The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher

by L. D. Crichton

  “How?”

  “Money, threats, bribes—I don’t know how,” she says. “All I know is evidence went missing, the investigation was compromised, and the district attorney told me that there was a good chance of a mistrial.”

  The same heavy feeling settles in my chest that I felt when Katie died. I feel like I’ve just witnessed a small part of Emma die. I mourn for something that was taken away before I got to know it: her sense of innocence—of whom to trust and what is safe and just. He stole those things from Emma.

  My fist clenches again at my side. “What about your parents?”

  “What about them? My mom was already a drunk; my dad buried himself in work. He felt helpless. There was nothing he could do.”

  “He could have helped you,” I say, suddenly mad. If anyone laid a hand on my kid, he’d be begging me to kill him to end the suffering I’d inflict.

  “Tristan, my dad is a businessman. He paid for rehabilitation and hired a therapist. He wanted to call the press, to tell people about the corruption in the police force.”

  “Why wouldn’t you do that?” I ask. “People would believe you.”

  “Because,” she says, her voice cracking, “every time I talk about it, I’m forced to relive what happened. Every time. And when I have to relive it, it’s like letting him do that to me over and over again.” Her sob morphs into more tears.

  I drop it, because I’m not into causing her any more pain. Instead, I offer her a pledge that I will take to my grave. “No one is ever gonna hurt you again, Emma. I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Emma

  I know he’s going to keep his promise. Somewhere in my core, I know that Tristan is good and kind and everything a man should be. This gives me strength. I take a moment to get myself as together as I can, swiping at my tired eyes with my hand, streaking the skin with black makeup.

  I can’t do this.

  I wanted my date with Tristan, damn it. I still want it. I won’t let Gabe take that away from me too.

  I suck in a shaky breath before shoving recollections of Gabe into the past—where he belongs. “Can we go back to the fair?”

  His expression is impassive until my request registers. “What? Are you sure you want to do that? It’s probably not the best idea.”

  “I was having fun,” I insist, “until—you know—the haunted house.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Christ. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

  “You didn’t know,” I tell him. “Please, Tristan? I want a funnel cake.”

  He drapes his arm around my shoulder. “You can have whatever you want.”

  When he says this, I realize that I don’t want to run anymore. I don’t need to. The compulsion, the desire, the need to escape is gone. I open the door to his truck, dip my head in and pull down the visor, using the mirror to swipe at the runny mess of mascara and eyeliner forming black circles under my eyes.

  We head back into the grounds and he stops, hanging back only long enough to lock our fingers together. I am happy to let him so he can usher me directly to the little booth that makes funnel cakes and mini doughnuts. The smell of sticky dough and cinnamon hangs in the air.

  “A bag of mini doughnuts and two funnel cakes, please,” Tristan says. He drops my hand long enough to reach for his wallet.

  “Extra icing sugar on mine, please,” I say.

  “Extra icing sugar on both,” he tells the woman.

  “That’ll be twelve dollars.”

  Tristan forks over fifteen dollars and thanks the lady without bothering to get his change.

  My mouth practically salivates with anticipation of the warm, sweet treat. I bite into it and chew extra slowly, making sure to savor each morsel.

  “Good?” he asks.

  “So good,” I say around a mouthful of food.

  “Worth the wait?”

  “Most definitely.” I try to eat it slowly, but it’s hard to contain myself. I want to gorge so I can move on to the mini doughnuts.

  Tristan is amused. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Mmm-hmm.”

  I finish my funnel cake, lick my lips to make the icing sugar disappear, and watch a smile stretch across his face. “You missed a spot.”

  I bring my hand up to my mouth and try to wipe away the evidence. “Did I get it?”

  “Nah,” he says. “Not at all.”

  I move an inch over and wipe again. “How about now?”

  “Still no.” He steps closer, invading my personal space, before tilting his head down to look at me. “Can I help you?” He’s asking for permission, which, given the nightmare from my past that I’d just dealt him, doesn’t really come as a surprise.

  “I trust you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, smiles, and tilts his head even more. I brace myself for his nearness, remembering how sweet he tasted when we spent the night together, remembering how incredible it was to allow myself to want more. His voice drops low, just above a whisper. “It’s right here,” he says, lowering his mouth to mine. His tongue darts out and licks my bottom lip and I forget where I am. And now, instead of running, all I want to do is lose myself in him.

  Tristan

  Part of me thinks it’s so wrong to be kissing her right now. She didn’t need that kind of thing after what she told me, but I did. I needed to know she was still here, with me and not lost inside her own mind. Her body goes lax and her hand grabs onto the side of my face, confirming that she’s not missing—that she’s very much with me, in this moment.

  I pull away. “We should go and find Marley and Mateo.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Don’t want to be late.”

  The tilt-a-whirl is clear across the grounds and we’ve polished off the bag of mini doughnuts by the time we get there. Marley and Mateo are already waiting, and Mat’s smile is enough to solar-power a car, so I’m pretty sure he’s sealed his fate with Marley. I jot down a mental note to ask him about it later.

  “About time,” Marley says. “I think I got a gray hair waiting for you.” Her eyes scan over Emma and her brow furrows. “What happened to your makeup?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your makeup,” Marley repeats. “You know, the look I spent, I dunno, like an hour giving you. It’s gone, like it melted off your face.” She pauses. “Wait a minute, were you crying?” Her eyes land on me like I’m a target. “Did he make you cry?”

  If Emma hadn’t been crying half an hour ago, I’d take massive offense. Why does Marley need to assume it was me that made her cry? I’d rather gouge my eyes out than be the cause of Emma’s tears.

  “Did he?” Marley repeats, and if looks could kill, I’d be a dead man.

  “No,” I volunteer. “We went on the log ride.”

  “Is that true?”

  Emma nods. “Yep.”

  “Then how come your clothes aren’t wet?”

  “How come you ask so many questions?” I counter. “If you’re so good at the shooting range, where is your prize?” Before I can keep firing questions at her, Emma interrupts, extending a pointer finger east. “Look! A photo booth.”

  This offers Marley the distraction I was going for. Enough of a reason to at least drop the inquisition, and she grabs Mateo’s shoulder. “I love those things. Can we?”

  Mateo turns his body, bends down, and wraps his arms around the back of Marley’s legs, hoisting her up and over his shoulder. “What the princess wants, the princess gets,” he says. Marley screams excitedly as he starts to walk away.

  “He’s crazy,” I tell Emma.

  “He’s so good for Marley,” she replies.

  Marley, still suspended over Mateo’s shoulder, hollers, “Are you coming to get your photo taken? Aren’t the two of you, like, a t
hing now?”

  That’s a good point. Aren’t we?

  I turn to Emma. “Want to have your picture taken with me?”

  “I’d love to, Tristan Banks.”

  Marley and Mat head in first and with the way that girl is giggling, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to know what he’s actually doing to her. Emma looks embarrassed just from hearing it. When our turn is up, I pull the curtain to the side and step into the tiny space. I sit and pat my lap. “Have a seat, Peaches.”

  She sits and I inhale. She smells sweeter than the treats we consumed, and I can’t help but think how nice it would be to taste her again.

  “Do we stick out our tongues or something silly?”

  I brush her hair off her neck and move it to the side. The teddy bear I won for her falls to the ground. “Can we start with answering a question?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Can I be your thing?”

  “My what?”

  “Marley asked if we were a thing. I want to be your thing.” I place my lips lightly on her shoulder and press down. “So, Emma Fletcher, are you going to let me be your thing?”

  Emma twists her body, offering me a half smile. “Yes,” she says without hesitation. “I want you to be my thing.”

  I set my hands on her hips and spin her full around so we’re face-to-face and I kiss her.

  Emma

  This is the best second-worst night of my life ever.

  Tristan is my thing.

  Officially.

  I want to sing and dance and shout it from the rooftops.

  I can now flat-out admit that I’ve wanted this for a while now, but I was scared to acknowledge it and even more scared to trust someone again.

  I can trust him.

  We exit and when I pick up my strip of pictures, I want to squeal. Photographic proof that he’s my thing. In the first picture he’s looking down with his lips pressed to my neck. In the second, my body is half turned and smiling and the image is so candid, so real and unscripted, it’s hard to believe it came from a carnival photo booth. The third is me, mid-spin, when he moved me around to face him, and the fourth is only the back of my head. Long, silky waves of hair falling nearly to my waist and Tristan’s hands tangled in them.

  I want to go back inside that photo booth.

  Tristan looks at me warmly and smiles. “You like those?”

  I nod. “Yes. They might take up a space on my wall.”

  “Let’s see yours,” Marley interrupts.

  I press the photo strip against my chest. I haven’t had much time to get used to the idea of our relationship—it having evolved so much in the span of a few hours—and even though I feel like Tristan and I are somehow bound together by dark pasts, I want this to be only mine and his. At least for now.

  Marley’s face falls in disappointment. “I’ll show you mine.”

  “We aren’t playing doctor, Marley,” I say. “Can I show you after?”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.”

  Tristan takes the photos and places them inside his wallet. “For safekeeping.”

  We spend the rest of the evening going on different rides and end it with a drink at the beer garden. I offer to buy Tristan a second, but he shakes his head. “I’m driving, remember.”

  Right.

  “But if you want to have more, go ahead,” he adds.

  A month ago I would have drank like my mother. More and more and more until the pain was bearable. But a month ago I didn’t have this sense of security. I don’t need the alcohol to provide me with warmth when being in his proximity sets my blood on fire. “I’m good.”

  After Marley and Mateo finish, we head to the truck. I slide across the seat so I can be close to Tristan. While he drives, whenever he shifts a gear, he gives my knee a caress or a squeeze. I want so badly to be alone with him. To thank him for keeping my secret, to tell him I’ll always keep his.

  We pull up to Marley’s place and Mateo gets out of the car. “I’m going to walk home from here,” he declares, and Marley gives him a sly, secret smile.

  Home. Yeah, right. He’s walking twenty feet to Marley’s bed.

  “Later,” Tristan says.

  “See you tomorrow,” Marley says to him. “’Bye, Emma.”

  “’Bye.”

  Tristan waits for them to go inside before driving away. We are alone for the first time since we actually became “our thing.”

  “So, you wanna go home?” he asks.

  I close my eyes briefly to summon courage I don’t necessarily have. “Can we go to your place?”

  Tristan smirks. “We can go wherever you want.”

  Tristan

  Jesus. What am I supposed to do with her? Every single time I’ve had a girl at my apartment, it’s been for a reason. Yeah, that reason. Up until now, Katie was the exception to that rule. She was the only girl who had ever set foot in my place for the night without some ulterior motive on my part. I have no motive, but the thing is, I’m not sure Emma can say the same thing.

  My only desire at this point is to take care of her, however she needs me to.

  She should be a total basket case right now, but when I look over at her, she’s not frightened or damaged or broken like the Emma that I first met. Instead she looks empowered. Relieved. I kind of understand that. Secrets eat away at the inside like cancer and letting them out is an exorcism of sorts. If anyone can appreciate that, it’s me.

  I park the truck. “You okay?”

  “You know something? I think I am.” She twists her body in her seat. “Is that totally messed up? I should be a wreck right now, shouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe you just needed to let it out, give your silence a voice.” This is the best explanation I can offer her. I run my fingertip down her arm. “There’s nothing as dangerous as words we won’t say.”

  We make our way to the door and as I’m jiggling the key in the lock, I can feel her breath on my neck; she’s so close to me. Christ. The point is to behave myself. I hardly see how that’s possible. She asked to come here. She wants me to give her some kind of comfort she hasn’t had until now, but I’m not sure what it is, or if I can give it to her. And after the other morning, I want to give it to her.

  I let us in and drop my keys on the table. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Do you have wine?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll have a glass, please.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tristan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I have the photos?”

  I pull my wallet from my back pocket and hand it to her. She opens it, removes the strip of photos, folds the wallet closed, and hands it back to me. “I’ll wait in the living room.” With that, she turns and marches herself to the couch.

  I head to the kitchen and grab a beer for me and a bottle of unopened red for her. I have to mess with the corkscrew for a minute before it takes and I’m able to pour a glass.

  She’s sitting in the living room, staring at the pictures with a far-off look in her eyes and a smile on her face. It’s like that photo strip is suddenly her greatest possession.

  I hold out her glass of wine. “You really like those, huh?”

  She nods. “Proof.”

  “Proof?”

  “You know, that we’re a thing.”

  She speaks as if our new relationship status is a source of awe and wonder. It is.

  “Can I see?”

  She places the photo strip in my hand. The images are not the greatest quality, but even so, the smile on Emma’s face is flawless.

  “You’re so beautiful, Emma Fletcher.” My voice is a barely there whisper.

  She brings the glass to her mouth and tilts her head back to take a swig. “I’m glad you think so.”r />
  “There’s indisputable photographic evidence right here.”

  The color rushes to those cheeks of hers so fast, you’d think I just told her to give me a lap dance or something.

  “I’m glad I told you my secrets,” she says.

  “I’m glad you did too,” I tell her. It’s half true. I’m glad she confided in me, but I’m terrified at the thought of what I could do to the guy if I were given the chance.

  “Hey, Peaches?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know I’m never going to let anyone hurt you, right? I mean—” I pause, trying to find the right way to ask this. “You feel safe with me, don’t you?”

  Emma nods. “Yes. Perfectly. The safest I’ve felt in a very long time.” She places the photo strip back in my hand and grabs her cell phone, nodding toward the pictures. “Can you hold that out?”

  I do as she asks and hold it to the side. She positions her phone and takes a picture of the photo.

  “You’re taking a picture of the picture?”

  Her eyes are glued to her phone screen, her fingers swiping across its surface. “I’m putting us on Instagram.”

  “Instagram?”

  “Yes. I mean, if we are official and all that, may as well make it for the world to know.” She proudly flips the phone around to show me.

  There we are. Posted on Instagram.

  I squint to get a good look at the small caption at the bottom of the post.

  Em319 My thing! He’s my thing! #official #mine #wereathing

  I laugh, taking the phone from her hands and placing it on the coffee table. “Officially yours,” I say, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ll take it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Tristan

  She’s naked and sleeping on my bed. Nothing more really happened last night, thank God, because I’m not sure I was in a position to handle it, but we did make out and I did happily remove all of her clothing. Her hair covers her like she’s some kind of mermaid. Her legs are tangled in the blankets yet crossed in her sleep. She has one arm drawn upward and the other draped across that scar on her stomach. Her lips are parted slightly; her cheeks are still flushed from sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything or anyone look so breathtaking in all of my life.