by Teresa Hill
"Emma, what is it?" He sounded more weary than he had in his jail cell.
"I just wanted you to know I'm leaving," she said, holding her head high.
He stepped back and let her inside. "Back to Chicago?"
"No. I can't do that," she admitted, looking around the place. It was tiny, clean but dingy, drab, colorless. She supposed it was better than a cell, but she hated the idea of him living like this. Not that her opinion mattered to him. And she had things to say to him. "Mark lives two hours from there. His parents told Sam he's skipping spring semester at least and may never go back, but I can't go, either. I guess I am a coward. But... It all started there, and it's a long way from home."
"You're not a coward." His poker face was gone for a moment, and he looked worried. "And you don't have to go back there. You don't have to do anything right now."
"Yes, I do." He hadn't asked her to sit down or even offered to take her coat. Fine. They could do it this way, get it over with. She really only came to talk. "I'm transferring to UC."
"Where?"
"The University of Cincinnati. I almost went there in the first place, but I got this idea in my head that I wanted to be on my own and farther away.... Chicago sounded so big and so different." What a mistake that had turned out to be. "They still had my transcripts, test scores, application, all that, which made things easier. Some of the freshmen have already dropped out, so they have space. Sam and I talked to the dean of admissions this morning. He gave him an edited version of what happened, and they've accepted me for the spring semester. Classes start in ten days."
"Sure you're ready for that?"
"No, but I'm going to do it." She managed to smile then. Life went on, didn't it? "It's close enough that, if I need to, I can be here in an hour. But it's still school. I can still be on my own. And I want to go. I won't let myself stay here and be scared for the rest of my life."
"Anybody who'd been through what you have would be scared," Rye said.
For a minute, she thought he did really care about her. Of course, that's what she wanted to think. "Besides," she said. "You and Sam... I know you've been staying away, and I know why. I'm sorry I made you feel like... That I made you uncomfortable."
"Emma, it's not that," he lied.
"Yes, it is. You came here to find Sam, and everything that happened afterward just messed that up, and I feel bad about that."
"It's not—"
"I know. Not my fault." She even managed to smile. "Everybody's said that. I'm working on believing it. But things are going to be awkward for a while, and I don't want to be the one standing between you and Sam."
"There's a lot more than you standing between me and Sam."
"Well, then I want to be one less thing."
Rye pushed an impatient hand through his hair and looked ready to argue. "I think you need them right now, Emma. They're your family. Much more yours than mine, and I'm just fine on my own."
"This is my time to be on my own. To head off into the world. My family's not going anywhere. I know that. I can always come back. This is your turn to become a part of them."
"No. Don't do this for me," he insisted.
"I'm doing it for me, and I'm doing it because I love—"
"Emma—"
"I love Sam." She rushed on. He'd looked so pained when he thought she was going to blurt out the fact that she loved him, but this was the truth of it. "I love Sam, and I know what it means to him to have you here now. Get to know them all. Learn to trust them. You promised you'd give Sam a chance."
"I know."
"So." She took a breath. There it was. She'd done it, and she hadn't even cried. But she had to get out of here. Now. "I really have to go. Classes start on the seventh. I have a million things to do. So, I guess I'll see you around. Easter dinner or the Fourth of July... Any of those major holidays."
They'd be surrounded by dozens of relatives. He'd stay on one side of the room, and she could stay on the other. They'd get through it just fine.
Emma walked back to the door and stood awkwardly in front of it, forcing herself to smile at him. "Go see Sam one day soon, okay?"
"I will." He hesitated then, looking torn. "Emma, I'm sorry."
"Me, too."
And then she turned and fled.
* * *
Someone came banging on his door an hour later. He promised himself that if it was Emma, he just wouldn't open the damned door. He'd had three beers, and it was no telling what he'd say to her if he did.
But it wasn't Emma.
Looking through the peephole, he saw his brother. He pulled open the door and frowned. "What is it now?"
"What the hell did you do to her?" Sam asked, looking ready to strangle someone.
"What do you mean, what did I do?" Rye asked. He was sick of this. He'd tried so hard to do the right thing, and it just felt like shit.
"I mean, when Emma came home, she'd been crying. I took a wild guess that she'd been here. Every time I've seen her miserable lately, it's because she's been talking to you."
"I did what you wanted me to do. I told her Christmas day that she was a sweet kid who had a lot of growing up to do."
"Shit," Sam said.
"You said to make it clear. I made it clear."
"So what the hell happened today?"
"She came to tell me she's going away, giving you and me some time to get to know each other." What a crock, like he and Sam wanted time together.
"She swore she wanted to go to school," Sam said.
"She said that, too. Scared or not, she's going."
"Dammit, I knew she was scared. She's hardly left the house until yesterday."
"Yeah, well she's not going to let something like being scared stop her."
And then they just glared at each other, Rye thinking he just had to come back here and find his brother. What a good idea that had turned out to be.
"I did my damnedest not to hurt her," he said. "When that didn't work, I did what you asked me to do. But I hope to hell you know what you're doing."
"I think I know a little more about her than you do."
But she was special, Rye thought.
Sweet and strong, and dammit, he needed her.
He couldn't even admit to himself how much he needed her.
"Oh, hell, she's eighteen," Sam said. "She'll get over you. She's going to college, and she's so smart. She could do anything she wants with her life."
"Good for her," Rye said. She could certainly do a lot better than him. "I just... It's hard as hell seeing her like this."
Sam took a moment and really looked at him. Rye grew more uncomfortable every moment, until he had to look away.
"You really care about her?" Sam asked.
"How could anybody not care about her?" he roared. "Yeah, I care. But you told me to stay the hell away, and I will."
He wondered if he'd said too much, if Sam was really going to go nuts on him now. It took his breath away, thinking about what he'd just revealed. It was impossible. So what if she was the sweetest thing life had ever dangled in front of him? He couldn't have her.
Sam looked confused, then wary, then like he just didn't want to know, like he was afraid to ask. Good. Rye sure as hell didn't want to talk about it.
"She never really got to be young," Sam said finally. "To have time when she didn't have to take care of anybody but herself. To relax, have fun, figure out what she wants from life. You and I never had that, but I want her to."
"So do I," Rye said. She could have anything she wanted, as long as it made her happy.
"It's college. Three-and-a-half years. She doesn't need to fall in love with anybody, to even think about finding someone to spend her life with. Her whole life is just beginning."
"I know." Rye glared right back at his brother.
Sam put his hands on his hips, his gaze locked on Rye's. "Are you trying to tell me that you honestly think you're in love with her?"
"No." No way Rye was saying anything
like that. But tension was tying his gut into knots, panic spreading through him at the thought of her hating him for this, at the idea that shoving her away like this might not be the right thing.
How could it not be the right thing? She was eighteen.
"You said you'd take good care of her," Rye reminded Sam as he was leaving a few moments later.
"I will," Sam promised.
"And she'd better be happy."
If not, he was coming after Sam.
Chapter 15
Rye settled in easier than he would have expected in Baxter, Ohio. It was a nice little town. Quiet. Friendly, even to ex-cons like him. There was more work than he could do. Sam kept throwing jobs his way, which made him uncomfortable at first. He turned down more than he accepted, and then he just gave up and did those jobs, too.
Work helped. It helped him get so tired, he could almost forget everything. His past. What there was to his present and whatever might come to him in the future.
There were women who were happy to go out with him, and he went with one after another, telling himself he did not miss Emma at all.
He didn't let himself ask Sam about her, not wanting to see the look his brother would give him. But Rachel must have known how badly he wanted to hear about her, because she didn't make him ask. She volunteered the information. He'd started going to their house for dinner every now and then just so he could hear about Emma. Her grades were great, as always.
She'd moved into the dorm. Good. She'd probably feel safer with lots of people around her. She liked her roommate, and she might take some extra classes in the summer instead of coming home.
She'd been here for her birthday in February—an event he'd skipped. He didn't think she'd been home since, and this was April. He felt bad about that and needed to tell her it really wasn't necessary for her to remove herself so completely from her family.
Which was why he was so surprised to show up for dinner there a few weeks later and find her there. Grace let him in that night and jumped up into his arms. He lifted her off the floor and spun around with her while she giggled, her hair flying. She was the sweetest child, pure joy to behold. With her, he felt like an uncle, and it was a nice feeling.
"We've got a secret," she said, giving him a big squeeze before he set her down on the floor.
"You and I?"
"No. Me and everybody here." She stuck a pert little nose up in the air and practically dared him to figure it out.
"I could tickle it out of you, you know." He reached for her rib cage.
"No, you can't," she insisted, horrified.
"All right, I won't."
"Grace?" Rachel called from upstairs. "What are you doing?"
"Rye's here. I let him in."
"And didn't brush your teeth, did you?"
She frowned. "I thought about it."'
"But you didn't. Come and do it now."
"Come on in." Grace tugged on his hand.
He followed her to the bottom of the stairs. Rachel stood at the top.
"We'll be right down," she said. "Make yourself at home. Beer's on ice in the cooler by the refrigerator."
"Thanks," Rye said. "Take your time."
He strolled into the kitchen and there was Emma. His first thought was that he'd been set up—given a minute with no prying eyes to prepare himself for her being here. And he supposed he needed that.
She stood in front of the stove, wearing a soft, butter-colored sweater and a pair of snug jeans. Her hair was longer, brushing her shoulders, and she was intently stirring something on the stove.
Finally, she turned, glanced at him, and just as quickly turned back. "Hi."
"Em," he said. "How are you?"
"Good. You?"
"I can't complain," he said, except for the little kick in the gut that came from seeing her and the urge he had to walk across the room and...
And what? Grab her? Hang on to her? Make sure she really was okay?
He walked into the kitchen, picking a spot in the corner that gave him a view of her from the side, so he could see her face and she couldn't turn away. He leaned as casually as he could against the counter and crossed his arms in front of him. She looked tired, he thought, but he probably wasn't supposed to notice or to ask.
He wanted to make this as easy as possible for her. So he took a whiff of that dish she was stirring and said, "Chili?"
"Of course."
He gave her a blank look. Of course?
"Rachel said it's your favorite."
"It is."
Emma laughed. "You have no idea why you're here, do you?"
"Dinner?" he tried.
"Well, there is that. What day is it, Rye?"
"April third." It was starting to get warm. Birds were singing in the morning as he woke up. Trees were budding, and he missed her, dammit.
"And next week? Monday? What happens then?"
Again, there was nothing but a blank look. He didn't know.
"It's your birthday," Emma said, smiling and shaking her head.
So, it was. Honestly, he hadn't given it much thought. It was just another day, and now he saw it as something that removed himself even more completely from her. He was turning thirty-four.
"Try to look surprised when they pull out the cake, okay?" she said. "And it wouldn't hurt to admire it profusely. Grace helped make it. It has lime green icing and pink blobs that are supposed to be roses. She was sure you needed pink roses. In case you haven't noticed, she worships you."
He just stood there, thinking about a cake made with the help of Grace's two tiny hands. He could imagine her working so diligently over it and with so much excitement. He was enchanted with her. He'd start doing his hibernating, grumpy-bear thing, hole up in his dark cave of a room, and Grace would call and charm him. She'd make him laugh, make him feel guilty for ever turning down an invitation to her house. How could he ever let her believe he didn't want to see her? And sometimes he couldn't look at her and not imagine Emma at Grace's age, trying so hard to hold her little family together. He delighted in her, and yet he reminded her of too many things he was trying to forget.
Like his birthday.
It seemed it wasn't going to be just another day.
Emma laughed again. "If you could see your face right now..."
He shook his head. "They keep surprising me."
Although this really shouldn't. He knew about this family now. They never passed up an opportunity to celebrate or to get together.
"I told you they'd make you one of us," Emma said.
She put the lid back on the pot and put down the spoon she'd been using to stir, then walked up to him, close enough that he could smell her, that sweet-vanilla-Emma smell. She stopped all of a foot away, thank goodness, and he didn't move any closer.
"I've been thinking about you," he admitted. "Worrying about you. How are you, really?"
"I'm fine. I've been thinking about you, too."
"Nothing from Mark?"
She shook her head. "I think it's really over. I don't wake up shaking anymore."
"And you feel safe there?" That was important.
"Yes. I've been taking some psych courses, figuring some things out. It's helping," she said. "Rachel said she manages to drag you over here every now and then."
"Her and Grace."
"Grace can't stop talking about you."
"She's amazing," he said.
"I know. Always has been."
"Emma, they all miss you. Don't stay away on my account, okay?"
"I've just been busy," she insisted, smiling when for a moment she'd looked so sad.
He reached out, grazing his fingertips to the bottom of her chin, just for a second. Her gaze shot up to his, and she went still, not even breathing, it seemed. His heart was hammering out her name. Emma, Emma, Emma.
Nineteen now. Not nearly enough.
Damn. He'd gotten too close. Even after more than three months, he couldn't be this close to her for five minutes without tho
se old feelings rearing up and making him do things he regretted.
"I've missed you," she said softly, sadly.
"Emma." He stepped back, his hand falling to his side.
Yeah, he'd gotten way too close.
* * *
Emma declared a major that spring—counseling—thinking she could help people whose lives were as screwed up as hers. How could people with really together lives ever understand half-crazy people, anyway? She figured they needed someone like her, and she needed them.
She made it through the summer mostly by staying away from home, trying to shore up her resolve and soothe her hurt feelings. She couldn't decide if she was being foolish or whether she was truly in love with Rye, but she just couldn't forget about him.
Girls did this, didn't they? Little girls. They took the smallest hint of interest from a man and blew it all out of proportion. They replayed every word, every look, every touch. They daydreamed. They fantasized. They held on, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that the man in question scarcely knew they existed.
It seemed as mature as she might be in most ways, she was woefully inexperienced when it came to relationships. She worried she was acting like the child Rye had accused her of being.
He'd been seen all over town with half a dozen women in the past few months. Grace, who was insanely jealous of anyone who took his attention away from her, told Emma all about it. Grace didn't care if she was only eight, she thought he was hers, just like Emma didn't care that she was only nineteen.
Was she any less foolish than her baby sister when it came to Rye?
Maybe not, but surely she could hide her feelings a little better than Grace, who pouted prettily and batted her eyelashes at him. She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him away from his current woman—Janeen Wilkes—something Emma would really like to do herself.
She couldn't believe she was standing here at her grandfather's annual Labor Day cookout shooting daggers at a woman whose kids she used to baby-sit, because Rye happened to bring the woman to a family party. She could just picture Janeen turning around and seeing Emma and going, Oh, yes. What a sweet kid. She used to baby-sit for my children.
Rye would just love hearing that.
Emma, Grace, and Janeen could fight over him.