by Ginger Scott
“I know, right? So bad,” she sighs, falling back into her cushion. “Do you want some of my wine? I got a whole bottle.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching for one of the upside down glasses at the end of the table. I pour a small glass, and hold it up to toast when Lindsey grabs my wrist, making me spill a drop or two on the sleeve of my favorite Tech sweatshirt. Damn.
“Oh shit! He’s here!” she whispers excitedly, immediately brushing off the front of her dress, wiping the corners of her mouth and fidgeting in her seat. I’m blotting at the now-purple spots on my super-soft, I’ll-never-find-one-like-this-again, white sweatshirt when Lindsey drops her uneaten half of a cookie back into the stash to hide what we were doing. She’s making me nervous now, too.
“Oh…crap…uh…I’ll go,” I rush, grabbing my cookies and lid and chugging my glass of wine quickly while I try to exit the booth gracefully. I don’t realize what’s happening—what has happened, what this would feel like or the fact that I could feel anything like this at all—until I stand and stumble forward, letting my hand land flat in the center of his chest.
I’m sixteen the second our eyes meet.
I’m sixteen again, and I’m right back at the kitchen table with my parents, and they’re telling me how right they were, everyone was, about Andrew Harper.
I’m sixteen, and I’m looking at the aftereffect of my lies—my omissions.
I kept my mouth shut.
And Andrew did too.
Now here we are, five years later, in a wine bar where he’s meeting my best friend for a date. Their first date. And he’s looking at me like I might be the worst human on the planet. But then, he also looks at me like he misses me. And a little like he hates me, then as if he doesn’t know me at all. It’s all in there, in that space behind his eyes. They’re swirling—his emotions.
My heart has never hurt like this. I’ve thought I saw him so many times. I never thought it was real.
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest, my lungs are burning, and my mouth is trying to remember how to gasp for air, all of me too stunned to actually just breathe. By the time my lungs function again, I suck in air so fast it chokes me, and I start to cough. I realize my hand is still on his chest when he looks down at it, his brows raised. I pull it away quickly, balling it into a fist, because for those few seconds I had my palm on him, I swear I felt his heartbeat. It’s like I want to catch it and put it away for later.
“Emma, this is your big hero,” my friend says behind me. “Drew, this is Emma.”
The irony that she calls him that strikes fast, and I laugh once, but quickly cover my mouth because a part of me also feels like crying. I’m unable to close my mouth under my palm. That anxiety that plagued me for months after our accident comes roaring back into my being. It never truly left. The scar—the memory of that night, of him being driven away from me, the feeling in my gut at what he was doing…for me—it creeps in at night, invades my dreams, and surprises me in quiet moments. That sharp stab—it’s always really there.
What can I possibly say to him? That question etches itself into my mind all hours of the night, while I lie in bed and look out my window wishing he’d just show up, stand outside and throw a rock up to wake me. If he did, what would I say?
What can I say now?
Thank you? Thank you for taking the fall for me, for my carelessness? You may have saved my life. But then…why were you high? And…how could you? You drove like that; you could have killed me. Did I ever really know you at all?
Did I?
“It’s nice to meet you, Emma. I’m glad I was able to get your license back to you. I bet that had you worried,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake, his eyes directing me toward it, to shake it. It’s the same smile from our youth, but…then it’s not.
“Yeah, uh…nice to meet you too,” I stammer, my voice awkward and meek. I take his lead, playing this as if we’re strangers, but I know he recognizes me. I feel my friend’s hand on my shoulder, and I jump, turning to her just in time to see her holding the tin of cookies. Oh god, she’s giving him the fucking cookies!
“She was so grateful, she baked you cookies,” Lindsey laughs. I smile at her through gritted teeth, my brow pulled forward and my mouth aching from forcing a smile. She shakes her head at me, unsure why I look so desperate. “We…uh…well, sort of ate a few while I was waiting.”
Andrew takes the tin in his hand, and I’m glued to his face again, waiting for his reaction. This whole scene is a morbid type of irony, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to taste an oatmeal cookie again without associating it with everything I’m experiencing right now.
Here he sacrificed so much, and I’m giving him cookies.
He holds the tip of his tongue between his teeth as his mouth slides into that familiar smile, the one I was so smitten with as a teenager. It dimples his cheeks exactly as it always did, but those cheeks are now covered in stubble, and maybe a small scar on the right side. I bet there’s a story that goes along with it. I bet there are a lot of scars and stories we both have to share.
“I love cookies,” he says finally, his lips closing into a tight smile. His amber eyes burn through me, into me, and for that brief second, it’s like I can see his him. “I bet I’ll really love your cookies, Emma,” he smirks, his eyes haze, and I notice a difference in his tone and demeanor. He gives me a look that is meant just for me, and he slips it in right when Lindsey isn’t watching.
Andrew Harper has no intention of sharing secrets with me ever again.
I swallow hard enough that I fear the couple sitting at the next table can hear it. I’m showing my nerves, and it makes Andrew chuckle a little. He sets the cookie tin down on the table, then steps closer to Lindsey, tucking her hair behind one ear and kissing her lightly on the cheek.
I hate it.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I just saw your text,” he says, giving her all of his attention, along with the gentle smile that still shows up in my memories. He pulls his knitted hat from his head, sliding his other hand through his hair. It’s longer, but the same. He’s still wearing black gauges, but even those somehow look older—harder. “We weren’t supposed to practice today, but this weekend is gonna be tough, so we worked out this afternoon. Set me behind a little, but I thought I’d still be on time.”
“Oh, it’s okay. Emma came to keep me company,” she says, turning the attention back to me. I can’t look at either of them. I don’t know why he’s pretending we don’t know each other, yet I’m oddly grateful for it.
“Oh…uhm…yeah,” I smile and chew at the inside of my mouth, my face heating up and my legs starting to feel weak. I put my hand flat on the tabletop, knowing it won’t do much to keep me from passing out, but maybe it will at least stabilize me long enough for the feeling to pass.
“She was afraid you were going to stand me up,” Lindsey blushes.
Andrew chuckles, and I look at my fingers, how they’re touching the tabletop, my knuckles turning white. His voice—it’s deeper.
“Oh, I always show up when I make a promise to someone. It’s kind of a thing with me,” he says. That statement—that was for me, and when I glance at him quickly, I feel the burn of it.
“Well, I’ll let you two have your night. I’ve got a couch waiting for me,” I say, pulling my purse close around my body and tucking the soiled ends of my sleeve into my hand.
“Thanks, Em,” Lindsey calls out as I leave. I wave to the side without turning, but I know they’re both watching me leave.
I focus my attention on my feet, my steps, and the stains on my shirt all the way back up to our apartment, and when I get through the door, I rush to the bathroom and throw up.
I slide down to the floor with my back against the wall and tug the towel from the shower bar into my lap, shaking it out to cover my body so I can curl up into the corner. The tears come from a place I never thought I’d see again. All these years, I’ve always thought of Andrew, but not since t
hose first few months did I cry for him.
I’m not even sure why I’m crying, but every time I convince myself to stop, my breath catches and my lip quivers and I can’t hold it together.
He was gone.
Gone!
And now he’s here.
After an hour, I manage to calm myself enough to move into my room, to my bed, where I pull my covers up to my chin so I can throw my ruined shirt on the floor. When I squeeze my eyes shut, Andrew is all I see. Sometimes, it’s the young version, the innocent one. Other times, it’s tonight—the smile, the hard line, his eyes.
My entire body is throbbing with the beat of my heart, and my chest hurts so much I start to count along with every thump.
“Emmmmm? Are you in your room?” Lindsey calls from the doorway. All I can do is leave my arm over my face, blocking my view of anything, while I lie here in bed and pray she’s come home alone.
Please have hated him. Please, god. Please, please, please.
“There you are,” she says, opening my door completely, but thankfully leaving my light off. “Are you sick?”
“Migraine,” I answer. My head hurts like it does when I get them, but this…it’s way worse than a migraine. My migraines go away eventually. I fear this is just beginning.
“Oh, damn. You haven’t had one of those for a long time. I’m sorry, Em. You need me to get you anything?”
Lindsey is the kindest, sweetest girl I’ve ever known. She’s a true friend, and I’m so lucky that I found her. She’s been my rock through pre-med, through mountains of academic stress, through life’s growing pains—through my mother’s death. And all I can think of is how much I resent her for spending the night getting to know him.
“No, I’m okay. Just a little tired. It hit me as soon as I got home,” I say, my voice breaking with a cry. I clear my throat to mask it.
“Here, let me get you a washcloth at least,” she says, stepping out of my room and into our bathroom. I breathe heavy, trying to clear out everything else while she’s gone, and I manage to smile at her when she steps back into my room.
“Thanks,” I say as she presses the cool cloth to my forehead. It soothes me some, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m here where I always wanted to be—reminding me of what’s important. I can feel this coldness, and that is a blessing.
“I’m sorry you’re sick,” she says, and I can sense the girlfriend part of her begging for me. She’s happy, and she wants to share.
I slide the rag down to cover my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the force of my grip tighten as I speak.
“Did you have a nice time?” I ask.
Her sigh crushes me. I feel the bed shake as she sits next to me, taking over pressing the cloth on my head, as she shares. “Oh my god, Em. He’s like so…gah! I don’t even know. He just…he’s so fucking sexy!”
She laughs, and I let my mouth smile even though my eyes tear.
“Yes, he’s pretty good looking,” I swallow, turning from her to roll to my side. When she flinches I hold my hand up. “Just trying a different position, to see if that helps,” I say, wanting to hide my face from her, knowing I won’t be able to plaster the smile on the entire time.
“He’s a hockey player. For Tech? He said he isn’t very good, but he gets to play.” She sounds so excited when she talks about him. She sounds exactly like I did when I lay in bed next to my mom after skating with Andrew the first time and told her about this cute boy who plays hockey who isn’t anything like the neighbor said he was. She sounds so happy.
“That’s cool,” I manage to eek out.
“I know, isn’t it? I’m going to watch him play Friday. They’re home. Oh my god, he was just so…so real, you know? Like a normal, real guy,” she pauses, pulling her feet up on the bed now and kicking her shoes off. I feel her weight slide down next to me and her arm come up to sweep under her neck on the pillow.
“Yeah…” I start, my eyes fluttering to a close again. “Normal. That’s…that’s great, Linds.”
So terribly, awfully, nightmarishly great.
“You know, it’s true what they say,” she says through a yawn. I let out a short breath and laugh in response—no clue where she could be taking this conversation. I can’t believe this night is happening to me. “You know. About not looking?”
“Sorry, I’m lost,” I respond, not able to sound enthused any more. My eyes are staring at the numbers on my clock, watching the dot count seconds, waiting for this to be over.
“The good ones always show up when you stop looking for them,” she says, my mind finishing before her words enough to let a single tear slide from my eye to my pillow.
“Yeah,” I say, biting my lip and drawing as much air as I can get through my nose. “It’s true. They always come…right…when you…stop looking.”
“Thanks for losing your license,” she says, reaching her hand over to grasp my arm once and give it a squeeze. I want her to leave. I want to be alone. I want to cry.
But I can’t do any of that. I’m hell bent on pretending that the past isn’t real, just like Andrew. Maybe that’s how it hurts him less. And if it works for him, maybe it will work for me, too.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper, playing the part of a liar. That’s what I am, after all—a liar.
Lindsey yawns again, and soon her breathing starts to fall into a regular pattern. She’s on her way to dreams, and I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. She deserves them, but I’m jealous all the same.
It’s nine at night, and we’re both usually exhausted. It comes with our schedule, with the amount of extra everything we both put in just to be med students. Lindsey is an amazing friend—an amazing girl.
And she found him.
Maybe…maybe I give him this.
Chapter 8
Andrew
“Kind of an early night for you…for a date night…no?” Trent says to me the second I step through the door. His crap is piled on the counter again. I just laugh this time and ignore it. I’m not in the mood to be pissed off at my friend for no reason. I’m too pissed at myself.
“Yeah, I guess,” I shrug, passing through the kitchen and grabbing each of us a beer, then handing him one.
I sit on the opposite end of the couch and kick my feet up on the coffee table. He’s watching a bunch of guys debate on ESPN over the latest drug scandal in baseball. Actually, right now he’s watching me. I can see his face pointed in my direction, his bottle tipping my way so his eyes stay on me. He’s waiting for me to open up. Trent…he’s a feelings kind of guy. We are one of those sets of opposite-types of friends—his feelings are complimented by my complete lack there of.
“License girl not what you expect?”
I keep my breathing normal, stifling my desire to huff and sigh. I shake my head as if I didn’t hear him. “Huh, sorry. Was lost in the show,” I say. There’s a commercial on right now, and he looks at me in a way that says bullshit.
“License girl?” he asks again, shit-eating grin and all. He senses there’s something off with me about this.
I shrug and turn my attention forward again, taking a short drink from my beer. “It was her roommate I went out with. She’s the one that answered the door the other day. She’s cute. Just…I don’t know,” I let the rest of my words linger, never finishing.
We watch about ten more minutes of TV. The entire time, all I see are Emma’s eyes—her goddamned heartbreaking eyes.
I don’t know what I expected, how I thought any of this would go. I know I wasn’t expecting to see her though, and maybe that was stupid. It’s clear that Lindsey is her best friend. And unless I planned on ditching Lindsey and never calling her again, changing my number and avoiding her at all costs, there wasn’t much of a chance that I would never see Emma.
I knew it was her the second I stepped into the restaurant. Her hair color is unmistakable. I’m sure to anyone else, there’s nothing about it that’s unique or rare. But I can see it. It’s familiar. It�
��s part of me.
I know how it feels in my hands.
My first reaction was anger. That’s what urged me forward. Something inside got excited at the idea of messing with her, making her feel uncomfortable and out of place. Fuck—if I’m being honest with myself, I wanted to see her cry.
And then she looked at me.
I didn’t want to make her cry any more. But it was there. She looked sick, and shocked. And the next ten minutes were this pendulum of hate and pity, and I wanted to punish her and save her at the same time. I’m still swaying now.
“Dude, what are these?” Trent gets my attention from the kitchen. I stand up to see him lifting the lid off the cookies.
“Oh, yeah. The chick whose license it was made me cookies. I had one; they’re good. Go ahead,” I say, walking toward him.
Of course she made cookies. And then I made the cookies into something sinister. I taunted her, twisted the guilt knife I imagined in her gut, and it felt good and terrible all at once. I couldn’t stop, though. I just couldn’t stop.
“Oh shit, these are good,” Trent says, inhaling the rest of the cookie he started and picking up another one. “Oh…hey. I think there’s a note in here for you,” he adds, crumbs falling from his mouth as he chews and slips a paper from the edge of the tin and begins to open it.
My chest seizes a little, and I reach for it quickly, taking the folded paper from his hand. He looks at me like I’m crazy for a second, but rolls his eyes eventually and just gives over to his second cookie. I unfold it and hold it in my hand in such a way that he can’t read it. Trent knows the name Emma. He doesn’t know she’s the girl, but he knows she’s one I don’t care to see again. Apparently, I got really lit one night at a team party and made up an entire rap about her. It wasn’t flattering. Trent isn’t stupid, and I know he’d put this moment and that one together quickly. I don’t want to have to lie and say it’s just a coincidence—so I graze over the words without really reading then shove the note into my pocket.
