Me: Not silly. Just wrapping up some work. Come by anytime, and I’ll try to be ready.
Emma: Okay. See you soon.
A half an hour or so later, I lift my head, as if sensing Emma. And sure enough she’s walking through the front doors. She is such a sight for sore eyes, and I gladly shut my computer down, get up and wrap my arms around her beautiful form.
“I should stop by more often,” she says, cinching her arms around my waist and looking up at me like I’m the only guy in the world.
“I wish you would!” I agree. “But as of this moment, I’ve had enough of this place. Let’s say you and I stop off and grab something to eat before we head home, huh?”
“Sounds perfect,” she says.
“See you tomorrow, John,” Shannon calls after me. I offer her a wave before pushing through the doors.
“She likes you,” Emma says, the evening dark and the air frigid.
“Nah. She’s just friendly.”
“I don’t think so,” Emma replies matter-of-factly.
“Well, then you should be jealous.” I want to lighten the mood, so I tickle her under her coat.
“I would be if I thought you liked her back,” she says, giggling like a schoolgirl. “But I trust you, John. We only have eyes for each other.”
“You’re definitely right about that.” I pull her close to me and kiss her. All I want to do is protect this girl and keep her safe, and maybe that’s why I don’t tell her about what Madison said. I don’t want to worry her or have her imagine there are people in the world who know about what happened to her when she was sixteen, people that have absolutely no business knowing.
“I love you, John,” she says before I open the passenger door for her.
“And I love you too, Emma. If I know anything, it’s that.”
EMMA
John does his best to be engaging and funny through dinner and on the eventual short drive back home. I know he’s exhausted, but there is something underneath, something that’s troubling him. The closer he and I have gotten, the easier it is for me to sense these kinds of things.
Does he know about his mother stopping by to see me? Did she tell him about it, making him question where his loyalties should lie?
“This is so nice,” he says once we’re together in bed, our naked forms tangled up with one another.
“It always is.” I rest the palm of my hand over the light hair of his chest.
“I wish I could have lasted longer,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I’m just so damn tired.”
“Well, I didn’t have my timer out,” I tease. “And it was amazing John—it always is.”
He is quiet for a few beats too long, thoughts being tossed around in his head that I’m not privy to.
“I just hope I stack up,” he finally says. “You know, to anyone that might have come before.”
Lifting my body up, I look him directly in the eyes, somewhat taken aback by his words. “As if anyone I’d been with could compare to you.”
He shrugs. “Are you sure?”
“What is this really about, John?”
He sighs, long and hard. “It’s nothing… just a stressful day… just random thoughts popping through my head.”
“If it’s about what I said about Mr. Thatcher, I—”
“No… no…” he breaks in, “Let’s not talk about him right now, okay?”
Inside I’m dying to discuss it because it’s obviously bothering John. And what does he think anyway, that I could feel for someone like Mr. Thatcher anything close to what I feel for John?
But I let it go. I have to… just for now.
“Okay.” I ease back down until my head is on the pillow.
“Good night,” John says, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek before turning out the light. “And I really did love the dress.”
The dress.
We’d talked about it over dinner, the wedding dress that, according to Angela, is now cursed because John has already seen it. But John doesn’t seem to care, and so why should I? It had looked perfect on me, had felt perfect on me. Maybe I just have to trust that he and I won’t be taken down by superstition or his meddling mother.
“I’m so glad you liked it,” I say.
“No, loved it, and can’t wait to see you wearing it,” he says with one last quiet breath.
I smile, grateful for that at least while worry about Mr. Thatcher and what John thinks of my relationship with him begins to slowly gnaw at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EMMA
“Shockingly pedestrian,” my instructor says in front of the entire classroom, judging the collection of winter coats and boots I’d designed for my assignment. “Overdone… the lines… you see?” She points along the shafts of a pair of drawn boots that are magnified with a projector for all of my classmates to see.
I’m dying inside a bit, red-faced and embarrassed. The instructor had chewed through two students before me, but she’d also given high marks to another three, two of whom I didn’t think deserved such praise. She’d said this brutal assessment was necessary if any of us wanted to be a part of the competitive and often cruel world of fashion.
“And I’m not sure I understand the colors you’ve chosen, Emma,” she continues, using a pointer to tap across the drawings. “Certainly people are looking for a boost during the long winter months, but these colors are reminiscent of an animated children’s movie… very exaggerated. Too much, and certainly not something that would play well except for some niche audience.”
“Maybe that’s what I’m going for,” I pipe in, not rudely of course but in some defense of my work.
The instructor stops and looks at me with harsh eyes. “Perhaps if you were Betsy Johnson, but you aren’t. Design is about expression, but it’s also about anticipation. I’m only the messenger of my many years spent teaching and being a part of this industry.”
I don’t argue after that and sit through her destroying the work of three more students while praising and admiring a lucky two.
“This is basically community college,” I tell Jennifer after leaving class, “but I felt like I was being judged like I’m at some major design school in New York or Paris or something!”
“Don’t let it bother you,” Jennifer says. “As long as you believe in yourself, that’s all that matters, right?”
“Sure,” I agree, but it continues to bother me long after Jennifer and I part ways, and then all through my shift at Patrice’s. I’m afraid to ask Burk’s opinion of my designs for fear he’d agree with my teacher. Maybe he’d try to be nice about them, but I think I’d know he was just lying.
It isn’t until I’m on the bus heading north toward Wallingford that I cry. It’s such a first world problem, being told your designs suck, but it still stabs me in the gut and makes me question where my place is in life. Will I get lucky and eventually manage to eke out a living following my dream or end up in a job that I only tolerate?
John is at the legal clinic again tonight, but I’m still afraid to head to the house for fear Denny or Stephen might be there, see me with reddened eyes or hear an obvious string of sniffles and ask me to explain my tears away. Would they tell John I was upset, and would John think it was about something wholly unrelated, like Mr. Thatcher?
I sneak into a coffee shop not far from the house, order a pumpkin spice latte and find a corner to sit in. Pretending to read or play with my phone, I’m instead thinking about failure, failure from today in class and failure that has encompassed much of the last few years of my life.
I’d had problems before Mr. Thatcher, but they’d magnified after meeting him. Jennifer had mentioned something about him earlier today. It was an update from her mother and had likely contributed to my tears. Jennifer’s mom had contacted the detective who had worked the case, Detective Marshall. I remember that name and can still picture the woman with her hair pulled back tightly from her face, in perfect order, as she’d prodded me to tell her what I’
d done with my teacher nearly three years ago.
“She hasn’t heard back yet,” Jennifer had said, and I hadn’t responded then, had shoved that fact into the back of my mind.
But now, sitting by myself in this coffee shop, Mr. Thatcher and everything that surrounds him works slowly to the front of my mind again. I know in my heart that I’ll have to talk to him, to put things to rest, to tie up that last remaining thread between us. It’s a powerful thing to carry the life a man has impregnated you with and then never to see or speak to that man again—a powerful, if not totally fucked up thing indeed.
“I thought that was you.”
I’m startled and look up to see Denny in a wool coat and a still steaming mug of coffee or tea in his hand.
“Oh, hey,” I say, wiping at my eyes, hoping there isn’t a hint of moisture left in them.
“You mind if I sit down?” he asks, looking expectant.
“No… I mean, of course… yeah… grab a chair.” God, what a nervous laugh I have.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” he asks, settling into the chair across from me.
“Uh, I don’t see you with anyone either,” I joke, still sniffling up the last of the congestion my tears produced.
“Court is meeting me. Have you been crying?” He looks concerned.
For a second, I freeze, but it’s not a crime to cry, is it?
“You caught me,” I say, trying to make light of it, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at myself. “Just a brutal assessment of my design skills at school. I need thicker skin.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry, but I doubt you need a thicker skin. Sometimes people are just dicks.”
“Sure, but the world is full of them, so it’s better to learn how to keep them from bothering you, right?”
I used to use alcohol to keep the dicks of the world and everything else at bay before. It made everything bad disappear, if only momentarily. But I hadn’t needed it for some time. I’d been doing so well, actually allowing my emotions to bleed through instead of numbing them with that clear liquid antidote.
“Sure, I guess you’re right,” he says, taking a drink of his coffee but barely taking his eyes off of me. “You can imagine the times I get yelled at in med school, for anything really. They say it’s better to get yelled at by one of your instructors than be cussed out by the family member of the person you inadvertently kill with your mistake.”
“Well, that puts things into perspective.” I sit up a little straighter and wipe the last bit of moisture from my eyes.
“You sure that’s all that’s bothering you though?” he prods. “You know, with John’s mom coming by and all?”
“Let’s not talk about that, okay, Denny?”
With a quick nod, he says, “Fine,” relenting easily enough.
And then we’re able to talk about lighter things, about video games and me trying on a wedding dress and sending the picture to John like a dumbass. Denny agrees with the sales woman, that it shouldn’t hurt for the groom to see his bride in her dress before the wedding. We move on, discussing the merits and downfalls of Angela and Stephen getting back together, both of us leery but hopeful something long lasting will come of it.
By the time we’re finished, a half an hour has passed, and I feel so much better for having someone to talk to, even if it wasn’t about what was really bothering me.
“Didn’t you say Court was meeting you here?” I ask.
“She’s running late,” he says without even a hint of annoyance.
“Well, I should get back to the house.” I stuff my book into my bag and get up from the table.
“I enjoyed our talk.” Denny mirrors my action of getting up and then takes a few steps forward, pulling me close to him for a hug.
“Oh,” I start, slightly taken aback by his gesture, though I end up wrapping my arms around him too because he’d been so helpful in taking my mind off of things. “You’re a good friend,” I say just as we part.
“Well, well…” Court says, startling me as I step away from Denny. “Didn’t know you’d be here too.”
“Oh, hey Court. I’m just leaving.”
Court looks at me with inquisitive, narrowed eyes, almost as if she’d just caught Denny and I having sex.
“I’ll see you later if you’re still up,” Denny says.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Nice seeing you, Emma,” Court says, her expression loaded with what I think is a desire to make something more out of the very innocent hug Denny and I shared.
I wave at both of them through the window, finding myself anxious to get home, hopeful I’ll see John before I fall asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JOHN
“How are we already two weeks from Thanksgiving?” Shannon asks as we set up for another long afternoon and evening at legal aid.
“Don’t remind me,” I answer, squeezing the bridge of my nose, as if that would alleviate the headache I’d had all day.
“I’m supposed to fly back to Omaha,” Shannon says, “but it’s so much work for just a few days.”
“It’s turning into a shopping holiday anyway,” I reply, figuring this will be the first year I break from my parents and try to do something low key at Stephen’s house. Knowing Emma won’t be welcome in Medina made that decision real easy.
“True,” Shannon says, “but my mother is inviting a bunch of family friends, including the guy she’s been trying to fix me up with since high school. He’s got all the right breeding and all.” She bites her bottom lip and raises her brows at me.
“Do you like this guy?” I ask, figuring she wants to discuss it, maybe just wanting someone to bounce her feelings off of.
“Debatable.” She taps her finger on her lips. “I guess he’s okay, but there’s someone else I like better.”
“Well, then go for that guy,” I say with a shrug, wanting to get down to work, wanting to finish up here and spend some precious time with Emma.
“Maybe I will,” Shannon says with a smile before heading off toward her desk.
In the next several hours, I help a young woman who is seeking to emancipate herself from her parents, an older man who is being evicted from his apartment building that the owners are turning into condos and a family from Somalia who are attempting to find a legal remedy to deal with the man who has been harassing their eldest daughter.
At the end of it all, I feel satisfied that I’m doing something to help the larger community, even if, after I do the intake, I have to pass along the majority of the cases to the actual lawyers and paralegals who work here, cases that will not always end with the outcome our clients want. But still, it is something, work that is so vastly different from the very privileged, insular world I’d been raised in.
When Court texts me and asks if I have a few free minutes, my first reaction is to tell her no. If I take a break for her, it means I’ll have to be at the clinic longer, thus getting home to Emma much later. But she is a friend, and that would be a shitty thing to do, so I just text back in the affirmative.
“Meg and Stephen have it so good,” she remarks as we sit on a bench outside the clinic. It’s cold, but she brought coffee and freshly baked cookies, so I can’t complain too much.
“Tell me about it. They actually have lives.”
“But we’ll be making more money than them when we get out of school, right?” She says it with the kind of hope I imagine someone gets before they decide to climb Mt. Everest—you’re very likely to die in the process, but getting to the top should be worth it… right?
“Not sure I will,” I chuckle. “If I go the public service route, I’ll be making a small fraction of what I would over at Mercer.”
“Well, you still have time to decide,” she says, her squeezed expression imploring me to reconsider. “You’re feeling things out, and that’s good, but you might realize that the world can’t be saved by just one man, so why not just take the money and enjoy your life?”
&
nbsp; “We’ll see. I’d like to enjoy that life while being proud of the guy I see in the mirror, being the kind of man and husband that Emma would approve of.”
She nods quietly and then looks off into the distance, as if the words in that last sentence triggered something.
“It’s odd seeing you this quiet.” I’m used to Court being as bubbly and enthusiastic as Meg, about everything pretty much. “Other than a social visit, is there a reason you wanted to meet with me?”
She turns back to me and nods again. “I’m worried,” she says with a long sigh.
“About?”
“I met Denny for coffee last night, and Emma was there with him when I arrived. They were hugging… it looked… intimate.”
“Okay.” I grab at the bridge of my nose again. “It’s not news Denny has a crush on her, and you realize they’ve become friends, right?”
“Maybe it’s more than that,” Court says with a grimace. “And I’m mostly just worried about you, John. You barely know this girl, and you’re planning to marry her already? At least Madison is a known quantity.”
I drop my fingers from my nose and shake my head. “Is that what this is about? You trying to get me back with Madison too?”
“It’s nothing like that. You know you’re my friend first, but there are some… rumors about Emma going around.”
“Like what?” I’m angry all of a sudden.
“Meg talked to Madison, and there’s something about Emma and an old teacher of hers?”
Oh, god. This is the last thing I need, the last thing Emma needs.
“Yes, I know about that.”
“Oh?” Court looks taken aback. “I didn’t realize. Is it bad, John?”
I take a moment and let out an angry breath. “It’s only bad when people keep bringing it up. Nobody should even know about it, and the fact that Madison does tells me she’s been digging around. And now she’s telling you guys? It’s not right.”
Court bites at her lip. “But I still think you need to be careful. I’m just not sure about Emma… if she fits into your life… and is all the things you want her to be.”
Again, I sigh. I wanted Court to be on our side, but it looks as if that won’t be the case. “She fits into my life just fine, and if that’s all, I really need to get back inside.”
Broken by Love (The Basin Lake Series Book 2) Page 22
