”
“And you never had any interest in the family business?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Not really. I mean, Rori and I both worked there in high school, but I don’t think either of us wanted to stay in Connecticut. Our other sister Blake still works there.”
“Right. I think Rori might have mentioned that once.”
At the mention of Rori’s name, my stomach twists. Her warning flits through my memory, but I tamp it down. I don’t want to think about that. I’m on vacation, after all. Vacation Emma doesn’t have to worry about practical things like the future of … whatever this is.
“I keep forgetting that you and Rori know each other,” I say, instead. “It’s such a small world.”
“It is. But you’re still my favorite Holloway sister.” He leans over and kisses my nose, and a happy buzz runs through me.
He shifts slightly, so that he’s facing me, propped up on one arm. His eyes burn into me, and once again, it feels like something big is growing between us. Something I don’t know how to explain or even really define. Something that makes me feel incredibly uneasy.
“I could use a shower,” I say, propping myself up against his chest. I can still feel the lingering sweat on my skin.
Instead of answering, Tyler sits up and licks a line along my collarbone. “I don't know, I think you're pretty perfect the way you are."
I laugh. “Well, if we’re going to go to dinner later, I don’t think any of the patrons are going to appreciate this particular scent of perfect.”
“Fine. But I have a better idea. Instead of a shower, we can hit the lake.”
I poke his chest. “You just want to go skinny-dipping.”
“Well ... maybe.”
“Nice try.”
He smirks. “You can't blame a guy for trying. It's not my fault I want you to be naked for as long as possible.”
“Well, your neighbors don't need the whole show.”
“What neighbors? The closest house is a half mile away.”
“Random boaters, then. Jet-skiers. Pervy fishermen. Pervy fish.”
“Pervy fish?”
“You never know.”
“Emma, I promise you there are no pervy fish.”
“Still. I'll be wearing a bathing suit, thank you very much.”
“Did you bring a bathing suit?”
I smile smugly. “As a matter of fact, I did. It's in my bag.”
He laughs, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Don't move. I'll go get the bags, and then we'll go swimming.”
He leans over and kisses me again, long and slow, as if even going downstairs and out to the car is too long to be away. I want to pull him back into bed with me, climb on top of him, and tell him to forget the swimming entirely, but he pulls away and disappears out of the bedroom. I hear him bound down the stairs and then the slam of the front door as he exits.
I sit up and hug my knees to my chest. I can't keep the smile off my face. Despite all my doubts about Tyler, the time I spend with him is the happiest I think I've ever been. No one's ever made me laugh the way that he does. I'm actually silly when I'm around him, and I don't think there's a single person in my life, up until now, who would have ever described me as silly. But Tyler brings out a whole new side of me — and not just the bad side.
In fact … maybe I said no too quickly to the skinny-dipping thing. What would be the harm? Thousands, probably millions, of people have gone skinny-dipping and survived. Teenagers do it, for God’s sake. Maybe it would even be good for me.
Before I can change my mind, I slip out of the bedroom. I find a bathroom and finger-comb my hair, and then twist and turn in front of the mirror, examining my body. Okay, I may have had a few too many of Lucy's pastries lately, and skipped a few too many StairMaster sessions, but I think I look pretty okay.
I take a deep breath and stare myself down. You can do this, Emma. He's seen you naked already. This is not a big deal.
I hear the front door open again downstairs. I point my finger at my reflection. Go, I tell myself.
With one more fluff of my hair, I leave the bathroom and head for the stairs. I can hear Tyler moving around down there, and I bite my lip, almost laughing at the surprise I can already picture on his face.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I announce, as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “Take me skinny-dipping.”
The kitchen door swings open ... and I scream.
Because the man standing there is not Tyler.
It's Tyler's father.
He's holding a crystal glass, and he drops it in shock when he sees me standing there, naked, at the bottom of the stairs.
For a second, I freeze. My hands fly across my chest. Then down to my groin. Then back to my chest. Oh God, why don't I have more hands?
“Hi,” I stutter. Then I swallow. “Bye.”
I turn and race up the stairs. Or at least I try to. My foot catches on the very first step, and instead I go sprawling forward. A searing pain shoots through my ankle, and I cry out.
“Emma?”
Tyler's voice cuts through my panic. Oh fuck. I'm sprawled face down on the staircase. I try to get up, but my ankle screams in agony. I manage to get to my hands and knees, except now my naked ass is sticking up in the air.
“Help,” I whimper. It's the most pathetic sound I think I've ever made in my life.
Tyler races to my side, shielding me with his body.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low in my ear.
“What's going on here?” Mr. Grant's voice comes from behind us. “Tyler, didn't your mother tell you about bringing these bimbos out to the house?”
My face flames red in embarrassment. Tyler rubs my back as he hovers awkwardly over me.
“Dad, can you leave us alone for a minute? I don't even know why you're here.”
“Your mother's away, so I came up to get a few things.”
“Yes, I know she's away, that's why we're here. Now can you go? Please.” Tyler sounds furious. I want to dissolve into a puddle of nothingness. Or maybe just die. Dying would be nice right about now.
“Does she know you’re here?”
“Dad! Seriously. Go in the kitchen. I'm going to help Emma up. Then I'll come talk to you.”
Mr. Grant grumbles something unintelligible, but then it sounds like he shuffles away.
“You have a lovely home!” I call out as he goes, then mentally smack myself. Why do I always have to be Miss Manners? I hold it in for a second and then let out a great big sob.
“Oh, God, Emma, are you okay?” Tyler’s rubbing my back again, but unlike his earlier touches, there’s nothing erotic about this one. I want to crawl into a hole and die.
“I’m fine.” It's my instinctive answer, but as soon as I try to move, I know it's not true. “No, I'm not. I think I busted my ankle.”
“What the hell happened?”
Hot tears are streaming down my face. “I was going to do the stupid skinny-dipping, and I came down to tell you but it wasn't you.” I bury my face in my hands. “I can't believe your dad saw me naked.”
“Don't worry about that,” he says. “But let me see your ankle.”
He helps me turn over so that I'm sitting on the stairs, and then he pulls my foot into his lap. We both see at the same time that my ankle is the size of a cantaloupe.
“Ouch,” Tyler says. He looks up at me, and his eyes look so sympathetic that I feel even worse about the whole thing.
“It's fine,” I say again. “I probably just need some ice.”
“Emma, I think you need to go to the hospital.”
“No, really, I'm fine. Look.” I put my hand on Tyler's shoulder and hoist myself up, but as soon as I put weight on my ankle, I shriek and fall against him.
“You're not fine,” he says, cradling me against him. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“I need clothes,”
I grumble.
Tyler looks around the room. “Hold on,” he says. “Put your arms around my neck.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, please.”
Given that I'm naked and immobile, I don't have much choice but to listen. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me carefully, carrying me across the room and depositing me on the white chaise lounge. Despite my pain and embarrassment, I'm still me enough that I get a flash of worry about dirtying the expensive fabric I'm sitting on.
Tyler grabs my bag and deposits it on the chaise beside me.
“Thank you,” I say grudgingly. I paw through the clothes I brought, but it's all jeans — which probably won't slide on over my ankle — or sexy lingerie. I snort at the optimistic Emma who packed this bag two days ago. I finally dig up a black dress that I'd hoped to wear to dinner tonight. It's stupidly formal for a trip to the ER but it'll have to do.
I yank it out of the bag, and Tyler helps me put it on.
“Stay here a minute,” he says. “I’m going to go talk to my dad for a sec, and then I'll take you to the hospital.”
“Not like I can go anywhere,” I mutter under my breath, but thankfully Tyler is already heading for the kitchen.
I can hear them murmuring to each other in there, but not what they're saying. I flash back to Mr. Grant's earlier words — that Tyler wasn't supposed to be bringing his bimbos up to the house. I shudder in humiliation. That's what I am, I suppose. Though I can't imagine any of Tyler's other lady-friends ever flamed out quite so spectacularly.
The kitchen door swings open again, and Tyler strides back into the main room. His mouth is a grim line, but he tries to soften his expression when he sees me.
“Ready to go?”
“I guess.” I try to stand and immediately fall back onto the chair again. I whimper, both at the pain and at my sheer humiliation and misery.
“Come here.” Tyler leans over and wraps my arms around his neck again. He lifts me up effortlessly and carries me out of the house and into the car.
We spend four hours in the emergency room. It's a miserable experience. Tyler and I barely speak the entire time. He keeps starting, like he wants to say something, but he only comments on the corny sitcoms playing on the waiting room television or asking me how the pain is.
By the time we leave, my ankle is wrapped, and I'm diagnosed with nothing more than a bad sprain. I'm given some painkillers, ordered to stay off my feet for a couple of weeks, and handed a very un-fetching pair of crutches to hobble around on. I've never been so glad about the fact that I work from home.
Tyler wheels me out of the hospital in a wheelchair, which is the cherry on today's humiliation sundae. He helps me into the car, laying my crutches in the backseat, and then climbs into the driver's side.
For a minute, we just sit there. The car seems deathly silent after the hubbub of the hospital. I can hear my own labored breathing, and I suddenly feel on the verge of tears again, even though those painkillers are doing a pretty neat job on my ankle.
“Emma, I'm so damn sorry,” Tyler says, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
“It's not your fault.”
“I feel like it is. I had no idea my dad was going to be there today. He never goes to that place, so it didn't even occur to me to tell him we were going up there.”
“It's fine, Tyler. Really.” It's not fine, of course, but I also know it wasn't his fault. Not really. If anyone is at fault here, it's me. After all, I've known all along that Tyler is too much for me. Being with him is too far out of my comfort zone. He pushes my boundaries too much. I'm not myself when I'm with him.
The real Emma never would have considered going skinny-dipping and certainly never would have paraded down the stairs of a stranger's house naked. I cringe at the very thought. What exactly had I been thinking? I shake my head.
Tyler is watching me, and he slides his hand over my knee. I shift my legs over towards the passenger side door, and his hand falls away. He hesitates for a second, and then brings it back to the steering wheel with a sigh.
“What do you want to do?” he asks. “We can go back to the house, but my father will be staying the night. I can get us a room at a hotel or …”
“Honestly, I think I just want to go back to the city.”
He frowns. “Are you sure? There's a really nice hotel not far from here, we could get a hot tub, and you could soak your ankle…”
“Really, Tyler. Thank you, but I think I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. If that's okay.”
“Yeah, of course it's okay. Whatever you want, Emma.”
He’s so earnest that for a second I feel bad about being so pig-headed about this. But the more time I spend with Tyler, the more I get sucked into his web.
“Do you want to go back to the house and get your stuff?”
I shake my head. I don't really ever want to go back there, to be honest.
“I don't need any of it. I have my wallet and my phone.” I pat the purse in my lap, which I'd had Tyler grab before we left the house so that I'd at least have my insurance card. He was still insisting on paying for everything, but that was a discussion I didn't feel up to having right now.
Tyler sighs, and then puts the car into drive. As we pull out of the parking lot, I take out my phone. I only mean to text Lucy to tell her I'm on my way home, but the first thing I see is an email from my editor.
A nervous ripple runs through me as I click it open and scan the contents. “Fuck.”
“What?” Tyler's voice is alarmed.
“Fuck,” I say again. And in my head, fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“What? Emma, tell me what's wrong.”
I shake my head. “It's nothing. It's just ... I forgot to file my column for this week. I just got a pissy email from my editor asking where it is.”
“Oh.” Tyler leans back, visibly relaxed, but my hands are shaking as I frantically try to type out a response. I've never missed a column deadline in the entire time I've had this job. In fact, I don't think I've ever missed a deadline in my entire life. I'm the person who's not just on time, but early. I usually have my column done a week in advance, but these past couple of weeks, I've been so distracted by everything going on with Tyler that I guess I just ... forgot to do it.
I rub my temples and try to fight off the angry tears that threaten to spill over. I've cried too many times already today, and the worst thing is, all of it is my own stupid fault. I'm the one who decided to parade down the stairs naked. I'm the one who neglected to get my own work done. I'm the one who gave in at Darkly, who let myself be led into a coatroom at the Kinsmen.
Of course, I wouldn't have done any of those things if it hadn't been for Tyler. I sneak a glance at him as he drives. His brow is furrowed, but I get the feeling it isn't due to concentrating on the task at hand. Part of me wants to ask him what he's thinking, but the sensible part of me says I'm better off not knowing.
I sigh and finish typing my email to my editor. I tell him I sprained my ankle and that I'm on my way home and that I'll file it as soon as I get in. I feel a tad guilty using the injury as an excuse, especially since the column was due an entire day before I even hurt myself, but my editor doesn't need to know that. I toss my phone back into my bag, and then turn to face the window, leaning my head against the glass. Tyler and I don't say another word to each other the whole way back into the city, not until we finally reach my apartment and I have to turn to face him again.
Twenty
We come to a stop in front of Emma's Brooklyn apartment. It's late, almost midnight, and the residential street she lives on is fairly quiet now. I turn off the car.
“I’m coming in with you,” I tell her.
“I’m fine, Tyler. Really.”
“You have a sprained ankle. You have a pair of crutches that you barely seem to know how to use. I'm coming in with you.”
“Tyler, I have a roommate. I'll be fine.”
I run my hands through my hair. “Emma.
Please. Let me help you.”
“Tyler..."
“Does your building have an elevator?”
“No,” she admits quietly.
“Then I'm at least helping you up the stairs and into the apartment. If your roommate is home, I'll consider leaving you in her care for the night. Otherwise, I'm staying.”
She grumbles something, but I take it to be an acceptance, so I get out of the car and go around to her side to help her out. She's awkward with the crutches, and I can tell by the way she winces that the pain is bothering her again. Guilt eats away at me. I know that what happened was an accident — or at least, a series of very unfortunate events — but I can't help but feel responsible. I should have told my father we were going to the house, or I should have ... I don't even know what I should have done. All I know is it's killing me to see Emma in pain.
She leans on my shoulder as we make our way slowly into her building. By the time we reach the bottom of the stairwell, she's panting with exertion. My stomach twists again with that nagging guilt.
“Okay, Emma, there's only one way we're going to be able to do this.”
“What?”
“I’m going to carry you.”
“What? No, you're not. I'm fine.”
“Would you please stop saying that? You're not fine. You're already sweating just from going up the six stairs outside the building. How do you think you're going to make it up to ... what floor do you live on?”
“Four,” she mumbles.
“Four. Do you really think you can make it up four flights of stairs like this?”
“I’ll figure it out. I always do. I'll ... I don't know. I can crawl.”
“Emma. Seriously. You'd rather crawl up the stairs than let me help you?” Now I’m just getting pissed off.
She doesn't say anything, but I can tell by the expression on her face and the way she twists her mouth that she's stubbornly thinking of saying yes. I decide that I'm not even going to give her the chance.
“Emma?” I say.
“What?”
“Hold on.”
With that, I scoop her up and hoist her over my shoulder, fireman-style. She lets out a breathless shriek. I grab the crutches from her and hold them with my other hand, and we begin the slow ascent to her apartment. Eventually, she stops shrieking and stays quiet, but with Emma, I don't know if that's better or worse.
