“It’ll come right back to you.” He grinned. “It’s like riding a bike that way.”
Emmy imagined herself pedaling down a country road under an impossibly wide blue sky, the buzzing of cicadas the only sound. Not only no security detail, no Claudia and Brian hovering, but no engine, no gas. Nothing but Emmy, propelling herself through space. Suddenly, the notion of getting somewhere under her own steam was incredibly appealing.
Then Maude cleared her throat. Picture this: a bike mangled in a row of corn. You, in the middle of freaking Iowa surrounded by people, flashbulbs popping, without the protection of a car.
For the second time today, Emmy told Maude to shut up.
Chapter Three
And…holy crap. Evan was on a bike ride with Emmy NoLastName, cruising out of town and past farms like it was nothing. Like no time had passed at all. Like they’d gotten up the morning after the wedding and casually decided to go for a bike ride. Except of course they were half a country away from Miami, and in the meantime, his whole life had been upended and remade.
There was also the part where Emmy wasn’t nineteen anymore. Now, she would be twenty-six—the age he’d been the night they met.
He adjusted himself on the bike seat. Sometime after she arrived, she’d shed the shirt she’d been wearing, leaving only a pink tank top that left almost nothing to the imagination as it hugged her curves, which were subtle, but somehow all the more affecting for it. He couldn’t blame her—it was hot as hell. But damn.
Emmy’s sudden arrival had him totally discombobulated. And, he would admit, totally turned on.
He needed to get his shit together, though, because what the hell? She’d looked him up seven years later and just appeared on his doorstep? Who did that?
“Eeee!” Emmy cried, coasting down a small hill and letting loose a delighted shriek. The weird thing about Emmy was that in addition to being ridiculously attractive, she was also adorable. Those qualities were usually mutually exclusive. But if there was anything cuter than Emmy NoLastName attempting to ride a bike, Evan wasn’t sure what it was. With her long, lanky limbs, she kind of reminded him of Kermit the Frog riding his bike in The Muppet Movie.
If Kermit had worn short-shorts, a tank top, and gold strappy sandals.
“Eeee!”
And if Kermit had been going way too fast.
“Watch out!” he hollered as she approached a set of train tracks as the bell that signaled the imminent arrival of a train began clanging. Fuck. He pedaled like crazy to catch up with her.
She came to an ungraceful stop about a foot from the tracks as the arm that stopped traffic lowered. “That was so fun!” she exclaimed. Then she had the nerve to laugh.
Yeah, if you were in search of a boner killer, there was nothing quite like imminent death. “Jesus Christ, Emmy,” he snapped, rolling to a stop beside her and trying to shake off a vision of her flattened by the oncoming train. “Train comes, you stop, okay?”
“Pffft,” she scoffed, raising her voice to be heard over the clanging and making a dismissive gesture with her hand. “The laws of physics are no match for me.”
He took a deep breath. Okay, this was a good reality check. That Emmy was here was, in theory, kind of…interesting. But he couldn’t afford interesting right now. In addition to twenty-eight more exams to grade, he had that goddamned rinky-dink town art show he’d been roped into. And of course, the ever-present tenure file hanging over his head wasn’t going to assemble itself. His committee was chaired by the overtly hostile Larry, so his submission had to be impeccable. Even then, it might not be enough.
“So,” she said as the train continued to rumble by, “professor in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. I have to say, I’m surprised.”
He shrugged. “You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
“I don’t believe that about you,” she said, dismissing his deflection with an unimpressed shake of her head that ignited a spark of annoyance in his chest. “I googled you after the wedding. You were an up-and-coming artistic talent, everyone said. Poised to make a breakthrough.”
“You never saw any of my work.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know you.”
You don’t, he was ready to protest, but he stopped himself because he knew what she meant, even if he wanted to pretend otherwise. They’d spent a mere six hours together seven years ago. But, somehow, they did know each other. Or they had. Maybe the past tense was the key there. “You knew me, maybe. I’m not the same person I was back then.”
The lights stopped flashing—saved by the caboose. The mechanical arm raised, and they were off again without having to continue the uncomfortable conversation.
“After you,” he said as they picked up speed, still riding side by side.
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
“One thing to learn about Dane is that it’s all straight lines,” he said. “Corn, roads, everything is straight lines and right angles.” No twists and turns. Nothing and no one lurking unexpectedly behind a bend in the road. No blind spots. “The market is a little farther down this road. There’s a break in the farms where there’s a park.”
When she nodded and pulled ahead, it gave him a moment to think, to regroup. His mind settled on that suitcase of hers currently sitting in his entryway. This “break” she mentioned. She didn’t think she was staying with him, did she? That was crazy, right? People didn’t just show up on other people’s doorsteps—especially people they’d met once seven years ago—and invite themselves to stay.
But then he thought of her saying, “The laws of physics don’t apply to me.”
And eff him—suddenly, the prospect of Emmy NoLastName paying him a visit wasn’t the worst idea in the world.
“This is the cutest place,” Emmy declared as they rolled to a stop. There were all these little canopied stands where fresh-faced people were selling fruits and vegetables, an area where people with dogs were congregated around bowls of water and treats that one of the vendors had set out, and even a guy playing a guitar and singing Bob Dylan covers.
Evan shot her a quizzical look. “It’s like pretty much every other farmers’ market I’ve ever been to.”
“Well, I’ve never been to one, so excuse me if I’m delighted.”
“You’ve never been to a farmers’ market? Aren’t you from Minnesota?” He squinted against the punishing midday sun to look at her. He kept doing that—looking at her like there was something he was missing, something he was trying to figure out.
Why you’re such a freak, perhaps?
“Yeah, well,” she said, a little defensive, “my parents weren’t farmers’ market types.” That was an understatement. The pair of accountants didn’t believe in paying more for food than was necessary, so groceries were procured exclusively from Costco, perishables portioned into freezer bags and frozen. The only time she’d ever had meals that could have been assembled from a farmers’ market was when she used to go to her grandma’s house after school. And of course, today she wasn’t the kind of person who could just idly stroll outdoor markets.
“There’s a sculpture garden adjacent to the market,” he said. “If you want to check it out, let’s do that first and do the shopping on the way out.”
“Cool.” She followed his lead, inserting the front tire of her bike into a rack, simultaneously impressed and appalled that no one locked their bikes here.
They skirted around the stalls lining the perimeter of the market and emerged into what seemed to be a cleared farm field. Surrounded on three sides by corn and bordered on the fourth by the road, it was dotted with sculptures, most of which were whimsical creatures made out of rusted tools and bits of metal she couldn’t identify. But then there would be the odd incongruent piece—like a rainbow made of spray-painted rocks inlaid in the ground.
“The guy who owns this land is a farmer with an artistic bent. The metal pieces are his, made from old farming equipment. Some of them are quite cleve
r.” He led her to an enormous bird of some sort, perched on a piece of driftwood. It was made out of chains and what looked like gears taken apart. “This is a red-shouldered hawk, which is an endangered species.”
“Is it endangered because of farming?” she asked, admiring its strange, cold beauty. That would be quite a statement to make.
“They definitely breed in wooded areas. This area has been farmland for longer than the hawks have been endangered, though, so I’m not sure it’s that simple. Still, there’s no denying that its habitat is shrinking, and humans are to blame.”
“Huh,” she said, fingering the hawk’s “feathers.” It definitely made a person think.
“The others are one-offs by random people. Jerry—that’s the farmer-artist—lets anyone put their stuff here. I think this”—he pointed down to the rainbow-hued stones—“was a gay pride piece from earlier this summer.”
“Gay pride in Dane!” she exclaimed, belatedly realizing her surprise might be coming off as snobbish.
He shrugged, not seeming to have taken offense. “It’s a college town full of hippies. Farmers and hippies.”
“And this Jerry guy is both?”
He smirked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but that’s about right, though usually there’s not much overlap between the two categories.”
One of the sculptures was a little bridge that went nowhere. It sat on the land, inviting in its absurdity, so she mounted the steps on one side and watched him get smaller as she gained elevation.
“Jerry’s a real art enthusiast,” Evan continued. “He’s given this field, which is adjacent to his cultivated land, over to the sculptures. He also has a barn he’s renovating that is going to become an arts annex to the town’s community center.” He sighed. “I’m supposed to be curating a show for its grand opening later this summer, in fact.”
She got the impression that the show was not something Evan looked forward to, but also that it was not something to press him about, and after their uncomfortable exchange about why he didn’t paint anymore, she wasn’t keen to anyway.
She stopped at the highest point of the bridge. “This place is awesome.” Not a very eloquent declaration, but it was the truth. She took a deep breath of the clean, heavy summer air and something inside her chest began to loosen. She made a slow revolution in place as if the bridge were her castle and she a queen surveying her realm. The market on one side of them was abuzz with activity—the sounds of the busker’s guitar mixed with the lilt of conversation floated up into the sky. The other side was farms as far as she could see. Rows and rows of green perfection stretching out forever against that impossibly blue sky.
“…coming down?”
What? She turned back to face Evan, who was regarding her with his eyebrows raised. “Sorry, I spaced out for a minute there. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were ever coming down.” He smiled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes proper.
In some ways, he was exactly the same as the man she’d met at the wedding, but in others, he had changed. He’d aged, of course, but it was more than that. It was like he’d shuttered some part of himself that had been more apparent, less protected, the first time she’d met him.
“But take your time,” he added, his smile becoming a tiny bit more genuine. “Enjoy your Juliet moment.”
“Would that make you Romeo?” she teased, wanting to draw out even more of the Evan she remembered. “Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
“Nah, I like to think I’m smarter than that punk-ass Romeo. No pointless suicide for me.”
“Right,” she said, “You’re more of an e.e. cummings guy.”
Probably she should pretend not to remember, play it cool. But he was the first guy who’d ever quoted any poetry at her—hell, he was the only guy who’d ever quoted any poetry at her, unless you counted her ex-boyfriend Kirby’s “woo woo woo oh girl” lyrics, and she most decidedly did not. Kirby was in a boy band; the e.e. cummings-quoting Evan was…not remotely a boy.
Suddenly brave, she lowered her voice and looked into his eyes. “I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers.”
Something flickered in his expression, and that she had reached him made triumph spike in her belly.
It wasn’t a love poem—she’d looked it up after the wedding. At least she hadn’t thought it was. Not on the surface, anyway. But there was something about the way he had spoken the line to her back then, an intensity that had made her cheeks heat, that made them heat now, in fact, as he gazed up at her and pinned her in place with his all-seeing eyes.
But as soon as she had his attention—his true attention—it was gone, stolen by something behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see a pair of teenage girls making their way over.
The calm, grounded sensation that had been slowly unspooling in her chest since she arrived in Dane was quashed by the great big thud of her stomach dropping. Her scalp started to prickle. What the hell was the matter with her? She’d taken off her bike helmet but forgotten to replace it with her hat. And for God’s sake, she wasn’t even wearing her sunglasses. And she was standing on top of a bridge—the highest point for miles.
She was a sitting duck.
With hands made clumsy by panic, she dug in her bag for her hat as she stumbled down the stairs on the bridge’s far side.
“What’s wrong?” He met her at the bottom, grabbing her elbow to steady her.
“Nothing!” But her voice edged on hysterical. She fumbled her wraparound sunglasses on, yelping as one of the arms poked the sensitive skin near her eye. “Nothing,” she tried again, willing her hand not to shake as she took his arm and angled him so he was between her and the girls.
Normally, she’d be graceful in a situation like this. A pair of girls on their own was harmless. They’d say nice things, ask her to sign something—hopefully not a body part—take a picture, and be on their way. Claudia and Brian disdained the teenage demographic Emerson Quinn had built her career on, wanted her to skew older, which she was starting to do naturally anyway. But Emmy didn’t mind them. There was something comfortable about appealing to her base. And, more than that, she remembered what it was like to sit in your bedroom and listen to the same song over and over, wearing headphones for the pure pleasure of beaming the music directly into your brain, pretending the singer was talking to you personally.
But today, the last thing she needed was a tweet or an Instagram post locating her in Dane.
“What’s the matter?” She could hear the concern and confusion in his voice as she looked over her shoulder. “And don’t tell me nothing.” He reached out and tried to take off her sunglasses.
“Don’t!” she snapped, whipping her hands to the glasses to keep them on.
He held up his hands like she’d pointed a gun at him, and the squealing grew louder as the girls approached.
Nice job, said Maude. You haven’t even been here an hour, and you’ve already ruined things. You’ll be back at the Wilshire by nightfall.
Her throat started to thicken. No. She swallowed hard. Emmy refused to cry, even behind her sunglasses.
She looked at the ground as the flurry of girlish chatter crescendoed. “Ohmigod! Is that him?”
Bracing herself, she painted on a smile because there was nowhere to escape in this wide-open landscape.
Wait. They’d said, “Is that him?”
“I think they’re behind that buffalo thing,” one of the girls said, passing within a foot of Emmy but not even sparing her a glance.
Sure enough, a pair of boys emerged from behind a buffalo sculpture twenty or so yards away. Relief flooded her, making her limbs quiver. They were chasing a boy. Hormones: the only thing more powerful than celebrity.
Which left her standing in an open field with a fake smile on the only part of her face that wasn’t obscured by her glasses and hat.
“What the hell just happened?” Evan was confused, maybe eve
n angry. And rightly so. She had been holding out on him, partly because she couldn’t believe that he really didn’t know who she was.
She started walking, heading for the next sculpture. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
He didn’t follow right away but eventually sighed and jogged to catch up with her.
“You didn’t have a TV back when I first met you,” she said when he’d fallen into step beside her. “What about now?”
He furrowed his brow. “Nope.”
“Still not into pop music?”
“Not unless you count Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington as pop music.”
She grinned. “What about your students? Don’t you, like, absorb any pop culture through them?”
He didn’t answer her for a long time. Then he stopped walking. “Can I ask you something?”
She stopped too. “Of course.”
He blew out a breath. “Ahh, this is kind of awkward.”
“Hit me,” she said.
“This break of yours. Were you thinking you’d, ah, stay with me?”
Well, shit. This was awkward. The truth was because she’d stopped listening to Maude, she hadn’t really thought through the details. She’d just fled, blindly propelling herself toward Dane.
“Actually,” he said, “let me ask you another question.”
Great. Anything to avoid having to answer the first. “Shoot.”
“Are you famous?”
Here it was. He might not know who she was, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew how to interpret her cryptic statements about needing to hide out for a while, not to mention the freak-out she’d had in the sculpture garden. “Yes,” she said, looking directly at him. “Yes, I am.”
He cocked his head. “How famous?”
She thought about it. It wasn’t like she could hide the truth, even if she’d wanted to. Evan could google as easily as she could. “Extremely famous.”
“And you thought you were going to stay with me.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes against the shame. It hadn’t been a question, but she answered it anyway. At least she could tell him the truth; she owed him that.
Famous (A Famous novel) Page 4
