by Melody Grace
“Hi,” I say quietly. I feel even more naked than the night before: a bikini top and my tiny shorts, but this time, Emerson isn’t devouring me with his eyes. He looks away, like he doesn’t even want to see me.
I wish I could pretend like I felt the same, but it would be a lie.
I can’t bring myself to look directly in his eyes yet, but my gaze can’t help roving over him, absorbing every detail all over again. In the bright sunshine, I can make out things I didn’t see last night—like the faint line of pale scar tissue running across one shoulder, and the freckles on his forearms that have multiplied over the years.
“Hey.” Emerson’s voice is awkward.
I brace myself, gathering all my courage. Then I look up, into those dark blue eyes. I feel a shiver through me, just as sharp as last night. This time, at least, I’m prepared. I don’t flinch, or gasp, but still, I feel my skin prickle with his nearness. My nipples harden, and I thank God my bikini top is dark and padded to hide the evidence of my desire.
How can he do this to me, just by existing?
“You got a dog.”
The words are out before I realize how dumb they sound. Way to state the obvious, Juliet!
If Emerson thinks I’m acting like a fool, he doesn’t say it. He nods, and his tense expression relaxes, just a little. “His name’s Eastwood. I found him out by the highway, a couple of years ago. His owners just dumped him out there.”
“That’s terrible!”
Emerson’s lips curl up. “That’s right, you always were a soft touch with animals.” He looks at me, softer. “Remember that stray cat that used to come around? You left milk out for it every time, even though we all said you’d never get rid of it.”
“The poor thing was hungry!” I protest. “I couldn’t just let it starve.”
“By the end of summer, you were fending off every stray in town.” Emerson laughs. “I don’t know what they did with themselves when you left.”
He stops, the laughter dying on his lips as he realizes what he’s said.
When I left.
I feel a clench of panic watching the memories darken in his gaze. I brace myself for another cutting comment, more of the anger and cruelty from last night, but instead, Emerson takes a long breath, exhaling slowly.
“I…I want to say I’m sorry. For last night.”
I blink in surprise. Of everything I expected him to say, an apology never even made the list.
Emerson is looking down at the ripples in the surf, but when he finally drags his gaze up to meet mine, the expression on his face is full of regret. He means it.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t.” Emerson gives a bitter laugh. “You were right, I was a total fucking jerk. I…don’t know what to tell you,” he shrugs. “I guess, it was seeing you again. I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s fine!” I say again, stronger this time. “Really, don’t think twice about it. I know I haven’t!”
My voice sounds bright and fake to me, but I paste on a careless grin, like I really didn’t mind him being such a jackass. What else am I supposed to do: tell him that I cried all the way home, hating that he could look at me with such hollow disappointment in his eyes?
Emerson nods slowly. “OK, then.”
There’s another pause, long and drawn out and filled with everything I can’t say.
How did we get to this place? I wonder, my heart aching as I watch him turn back to the beach for a moment to check on Eastwood. We used to talk for hours, overflowing with words. I could tell him things I’d never admitted to anyone, about my fucked up family, my hopes and dreams and darkest secrets. We were closer than I ever thought possible, like we shared a single soul, and now, to have it come to this? Emerson is standing right next to me but the look in his eyes is so far away.
It’s tragic.
But who am I kidding? I tell myself harshly. I know how we got here.
I got us here. I’m as much to blame as anyone.
I can’t take it anymore. This is as bad as last night, only instead of shock and anger and desire undoing me, now, it’s simple distance.
“I should…” I gesture vaguely towards the shore, not able to take this heartbreaking awkwardness for a moment longer.
“Oh.” I could swear I see disappointment flicker across Emerson’s face, but I must be imagining it. “Right,” he says, “you’ve probably got a lot to do. With the house.”
“Right,” I echo, feeling an ache in my chest so hard I have to remind myself to breathe.
I walk slowly back onto the sand. Emerson falls into step beside me, an arm’s length away. Even though we’re not touching—not even close—I still feel his presence beside me: the familiar confident saunter, the way his tall, broad body dwarves mine. I have to clutch my camera with both hands to make sure I don’t reach out to catch his fingers in mine, like we always used to do.
But the worst part, I realize suddenly, is that however awkward and painful and miserable these last few minutes with him have been, I can’t bear for them to end. It’s fucked up, I know, but being around Emerson, however painful, is better than not being with him at all. Never being around him again.
I search my brain for something to say, trying to drag out this moment.
“How’s Brit?” I ask quickly. His younger sister was always a source of drama when I saw him last. Barely in her teens, she was already running around with boys and staying out all night, her skirts hiked up and shirts unbuttoned low. “She must be, what, nineteen now?”
“Yup.” Emerson nods. “I got her through high school, barely,” he adds. “She waitresses at the bar some nights. I’m trying to talk to her about fashion school, so she can do something with her designs, but…you know Brit.” His voice is wry, but full of affection, and I’m reminded all over again of the side to Emerson he doesn’t let the rest of the world see: the big brother, single-handedly trying to raise two younger siblings, while his mom fell in and out of addiction and bad relationships.
“And Ray Jay?” I have to ask, but I brace myself for the reply all the same. Emerson’s brother was trouble, plain and simple. The teenager I’d known was full of anger and wild, reckless rage. Emerson had been doing his best to keep him in line, but Ray Jay hated him almost as much as he hated being stuck in a small town.
“He’s not my problem anymore.” Emerson’s voice is casual, like he’s joking, but I hear the twist under his nonchalance. “Kid skipped town the day he turned eighteen. Last I heard, he was out in Tallahassee, doing God knows what.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He shrugs. “I don’t really blame him. I mean, I wanted to get the fuck out of town when I was his age, too.”
“But you didn’t,” I say softly, thinking of all his sacrifice and selfless responsibility. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to.” Emerson’s voice twists. I think of his mom, and dad too, everyone who’s walked away from him. And me.
My heart catches. Is he talking about me?
I left, four long years ago. I was the one who got the fuck out of town then, and left Emerson here alone. Sure, he was the one who told me to go, but I could have fought him harder, I could have made him see. I let him push me away, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since. I felt like my heart was shattered into a million tiny pieces walking away, but I realize now for the first time, he must have felt it too, watching me go.
I feel sadness and regret course through me, a familiar empty ache I hoped would fade in time. The sharp pull of emotion; the sting in the back of my throat.
I quickly lift my camera and snap off a few more photos of the dog, which is careening wildly across the sand. The camera hides my face for a minute, and I use the escape to take a few quick breaths, desperately using every ounce of self-control to pull myself back together.
You can do this, I remind myself. This is nothing. You’ve kept it together through worse. God, so much worse.
<
br /> The reality check works. When I finally lower the camera again—composed—I find Emerson watching me with a crooked half-grin on his beautiful face.
“Still taking photos,” he smiles. “You must be done with art school now.”
“Oh.” I stop. “I didn’t go in the end… I mean, I went to college,” I add, self-conscious, “but not for that. I haven’t picked this thing up in years.”
“You quit?!” Emerson exclaims harshly.
I step back, shocked at the angry look on his face. “No, I just, had school, and…stuff.” I explain, feebly. “There wasn’t time for hobbies.”
Especially ones that remind me of him.
“I can’t believe this.” Emerson stares at me in disbelief. “You were talking about art schools and your portfolio. And you just let it all go to waste?”
“I was busy!” I protest loudly, bridling at the accusation in his tone. Why is he looking at me like I failed him? My breath comes fast as I feel the heat of anger rise in my chest. “I double-majored in finance and accounting.” I tell him loudly. “I had real, important things on my plate.”
“Bullshit,” Emerson’s voice is loud. His eyes flash dark and angry at me, face set in a scowl. “Photography was your passion! You loved it.”
I loved you.
I shake off the haunting whisper. What gives him the right to judge me for this?
“So what was I supposed to do?” I challenge him. My arms are folded angrily across my chest, and I hear my voice rising, but I can’t calm down now. “Go off to art school, and then what, spend my life living paycheck to paycheck, trying to struggle through as an artist?” I shake my head, furious. “I made an investment in my future. Accountancy is one of the fastest-growing sectors of the financial market,” I insist. “There will always be jobs going. It’s a safe choice.”
“And photography was a risk?” Emerson demands back.
“Yes!” I cry. I can feel my skin blushing red with anger, but I won’t back down. “Art school would have been a stupid, reckless choice. I would have regretted it for the rest of my life!”
My voice echoes on the windswept beach.
Emerson takes a ragged gasp of air and flinches back. He looks like I’ve slapped him.
Suddenly, I realize. We’re not talking about my college choice anymore.
“Emerson…” I start, but then my voice fades. What am I supposed to say?
“Don’t.” He cuts me off roughly. “I get it. It’s good to know, you made the right choice.”
No! I want to cry out. That’s not what I meant!
But Emerson is glowering at me, his chest rising and falling quickly with his barely-contained temper. I stare back, and for a moment, we’re frozen there, neither of us willing to back down.
Finally, Emerson exhales. “So much for civil,” he mutters, almost to himself.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
He gives me a wry shrug. “I told myself, I’d at least try to be civil to you.”
Civil.
His words send a fresh ripple of pain through me as I realize the bleak truth behind his words. If that’s the best he can hope for—if he has to force himself to even say a polite word to me—then this is so much worse than I ever imagined.
“I have to go!” I blurt, lurching away from him. I stumble in the sand and nearly fall. Emerson puts his hand out to steady me, reaching for my arm.
I freeze, feeling heat course through me from the contact of his hand on my bare skin. I look up, helpless, into his eyes. Emerson gazes back. Something ricochets between us, that undeniable flood of desire and longing and memories of his skin, hot and damp against mine…
I pull back like I’ve been burned.
“Bye,” I tell him quickly, before I come undone right in front of him. “Take care of yourself,” I add, and my voice comes out so clipped and distant, I sound like a stranger.
Emerson blinks. “Uh, sure. You too.”
I don’t stick around to humiliate myself any longer. I take off, scrambling back up the dunes as fast as my legs will carry me. My thighs burn as I clamber up the sand, but I don’t stop, even for a second. I know this is the last time I’ll ever see him, but force myself not to turn back for one more look. Not that I need to: I have the image of him burned onto my brain now, more permanent than any photograph. Face set with disappointment, harsh and angry to know what I’ve made of myself.
His judgment stings, and I feel my protests rise up in me, all the drive home. I didn’t quit anything! I made the right call, I reassure myself. I had to. I picked myself up after his cruel rejection, and did what I could to mend my broken heart. The life I’ve chosen is solid, and real—not some flighty dream of art school, and God knows whatever would come after. After everything I’ve been through, I couldn’t face the insecurity that comes from that kind of life: living paycheck to paycheck, never knowing what’s around the corner. I’d had enough poverty and instability to last a lifetime—enough grief, from the tragic curveballs the world could fling my way.
I was done with reckless, I wanted safe and sure and true.
Emerson made sure of that.
Chapter Four
By the time I reach the beach house, a storm of emotions are whirling through me. Pain over Emerson’s anger, defensiveness at the way he judged me, and a fresh wave of regret over everything else I lost that summer.
Part of me wishes I never came back to Beachwood at all. I remember my stupid confidence on the drive out, so sure I could make it through without even seeing Emerson, let alone falling into a hundred shattered pieces with just one look, one touch… Now look at me, fleeing the scene of our meeting like I’m running for my life. If only my feelings could be packed away as easily as the house: wrapped up in tissue and plastic bubble wrap, and stacked neatly in a box. No messy breakdowns, or treacherous longing, tugging at my heart every time I look at him. I could throw the lot in storage, bolt the door, and never have to think about him ever again.
I drag my thoughts out of the dark past and turn down the drive. There’s another car parked up by the house: a battered yellow VW Beetle, with fluffy dice and dream-catchers hanging from the rearview mirror.
Right away, my heart lifts. I shove the Camaro into park and leap out of the car, racing across the lawn to where the person I need most in the world right now is waiting on the porch.
“Lacey!”
I hurl myself into my best friend’s arms and hug her tight. Relief sweeps through me. For the second time today, I have to swallow back tears, but this time, they’re tears of gladness.
“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I say, still hugging her.
“Mneugh! Boobs! Crushed!” Lacey manages, against my neck.
I release her, grinning. “Sorry, I just missed you so much!”
“You’ve been gone, like, two days!” Lacey points out. Her choppy blonde hair is pushed back with a pair of oversized shades, and she’s wearing an oversized guy’s shirt over a red bikini that matches her smear of bright lip gloss. Bright, bold, brash—that’s Lacey.
“But what are you doing here?” I ask, the surprise wearing off. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“You need me,” Lacey announces. “To deal with all this ex shit.”
How does she know? I haven’t even told her about last night with Emerson, or what just happened this morning.
I bite my lip. “I said I was fine.”
Lacey rolls her wide blue eyes. “Yeah, with like five exclamation points. If that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.”
I pause for another moment, still tense, but then I relax and laugh. Only Lacey could read between the lines like that. She can always see through my bullshit. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I decide.
“Me too.” Lacey leans in the open window of the Bug and lifts out a brown paper bag. I can hear the clink of glass inside and see the top of a bag of chips peeking out the top. Cool Ranch, our go-to comfort snacking. “And
I came prepared. Come on, you’re going to tell me everything!”
A few hours, three beers, and two bags of Cool Ranch Doritos later, and I’ve just about caught Lacey up on everything that’s happened over the last forty-eight hours.
“Shit,” Lacey says at the end of it all. We’re sprawled out in the remains of the living room, surrounded by junk food wrappers and empty bottles.
I turn my head and look over from where I’m lying down on the floor in front of the couch. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” I ask. “I tell you the great and epic tale of how I went from fine to a total fucking mess in like, a day flat, and the best you’ve got to offer is, ‘shit’? Aren’t you the English major?”
“Hey!” Lacey hurls a pillow at my head. “Give me a minute to process here.”
I wait, scavenging crumbs from the bottom of the chip bag. The beer has sent a pleasant buzz through my body, and with Lacey around, I’m beginning to feel more like myself, and less like the whirlwind of pure emotion I was earlier at the beach.
Finally, Lacey sits up. She waves her bottle dramatically. “Now I’ve had time to think about it, I’m ready to share my thoughts on your weird and messed up life.”
I beat out a drumroll on the bare floorboards.
“What I have to say to you is this,” she continues. “Motherfucker.”
I blink.
“Mother fucker,” Lacey says again, drawing out each syllable.
I collapse into giggles.
“What? It’s true. He breaks your heart into a million fucking pieces, and then has the nerve to judge you for your choices? Asshole.” Lacey takes a long gulp of beer, and then gives a burp.
“Real classy,” I joke, to distract myself from the other things she said.
“That’s me, babe!” She winks. Then her smile softens. “Honestly, hon, I don’t know what to say. How do you feel about it?”
“I told you…” I trail off, uncomfortable at the question.
“Ah, but you haven’t.” Lacey points her bottle at me. “You’ve said what happened, and what he said, and what you said. But you still haven’t actually told me about how all of this is making you feel.”