by P. Stormcrow
“Oh.”
“Here.” Emma slammed his drink in front of him.
The flower on his glass had fewer petals and looked a little wilted. But the gold flecks floated and winked at him. He dug out his wallet, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and slid it across the bar.
Emma snatched it up. “I’ll get you change,” she muttered, so low that he almost didn’t hear it.
“Keep it.”
Emma froze misstep. “Excuse me?” She spun to face him again.
“Keep it,” Elliot repeated. What part of that does she not understand?
“It’s too much,” Emma spluttered.
Any second now, she would stomp off and come back with change. Elliot could see it in her eyes. She never listened. So, he grabbed the glass and stalked off before she could.
On the way to search for a table, he held the cocktail to his lips to take a sip. It was refreshing, a little sweet with a slight burn. The image of a breeze through newly grown leaves blossomed in his mind. Emma knew how to make her drinks. Still, something scraped at his nerves. Was it Corey’s blatant interest in her? And why did he seem familiar? Elliot racked his brain, then shook his head. Why should I care?
Who was he kidding? Of course, he cared.
Bloody hell.
The sudden sense of someone with eyes on him pricked his skin, and he swept his gaze around until he glimpsed two women watching him while whispering to each other. Both had coiffured curls with glamorous makeup and mischievous smiles. A perfect way to pass the time.
She had had the same smile, the same curls that bobbed with every shake of her head. That sparkle in her eye… Those plump, inviting lips… Her face superimposed over the blonde one on the right and his heart sped up. They grew blurry.
Her hair no longer bounced with every move. Instead, they plastered against her face as sweat drenched her. She screamed again as the doctors yelled for her to push. So pale. Her knuckles grew white as her grip on his hand became punishing. They had given her an epidural. Why were they not giving her more?
Elliot tightened his grip around the tall glass, clutched his chest with the other hand and shook his head. His therapist had talked about this. Breath in. Breath out.
They were still eyeing him when his vision sharpened again and the panic receded. He held his drink up to them in greeting, downed the rest of its contents and flashed a cordial smile before he moved on.
Relief flooded Elliot’s system as he found a dark corner, a small booth next to the brick wall along the far side opposite to the bar. He sank onto the plush dark leather and set his drink on the small, round table. With a shaky hand, he smoothed his hair with one hand and closed his eyes. As he tried to will the memory away, another replaced it. Emma in her leather jacket and combat boots.
Fuck.
“Hi, can I get you another drink?”
Elliot snapped his eyes open. A perky server grinned at him, her lip ring glinting even in the dim light. He counted his fortunes. “What kind of Scotch do you have?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the bar. Even from a distance, Elliot could make out over a hundred bottles lined against the wall, reaching up to the high ceiling, completed with a rolling ladder. He had never seen anything like it in any bar before, even back in the UK.
It would take all day for her to list them all. “Something top shelf. Tell Em to pick for me.”
The server’s eyes widened. “You mean Emma?”
“Yeah.” Something was odd about her reaction.
“Sure.” She bent over to pick up the empty glass and straightened. She cast one lingering gaze at him and worried her ring before she leaned forward again. “Word of advice. Don’t call her Em.”
“Why?” Surprised, he shifted to sit closer to the edge of the bench in hope she would impart the reason.
The server shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s just very firm about not being called Em. Andy, that other bartender over there?” She half-turned and pointed at the tall one on the left end of the bar. At Elliot’s nod, she continued. “He’s a huge flirt. Did it once, and she told him off big time? Never seen Emma that pissed off before and never have again.”
Emma didn’t let anyone call her Em. He’d called her Em all the time when they were kids. The implications staggered him, and he fell back against the strip of cushions fixed to the wall.
“Need anything else?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he muttered, though he was no longer looking at her.
“I’ll get you something strong.” She chuckled and sauntered off.
He was still miles away, staring at the table while his mind replayed memory after memory of all the times Emma and he had spent together when the server returned with his drink. But the arrival was enough to pull him back to present day and set off a flurry of motion.
“Thanks.” He didn’t look up but pushed another bill along the table to settle the account, then dug into his jacket pocket to withdraw a small leather-bound notebook. Shortly after he’d started writing more seriously, he had developed the habit as he had found that his muse had no care for what time or day it was to bestow him ideas. He extracted a pen from another pocket, used his mouth to take off the cap and inserted it on the other end.
He wrote furiously, full prose rather than bullet point notes. The words flowed for the first time in months and he took full advantage. She was a senator. He was a fugitive, gifted. A disaster brought them together…
“Elliot.”
The voice that haunted some of his better dreams broke through his focus, and he snapped his head up to find Emma with her hands on her hips.
When she was certain she had his attention, she spoke again. “We’re closing. Go home.”
A quick look confirmed that the bar had emptied. Elliot straightened his left arm and brought his wrist up out of habit to study his Fossil watch. Three a.m. Where did the time go? At least Corey had already left.
“Elliot, go home.” This time, Emma’s words held a tinge of exasperation.
“What bus runs at this hour?”
She gaped at him. “You took the bus here?”
He pointed at the latest empty glass. He’d had the server keep them coming while he wrote. “I came here to drink. I’m not a fool, Emma.”
She looked as though she had something to say about that before she clamped her mouth shut and stalked off instead.
That would not do.
“Emma.” He shot up to his feet and only then did he glimpse the two other bartenders watching him with scrutiny.
“What?” she snapped, and half turned with another irritated glare.
“What bus?” He’d asked her a question and he expected an answer. Her habit of making him repeat himself was getting on his nerves.
Again, the angry expression on his face told him she wanted to bite his head off. But she let out a long exhale instead. “There aren’t any running this late that go up to the house. Wait here and I’ll take you when I’m done closing.”
Elliot sat back down and watched as she returned to work, but soon envy stabbed at him as he witnessed the easy camaraderie she had with the other staff. They worked as a well-oiled machine, with everyone doing their part and doing it well. When they all ducked into the back and re-emerged with their jackets and bags, Elliot stood as well.
“Hey, Emma, want to come celebrate? The guys over at the Frog are doing an after-hours thing,” the Asian bartender asked.
Emma shook her head. “Nah, I have to drive him home.” She gestured toward him but didn’t meet his eyes.
“You sure?” the server who had served him all night asked as she joined them and leaned against the big one. Andy. Right.
“Yeah. I shouldn’t leave Mom alone that much longer, anyway. The double shift is already pushing it.” The smile Emma gave them didn’t reach her eyes, and Elliot’s chest tightened.
“All right, babe.” The other bartender patted her back. “Call us if you change your mind later. Parties aren�
�t the same without you.”
The endearment made Elliot clench his jaw.
“Uh-huh, Graham. You just want me around to DD. I’m on to you.”
Graham. The pest had a name.
“You wound me.” Graham clutched his shirt, but he grinned. “Can’t a guy just enjoy the company of a lovely lady?”
Emma shoved him and laughed. “Save it for the girls at the Frog.”
“Okay, okay!” Graham chuckled and ruffled her hair.
“Hey!” Emma scrambled to fix it.
“Say hi to Mrs. J for us,” the server chimed in.
“Thanks, Beth.” Emma waved at them as they left.
Elliot’s mind churned, parsing through the exchange just now for additional information. He knew Anna was sick. One glance over dinner had told him that much, but he hadn’t figured out with what or how to ask. Before he could get the question right in his head, Emma approached him. “Come on.” She had cooled again, and the good humor that lay under the friendly banter had dissipated.
He drifted behind her as she led them down the street. Spring in Vancouver meant the night air still nipped at them. Emma drew her jacket closer to her.
“Cold?” He kept his voice just above a whisper. There was something sacred about the silence, despite being in the middle of the city.
“None of your business,” she shot back again.
He sighed, and a little puff of air danced in front of him before fading away.
They stopped in front of an old Beetle that had seen better days. Shocked, Elliot froze in his spot, even as Emma circled around to the driver side.
“What? Get in.” She unlocked the car and got in.
How the bloody hell was he going to cram into that thing?
Chapter Five
Dear Elliot,
You were my first love, the hero in my childhood stories. It was a stupid little crush. But what was I to you back then? Was I the annoying little brat who liked to follow you around when you visited? Or did I mean more? If I did, why did you stop taking my calls, returning my texts?
I thought I had come to terms with never getting any answers, but you being here has dredged it all back up. And I don’t know how to put these ghosts to rest again.
I wish I did.
With love,
Emma
It was rather amusing watching Elliot stuff his legs into the small carriage of the car. But her humor faded as he sat there with a scowl on his face.
Served him right. She started the car, set up her music, pulled out and began the drive home.
All You Need Is Love by the Beatles came up on her playlist and, with a growl, Emma switched the player off. The quiet that replaced it was loud and oppressive, and after a few seconds, she summoned enough courage to ask, “How did you know where I worked?”
“I asked your mom.”
A straight answer at last. “Why?” And if he answered that he wanted a drink again, he could walk home. She readied herself to pull over.
“I wanted to see where you worked.”
Oh. Why does he even care? So far, he had shown zero interest in her. No, no, she had moved on already.
“Some people would call that stalking.” Emma bit her lower lip. It had been a good night except for that one incident with Mr. Tiny Tim, as she had called him in her head. Plenty of laughs. Plenty of tips. So how did Elliot put her in such a foul mood within minutes?
“Others would call it visiting a friend.”
Emma rolled her eyes as strips of light passed over them. She always drove with music. Without it, the dark was unnerving. “Is that what we are?” Emma couldn’t keep the irony from her voice.
“We were once.”
Why did you stop then? Emma found she didn’t quite have the courage to ask that question, so she changed tracks. “Don’t do it again.”
“Do what?”
Surely, he wasn’t that dense. The Elliot she remembered was clever, imaginative and sensitive. With a growl, she pulled over, pulled on the brakes and turned to face him as much as her seat belt allowed. “Don’t come to my work again. If you want to visit a bar, go somewhere else. I’ll write you a list. You can call an Uber or Lyft or even a cab.”
“Em…Emma,” Elliot started.
It was the first time he’d said her name in years. Emma caught the slip and held her breath as he corrected himself. She almost told him ‘Em’ was fine. She hadn’t known just how much she missed hearing it from him. Then she chided herself for such weakness.
Elliot turned to meet her eyes with a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and she found herself caught in those mesmerizing emerald chips that shone even in the dark. As a young girl, she had found him cute with his lanky body and serious face. This was someone else in front of her, a man who knew how to use his good looks to his advantage.
Deadly.
A flush crept up her cheeks and she caught her lower lip again, worrying it between her teeth.
Elliot reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. His touch left fire in its wake.
Too dangerous.
Emma sat back in her driver’s seat in haste, adjusted her seatbelt, released the handbrake and pulled back out into the street. Her mind blanked for a good thirty seconds before she remembered the point she was trying to bring up.
Damn it, Em. Don’t let him get you all flustered.
“No more. Do you understand?” she stated with as firm a tone as she could muster.
“All right.”
She jerked her head toward him in surprise before snapping her eyes back on to the road. No fight? No protest? It shocked her to silence.
But the lapse in conversation didn’t last long.
“What’s wrong with Anna?”
Since when did he call her mother by her first name? But that mattered less than the question itself. He needed to know too, in case… Emma sniffed as tears welled in her eyes at the thought.
“Ovarian cancer,” she answered, her voice a little scratchy. She pretended to cough to clear her throat. “Surgery is on the eighteenth, but they started her on chemo a while back.” Why was it so hard every time she had to talk about it?
“How bad?”
“High grade,” she answered. “It’s pretty aggressive. The surgery should be sooner, but Mom…” Emma stopped herself as her voice almost broke.
“I’ll be here.”
What? “Don’t you have school?” Spring Break would be over by then for most schools. Hers had been most understanding, given the circumstances, but Elliot’s—
“No, I finished a while back.”
Emma stole a glance at Elliot and sucked in her breath. The way his face had darkened, how his body hunched in more than even the car demanded, told her she wasn’t ready to discover the reason behind his demeanor. What happened to you, El?
She should change the subject, but she found she had nothing for him. Luckily, with the lack of traffic this time at night, they arrived home soon enough.
As they stepped inside the house, a familiar scent wafted up to her. Cookies. She chucked her boots off and hurried to the kitchen. Had her mom regained some of her energy somehow?
There they sat on the cooling rack, pale golden yellow in rough circles, row by row.
Elliot walked past her and moved to a cabinet. He reached up and brought down the large cookie jar.
“What are you doing?” Emma stammered in surprise.
He paused and gave her a strange look. “Putting the cookies away.”
Realization hit her. “Did you make those?”
Elliot shook his head, chuckled, a self-depreciating sound that made Emma wish she could hear his real laugh. “More like your mom told me what to do, and I did it. We worked on them after dinner.” He dropped the cookies in one by one. “She wouldn’t let me until I told her I needed to learn for when I go back home.”
The enormity of what Elliot had done almost overwhelmed Emma. He had not only convinced her overly independent mother to
let him help but had also made it appear as though she were doing him a favor.
Emma swallowed her pride and crossed the small distance to stand next to him, removing the rack as he finished placing them in the jar and pushing the second one over. “Thank you.”
There was a pause, but when Elliot spoke again, his tone was a fraction warmer. “You’re welcome.”
* * * *
Elliot stared at his room. Already crumpled paper balls had begun gathering in one corner, the start of an inevitable mountain so like the one at home back in the UK. But he ignored them as he switched on the lamp and sat at his writing desk, complete with little drawers that his parents had installed when they’d discovered his love of stories. He dug out his notebook and began pouring over the notes he’d made.
A fresh sheet of paper lay before him. His body thrummed with excitement as the voices in his head clambered for attention. He hadn’t felt this strong an urge to write in a long time, and as soon as he set the pen to the paper, the words flowed with little effort.
By the time his body started to cramp, daylight was streaming through the large French doors, which opened to the small balcony that most rooms on the second floor had. Elliot groaned as he rose from his chair and cracked his neck one way then another. Below him, a low hum of conversation flowed.
Elliot didn’t bother with a shirt and instead shuffled downstairs in his sweatpants, barefooted. He followed the voices until he stopped in the kitchen doorway in shock, although he wasn’t sure if it was from seeing her up so early or from just seeing her.
Emma sat with her mother at the little table, drinking from large mugs far different from the previous night. She sported no makeup and wore a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with her curls tied up in a messy bun. She laughed at something Anna said, and Elliot thought his heart would stop at the sight of it.
His friends at home always teased him for being melodramatic. He chalked it up to being a writer, an artist.
“Good morning, Elliot.” Anna smiled as she turned toward him, and Emma followed her gaze.
“Morning, Anna.” Elliot made his way to them and bent to kiss the top of Anna’s head. She reached around and patted his back, her smile widening.