We both laugh. He observes me with a smoldering stare. “Frankly, I’m done worrying about all the things that could go wrong. What about all the things that could go right?” His words wrap their way around my vulnerable heart, squeezing it in all the right places.
“Will you come to dinner with me and my parents tomorrow?” I blurt out.
He looks surprised. “You want me to?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I reach a hand out bravely and place it on top of his. “I need a friend.”
His body sags at my words. He looks relieved. He turns his hand over and intertwines his fingers with mine and brings them to his lips, kissing each finger gently. My breathing halts, and I feel my body quake beneath the warmth of his lips.
I have to stand and leave immediately to avoid jumping and straddling him. My hormones are out of control. I decide to read for the rest of the afternoon, and around eight, Emerson knocks on my door to invite me downstairs for supper. When I see the dining room table, I feel every last ounce of doubt about us leave my body.
He’s roasted a leg of lamb, which is on a platter in the middle of two candlesticks. Two glasses of red wine await us, as well as a salad and bowl of polenta. The lights are dimmed, and music is playing through the wireless speaker. My mouth hangs open as I take it all in.
“This is for me?” I ask weakly. No one. No one has ever done this for me. “I feel like I should go upstairs and change. I’m in sweatpants, for God’s sake.” I gesture to the ratty sweats and bagged-out tank I’m wearing. Also, I have a pencil sloppily holding my hair out of my face.
Not exactly date-worthy. Or, is this a date?
“You look perfect,” he says, his voice low and gravely. He holds my chair out for me. I take a few unsteady steps forward, and when I sit down, he scoots me in. I swallow the lump in my throat as I study the table. A vase of daisies sits next to one of the candlesticks.
“Are those . . .” I trail off. Did he really set the table with Isaac’s flowers?
“No,” he replies sternly. “I went out and bought some more.”
I hide my smile with my hand. “Oh. They’re lovely.”
He sits across from me and holds his wine glass out for a toast. I pick mine up and we clink glasses.
“To new rules,” he says, the curve of his smile lopsided. My stomach and chest constrict helplessly. I am in so much trouble.
“To new rules,” I repeat, mirroring his smile.
Fuck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Finley
The next morning I wake up and decide I might as well take advantage of living on the beach. I spend the first part of the day outside, lounging on the sand and relaxing. Around noon, I notice Emerson’s car is gone so I make myself lunch. I leave him a plate in the fridge in case he’s hungry when he gets home. After I’m done, I play with the kittens for a few minutes and then spend about four hours writing and catching up on chapter ten.
In the book, Emerson’s now in college and discovering his love of writing. It’s pretty incredible to be learning so much about him. I wish I knew more, and yet, the more I think about the hesitance he expressed about his past, the more I don’t want to know.
What is he hiding? How bad can it possibly be?
I begin to get ready, nervous because Emerson still isn’t home. I know he’s not obligated to go with me, but I really want him to be there. I need him to be there.
At six thirty, I’m dressed casually in white jeans, brown ankle boots, and a light blue tank top. I’ve curled my hair a little bit and dusted on some blush. I can’t hold color for the life of me, but at least I can fake it.
I wander downstairs with my purse and retrieve my phone. I have a text from Emerson—it must’ve come in when I was drying my hair.
I’m so sorry—I’m running late. Text me the address of the restaurant and I’ll be there by 7.
I shoot him the address quickly. I start to dial the taxi dispatch number and not one second later, Brady comes through the front door.
“Hey,” he says, motioning for me to come outside. “I’m taking you to the restaurant since Emerson is running late. He doesn’t want you to have to take a taxi.”
“Oh.” I stand. “Okay.” I lock the door using the code. “I thought you were in school this week.”
He shrugs. “I am. I have a few days off so I’m with Isaac.”
I swallow at the thought of Isaac. He never texted me after my birthday night, which is kind of rude considering how flirtatious he’d been. Oh well. A small part of me wonders if Emerson has anything to do with Isaac’s lack of communication.
“How’s everything going?” he asks as we get on the road. I’m meeting my parents at The American Hotel in Sag Harbor. It was Chloe’s favorite, and I haven’t been back since I was a kid.
“Really well,” I answer, smiling.
Brady looks at me sideways. “I see.” He sighs and opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, watching him.
He laughs. “Kind of. It’s been pretty uncomfortable to be around the two of you.”
I wince and look down at my lap. “I’m sorry.”
“I think he really likes you,” Brady adds, giving me a sincere smile. “I’ve never seen him this happy.”
His words give me the warm fuzzies. “I really like him too.”
Brady turns on some music and changes the subject to my parents. I give him the lowdown, and he nods—he’s a good listener. When we pull up to the restaurant, I scan the parking lot for the Civic, but it’s not here yet. I gulp and turn to Brady.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Good luck.” He reaches a hand out, and we high-five. “Emerson said he’d be here by seven.”
I nod. “Okay. Night.” I hop out and walk to the restaurant. I ask the hostess to be seated at the table for four, under the name Matthews. She clicks at her computer and gives me a quizzical look.
“I’m sorry, there’s no reservation for Matthews.”
“Okay . . .” I say, clicking my jaw nervously. “What about Gabriel or Mary?”
She smiles. “Yep. I have a table for three under Mary.”
“It’s going to be four,” I reply, and she raises her eyebrows at me.
“Very well. You’re the first to arrive from your party. Please follow me.”
She seats me in the back, and I sit down with shaky legs. I don’t know why I’m so nervous—they’re my parents, for God’s sake. I check my phone, but I don’t have any messages. It’s only six minutes until seven. They have plenty of time.
I order a glass of wine while I wait. I cross my legs and tap my foot against the table nervously, watching the front door like a hawk. I keep an eye on my phone.
7:08.
7:15.
7:34.
The waiter comes over and offers me an appetizer. I shoo him away. To be honest, my stomach is in knots. Where is everyone? Am I at the right restaurant? I shoot a text to Emerson.
Where are you?
It sounds demanding upon second glance, so I add a follow-up text.
Just wondering. They’re not here yet. Getting antsy.
He doesn’t reply. I glance nervously at the front door. The waiter makes two more rounds before giving up and watching me from afar.
7:50.
8:06.
Tears begin to well in my eyes. I don’t know what I expected from my parents—they were never reliable growing up, and it doesn’t surprise me that they forgot or made better plans. But Emerson? Where the hell is he?
My phone buzzes. An unknown number. My heart races as I pick up.
“Hello?” I rasp, my voice hoarse from unshed tears.
“Sweetie,” my mom says, her voice casual, “we need to reschedule our dinner.” What the fuck?
My mouth drops open. “Seriously? I’ve been here for over an hour. I didn’t know where anyone was. I—”
“I’ll have Maggie reschedule you. Okay?
” Is she serious? She needs a housekeeper to schedule an appointment with her daughter? Fuck that.
She hangs up without an apology, and I feel a single tear drip down my cheek. Some people never change—no matter how much you wish they would. They were so surprised to see me yesterday. I now realize surprise can be a good or bad thing. In their case, it blinded me to their flaws—and now I realize they’re exactly the same people they were five years ago.
I stand abruptly. I dig around in my purse with shaky fingers and retrieve a twenty-dollar bill. The waiter walks over.
“Here,” I say. “For the wine.”
He gives me a pitying look. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. It’s on us.”
I look back to where he’s pointing. A group of young waiters and waitresses are watching me absorbedly. Great. That’s embarrassing.
“T-thanks,” I stutter, biting my tongue to keep from crying. I rush toward the exit and the waterworks begin. When I walk into the foyer, I’m so distracted that I don’t see Emerson or feel his tight grip on my arm. I recognize his scent immediately though, and I feel myself collapse against him, my body wracked with sobs.
“Hey,” he says gently, rubbing my back and holding me. I can’t respond. Everything hurts, but mostly my heart. I just clutch his shirt and continue to cry. I feel foolish for actually believing my parents would show up. I feel even worse for involving Emerson—now he gets to witness that side of me. I’m embarrassed.
I felt so hopeful that maybe I could patch our relationship; that maybe my mom and dad actually wanted me in their lives.
But they cast me aside, just like they did my whole life.
“You’re better off without them,” Emerson murmurs in my ear. I pull away hesitantly. I know I must look god-awful—snotty, red nose, puffy eyes, wet face. But I don’t care. It feels so good to have someone on my side. Be in someone’s arms.
“Yeah,” I say, sniffing. My voice is thick. I wipe the tears off my face and look up at Emerson. The look on his face is angry—it startles me.
“I can’t believe they stood you up. And I can’t believe I was so late. Please forgive me.” He tugs me forward and hugs me again.
“You have nothing to apologize for. You’re here now,” I add, taking a deep breath and inhaling his scent. Over time, his scent has gone from intoxicating to comforting. Right now it’s both.
“I’m here now,” he repeats, sliding his hand up and down my back. It feels good. “Let’s go home.” Home. Yes, I need to be home.
I nod and he takes my hand, leading me to the Civic parked out front. I feel mostly numb. What had I expected? I guess I thought since my dad was retired, and because they lived so close, that it would be a no-brainer. I don’t work the same way as them—thank God—so I can’t really understand their reasoning. I keep my plans with people. I never back out. I guess they don’t share the same mentality. Then again, they never did. Not with me.
“Stop overthinking,” Emerson says gently as we drive away. It’s starting to get dark, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying more. “Also, stop holding back your tears.”
I half-laugh, half-cry. “It’s hard not to overthink when your parents want nothing to do with you.” I take in my own words, and it stings. Hard.
Emerson is quiet for a minute. “Yeah, but what does that say about them?”
I shake my head, not comprehending. “What do you mean?”
He chuckles lightly. “Think about it. They lost their eldest daughter, and they haven’t seen their youngest daughter in five years. And then they stand you up? Come on. They should be breaking down my door to see you. This is all them, Finley. Not you.” I look down at my lap and play with the ring on my right index finger. No matter how he spins it, it still hurts. He continues, “I don’t know how they ended up as your parents, but hey, we can’t choose our family. At least not our biological family.”
“I know,” I say, my voice shaky. “You of all people know that.” I look over at him and he smiles.
“Exactly.” He stares at the road ahead. When I look out, I realize we’re not going in the direction of his house.
“Where are we going?” I think I know where we’re headed, but I don’t know if I want him to admit it.
“I have words.”
That’s all he says as he pulls off the highway and gets on the main road to Montauk. I bite my tongue, not sure if I’m happy or angry. I think it’s the former. The closer we get, the more his hands tighten around the steering wheel. By the time we pull up in front of the house, his eyes have darkened, and he’s breathing heavily.
“Stay.” It’s a command, not a request.
I sit helplessly as he slams the door and walks to the once-familiar front door. It’s strange being back here in the driveway. I spent so much of my childhood here. And now, the man I love is going to tell my horrible parents off.
The man I love?
In this moment, watching this amazing man defend me, I realize I might actually be in love with Emerson Whittaker.
I slowly unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. Emerson is pounding on the front door. The porch light is on, so everything is illuminated. My mother is paranoid about robbers, even though she installs state-of-the-art security systems.
I have to see this. No, I need to see this.
My dad answers the door, followed closely by my mother. They look startled to see him.
“Weren’t you that friend of Finley?” my dad asks, a smile creeping onto his lips. I hate the way he can ask that so casually when not even an hour ago, they chose to stand me up.
“That’s right.” Emerson’s tone is obvious, and my dad crosses his arms.
“Can we help you?” My mom asks, annoyed.
“I’m not sure,” Emerson says slowly. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her?”
My mother looks at my father, and then they both look up at Emerson dubiously. “Is this about tonight?” my father asks, his voice sharp. Emerson doesn’t back down.
“Hmm, I wonder. She was crying her eyes out, for fuck’s sake.”
My parents look at each other, surprised at his profanity, I’m sure. For the first time, I see true, actual shame. “We didn’t realize—” my father starts, but Emerson holds his hand up.
“I didn’t come here to discuss your excuses. I came here to tell you that you’re both idiots for not doing everything you can to be a part of her life. You lost Chloe, yet you so flippantly push Finley away.”
“Now, now,” my dad says sternly. “You don’t know anything about our family.”
“Like hell I don’t,” Emerson shouts. He’s so angry. Angry for me. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“We’re her parents,” my mother answers shrilly.
“Bullshit,” Emerson hisses. “You think because you birthed her, because you put the least amount of effort into showing her affection, that you know her as a person? It doesn’t work like that. Tell me about her fears. Tell me about her dreams—about what breaks her heart. In fact, tell me a story of a time you loved her without involving money.”
They stay silent. The truth stings. He continues.
“You think because you’re her parents you deserve her love. Well, you don’t. You never did, and you never will. So stay the fuck away from her.”
He turns and begins to walk back to the car. I’m glued in place. When he sees me, he motions for me to get in with one tick of his head. I climb in, and he starts the engine. We leave quickly, tires screeching. The farther away we get, the more relieved I feel.
Ever since I cut my parents off, I’d wondered if I’d done the right thing. I’d wondered what it would be like to have them in my life. Would we get dinner every Sunday night? Would I see them at Christmas? Probably not—Christmastime has been hard since Chloe died so close to it. But I have to wonder: would my mother and I bake cookies and talk about boys? Would my father teach me about investing money and how to pay my taxes?
I’ve come to
realize something only recently: I don’t need them.
I don’t need any of that in my life. Certain people bring me down—and I have to avoid those people in order to thrive. We wouldn’t get dinner every Sunday, because my parents are way too busy. I probably wouldn’t see them at Christmas, because they’d probably be at their chalet in Switzerland—Chloe and I often spent Christmas with our nanny. My mother and I wouldn’t bake cookies. She doesn’t know how to bake—she has a cook for that. And my father wouldn’t teach me about money and taxes, because he never really talked to me. Not genuinely, anyway. I was just some kind of pet for him to pat on the head and then discard.
Mary and Gabriel Matthews never should’ve reproduced.
I made the right decision five years ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Emerson
I’m angry as we pull up to the house. The blood is still rushing past my ears, and I have a death grip on the steering wheel. Finley and I don’t say anything as the car idles. I would park in the garage but both spaces are taken. A storm is blowing in, and the wind is howling all around us.
“Can I ask you something?” Finley asks quietly. She turns to me. Even after crying—even though the makeup she was wearing has washed off—she still looks stunning.
“Sure,” I answer.
“How did you get to the place of not caring? About your mom?”
I shake my head. “You think I don’t care?”
She looks at me, startled. “I just . . . you’re so indifferent.”
I shrug. “It’s a front.”
She watches me curiously, her disconsolate eyes studying my expression. “Oh.”
I continue. “It does get easier. The longer I stay away. I don’t know who my father is, so that part’s easy. I suspect my mom doesn’t remember. She was probably high the night they . . . ” I trail off. “Anyway, I have Isaac. And Brady. And a few friends in the city. And you.” I say the last part softer.
Her eyes well with tears. “You do have me.”
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 17
