by Cassie Mae
I settle back against him and speak to his bellybutton. “But still say it for me.”
“Esekielu.”
“Bless you,” I say with a laugh. He reaches for my side and gives it a tickle. Oh, he knows not to start a tickle war with me, because he will lose.
“’Kay, you dork, can you say it?”
“Ezekiel or something or other.”
“I guess that’s close enough.”
“I told you, I like Eric. I say Eric and I think you.”
His breathing sort of changes, switches to a faster tempo, or maybe that’s me. I have no clue. But his fingers trail up my arm and smooth my hair back, then he pulls the blanket around my shoulder.
“That’s why I like Emmy. It’s you.”
The screensaver on my computer goes completely black, and so does the room. It’s perfect for sleeping now, and I thank the techno gods for the timing, because my smile is rivaling an emoticon with a capital D, and I’m glad Eric can’t see it because he’d totally call me out.
His breathing evens before mine, and before he completely drifts off, I open my mouth.
“Hey, Eric?”
“Hmm?”
I squeeze his middle and get another jolt at how much smaller it is.
“I really missed you, too.”
* * *
It’s still dark as I slowly wake from the freaky dream I’m having. It takes me a few blinks to adjust, and a couple of calming breaths to relax. The window is open, and the sound of the ocean filters in. I glare at the nightmare-causing noise before stretching my body out and tiptoeing to the window and sliding the glass down. Ah . . . so much better. No more dreams of sharks and squid large enough to eat me whole.
In the ten seconds it took for me to shut the noise out, Eric has slumped over on the bed and sprawled out, leaving me about five inches of space. I’m tempted to leap on his back and sleep on him like that, but after watching his mouth slightly part as he goes from sort of asleep to completely zonked out, I decide against it. I’m used to running on minimum sleep anyway.
I click my computer on and put in my password, then grab a blanket from the floor to wrap around my shoulders. My TweetDeck is always the first thing up, then my email, then my other email, then Skype pops up, too. Oh, I should call Eve today and see how she’s doing. I quickly send her an IM to schedule a Skype date, then I scroll through my feeds to see what I missed in the past six hours I’ve been offline.
Kristin, Alex, Amy, Lindsey, and Karrie all left me messages about a party this weekend on the coast. It starts right after my shift at SnoGo, so I type in a collective Hell, yes! and search for Rachel in the search bar and request her friendship so I can invite her, too. Then I tab over to my email and start spamming the junk and deleting all the Twitter and Facebook messages.
About halfway down, I see another email from Scott. “Damn it,” I whisper to myself as I open it up. I keep forgetting to respond to this guy. Another guy’s been too distracting for me to remember.
Mia,
I’m persistent. Remember . . . that’s what you like about me. ;) This won’t be the last you hear from me, and I’m gonna keep bugging the hell out of you till you respond—even if it’s just a “Piss off.”
So, before you do tell me to leave you alone, gotta tell you I still love you. I know you don’t want to hear excuses about why I did what I did so I won’t give them to you. But I’ll always tell you I love you because it’s the truth. And as you know, I don’t keep secrets from you. Telling you the truth wasn’t what got me into this damn mess, it was what I did, but not lying to you about it has got to count for something, right?
Maybe I should delete that last paragraph. But I won’t, because it was honest and it has the words “I love you” in it. I can’t delete that.
Trust me, I’ve tried . . .
Preparing myself for the “Go screw yourself” email you’ll probably send back.
—Scott
I smack the reply button immediately. Not going to put this off any longer. Eric flips over on his other side, mumbling something that sounds like “Damn, you’re hot” to the wall, and I have to stifle the urge to talk back to him because he’s already distracted me enough.
Scott,
Sorry, but you have the wrong email.
I don’t sign it because that would probably confuse him, and I don’t want to explain how there are a million Emilia Johnsons in the world. The email seems a little lackluster, and I wish I could write a bunch of good lucks and things like that, but maybe simplicity is best.
“Uhnnnn,” Eric groans from the bed, twisting in the sheets. His shirt is tugging up at the waist, and I wish it was brighter in here so I could see everything that’s showing. “Forget all that stuff. This feels awesome.”
I shake with silent laughter as I listen to him. When Paul first started sleeping over with Eve, I got a rude awakening about sleep-talkers. It used to drive me crazy, but Eve says people who sleep-talk say things they wouldn’t normally say when they’re awake. It’s like a way to get out their feelings or whatever so they’re not stressed the next day. And even though I think Eve just wanted to sound smart, I’m curious to hear what Eric’s unconscious mind wants to say that his conscious mind won’t let him. I bet under all his teasing he’s got a deep and profound soul.
“Ugh, gotta wash the sand from my crack,” Eric mumbles to the wall again, and I clamp my lips tight so a giant laugh doesn’t shoot from my mouth. But that just makes me snort.
“Eric?” I whisper, but he doesn’t move. His neck looks like it’s twisted in a screwed-up position, and I wonder how he can sleep like that. But he mumbles another incoherency, and I push in my earbuds so I can concentrate on emails.
I raise my eyebrows when I see that Scott’s replied to me.
Mia, I know I hurt you. Don’t try to shove me off. Please?
—Scott
Huh, I thought he’d just go on his merry way, but okay . . . This may take more convincing than I thought.
Scott,
You know, maybe I shouldn’t respond at all. The whole reason I did in the first place was so he could find the right Mia and make her fall in love with him again. How sad would it be if that’s a possibility, and it doesn’t happen because I didn’t want to deal with it? Ugh, this would be so much easier if I had an ounce of real romantic experience of my own. I’ve had two boyfriends, and a few make-out sessions—who hasn’t—but romance? All my relationships were dysfunctional to the millionth degree, in hindsight, anyway.
Really, I’m not the right Mia.
Okay . . . keep going. Think of something that will sound like I’m not dumping him, and don’t give away my entire life story either, because holy crap, what if he is a creeper? I can’t go into my looks, because what if his Mia has brown hair, too? And brown eyes and a nice C-cup and an outtie belly button? I’m actually pretty general looking. Nothing major that makes me stand out. Except for that scar on my butt cheek.
I hit delete and start over.
Scott, I wish I was this girl you’re in love with, but I promise, I’m not. It sounds like you had a very real relationship, and I want you to find her so you can make things right, but I’m not her.
Good luck.
Emilia Johnson (the other one)
I hope that does the trick. I hit send before I can think about it too hard. My earbud pops out of my ear, and I shove it back in, having completely forgotten to actually start music when I put them in. I hit shuffle on playlist four, my love-song mix.
A little 1 pops up at the top of my email tab, and I click over to another Scott message.
I know we’re both different people now, but I still love you. Please give me a chance to make it up to you. I’ll beg and plead and grovel. Hell, I’ll serenade you with One Direction if that’s what you want. The fact you’re responding at all has me grinning like a damn fool over here. But can we not pretend for a minute? No jokes. I want to be real with you.
How. Freaking
. Sweet! Now that is romance. Too bad he’s wasting it on the wrong person, but he can always copy and paste it when he finds the right Emilia.
I need to set aside my mother-bird nature and give this guy a forceful dose of reality.
Tightening my ponytail, I set my jaw and pull out the tough love.
Seriously . . .
I’M NOT EMILIA JOHNSON. I am, but not the one you’re looking for. There has to be a million Mia Johnsons in the world. You fell in love with one, screwed it up, and want to win her back. The only reason I’m even responding and not just deleting your message is because I want you to find her. I’m not talking metaphorically here. I am a completely different girl. I’m not going to give you a life story, but I’ve never been in love with a Scott. Never even met a Scott. Never had my boyfriend knock some dude out at a concert. And if you serenade me with One Direction I’ll duct tape your mouth shut.
Check the spelling on the email address. Could be a dot and not an underscore, maybe. Or maybe she spells Johnson with an “e.” And I hope you find her and make her come running back to you with these love emails. Trust me, you’re good at them.
It’s weird. I know he’s online still because he’s responding so fast, and once I hit send, I wait and then refresh the page. He may not even write back, but I sort of want him to. My tummy twists a little thinking about it.
After refresh eleven, a new email sits at the top of my inbox.
Are you serious? Because shit, shit, shit. I think I just embarrassed the hell out of myself.
I know I’m a media socialite. On Facebook and Twitter I chat my face off with people I haven’t talked to for years. I check my email once or twice an hour even just to hear I’ve got a million-dollar inheritance somewhere in a country I’ve never heard of from a guy named Muhammad.
So chatting for two hours in the middle of the night with some dude who just happened to use the wrong email should not feel weird . . .
But it kind of does.
Maybe my addiction to social media has hit a new level. Maybe it’s because he’s making me smile and laugh with all the stories he’s telling me. The words just keep coming, and I keep hitting refresh like I can’t wait to see what he’s going to send back.
At least he’s not thinking I’m his ex anymore. And this back and forth will probably only happen once, like two people who share the ferry to Key West. You talk about your lives, laugh for a bit, then go your separate ways when the boat docks.
I’m just waiting for the boat to dock.
Another email pops in.
One time Mia went to the restroom at Six Flags and I was holding her purse for her, and some dude came up and pinched my ass. He called me Dean and said I’d been working out, but when I turned around his face went, “Oh shit.” It was freaking hilarious.
That is hilarious. I’m giggling as I type back.
Did you at least thank him for the compliment?
Hells yeah. Mia came out and they made me extra uncomfortable talking about my butt muscles.
I start giggling again, and a light tap on the wall takes me from Internet land. “What are you laughing at?”
Tilting the screen down, I shake my head at Eric stretching on the bed. “Nothing. Stupid stuff.”
His eyebrow pulls up. “Your face is red.”
My hands shoot to my cheeks. “It is not.”
“Yeah it is. Is Emmy looking at porn?”
I wrinkle my nose. “If I was looking at porn, I’d invite you over to watch it with me.”
He laughs and sits up. A hiss slips through his teeth as his fingers go right to his neck and rub back and forth. “Damn, I think I kinked my neck.”
“Well,” I say, quickly closing my browser and shutting the laptop down, “I owe you a massage, right?”
Even in the dark bluish light of the room, I can see his face turn red. “Nah . . . that’s okay. It was just a stupid bet.”
“Oh, come on, I went to school for this.” I crawl around him on the bed, and shove his ass onto the floor in front of me. “Take off your shirt.”
As he grumbles something about how he “really doesn’t need it,” I lean to my purse and pull out a bottle of lotion. It smells like vanilla cookies and makes me moan every time I pop the top. The sound rumbles from my lips when Eric carefully adjusts his shirt, still not tugging it over his head, but he uncovers his back. I roll my eyes and shove the material up, but he keeps it locked on his arms.
“Em, I don’t need it off all the way.”
“I’ve seen you without a shirt, Eric.” Well, I’ve seen the pictures in the living room.
“Not really,” he mumbles, and I ignore him, squirting a blob of lotion in my left palm, then rubbing my hands together so it’s warm.
“Relax,” I say, but his muscles contract, which is totally the opposite of relaxing. This should not be weird. We’ve known each other too long for it to be weird. And I’m going to prove it right here and now.
When my fingers hit Eric’s neck, he jumps a little bit, but he soon lets out a long groan and his head drops forward so much I have to yank him back to reach his neck.
“I told you I was good,” I say as I press a thumb along his shoulder and up to the back of his ear.
He chuckles, but it’s breathy and relaxed. I smile, knowing I’m making him feel good.
“I like being back in Florida.” Eric half moans a few minutes into the neck and shoulder massage.
“Is it the wet air? Or the massive snapping turtles?”
“Oh it’s definitely the bedpans I get to empty every day.” He shakes his head with a slight laugh, moving it more to the right so my fingers can rub out a spot he wants worked on. “Nah. You know it’s because you’re here.”
“Aww.” I run my hands to the front of his neck, over his bunched up shirt and give him a hug. “That was cute, buddy.”
He laughs again, reaching up to squeeze my arm. “I’m losing brain power, so things are just pouring out with no control.”
“No brain power is a good thing, yes?”
He grabs my hands and moves them back to his shoulder blades. “Very good. Please continue to power me down.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“Proud of it.” His voice lowers, and pretty soon he’s just grunting and groaning whenever I try to make conversation. I laugh every time an extra loud noise rumbles up his throat and out his barely opened mouth.
His skin feels tight, and I’m glad he’s not shying away from me anymore. The muscles along his neck loosen and twitch under my hands, and I can’t help but look at his back muscles. I wish I had the guts to lower my fingers and touch all over. But that would probably cross the invisible friendship line.
“Em . . . ,” he moans, and something pops a floating bubble in my stomach. My heart slams against my chest in a weird bu-bump-bump. “Gah . . . Em . . . what in the hell are you doing to me?”
What the hell is he doing to me? He’s got to stop that moaning, groaning, talking-husky business right now because . . . damn. I can’t help but close my eyes and start thinking of him saying those things while we’re doing something much different than this. My hands move an inch lower on his back. It’s tighter here—so knotted and stressed I drive the heels of my hands all up and down his spine. He gets louder, and I go lower, and lower, and lower . . .
“Uh . . . Em?”
My eyes snap open, and I jerk back on the bed, stuffing my hands under my butt. I’m innocent, I swear. That was just a massage.
Eric rolls his neck around before facing me, eyes wide, a forced smile on his face. “Thanks. I . . . uh . . . I think you got the kink out.”
I’m not breathing, so all I can say is a very small, “Good.”
He nods once, then with the speed of a 727, he’s off his butt and heading out the door, mumbling something about getting dressed, and he’ll be right back.
Holy freaking shit. I shake my hands out before smacking them over my eyes. Just because he was letting me touch
him does not give me permission to try to massage his ass. What came over me? He was just groaning . . . I mean, I moan when I get massaged.
Damn it, we’re friends.
I kept yelling that to myself in high school when he was dating Ali. I know that’s over, but I can’t just jump his bones the second he comes back to town. Who knows if he even wants that—wants me. He had plenty of opportunities when he lived here before, and he never took them.
Ugh, I’m freaking out and I don’t know why. It’s normal to be attracted to someone. I’ve been attracted to him for five years. I take a deep breath and try to relax.
Maybe I’ll stick to the book boys until I can figure all this crap out.
Chapter 6
Eric Matua commented on Emilia Johnson’s status
2 hours ago
What is a book boyfriend? o.O
3 people like this
***
“Come on,” I say into the phone. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be on it, but after twenty minutes of waiting, my heart rate has gone up so high I can feel it behind my eyes. My knees won’t stop bouncing, so I hoist myself off the couch and pace the room. Dr. Shuman got a new bookshelf since I was last here. It’s full of big, fat, boring-as-hell text books. I wonder if it’s to make him look more legit, because he always seemed to be the kind of guy who read zombie and horror stuff.
“Hello?” my brother, Tolani, finally answers. I try to breathe out in relief, but it gets stuck somewhere in my chest.
“Hey, man,” I stutter, and pinch my eyes shut. “D-did I wake you up?”
“I’m up,” he answers quickly. Sweat drips from my eyebrow, and I swipe it away. “You having another one?”
“I think so.” I know so, actually. And I’m pacing my therapist’s office panicking over the fact that I’m panicking and he’ll see it and send me straight to the nuthouse.
“All right, bro. Take a breath.”
My lungs seize up, and I shoot my gaze to the door, hoping Dr. Shuman doesn’t walk in right now.
“I—I can’t . . .”
“What’s your anchor?” he says, and I can hear his breath pick up, too. Damn it. My panic is triggering his. I cover the receiver so he doesn’t hear.