Now and Again

by Jennifer Ellision

  "Em."

  My heart jumps. Every bit of emotion that I'd been dead set on keeping fast asleep wakes up and whispers,

  Hi.

  Christ, it's like I'm back in college. How is it possible that the air between us can be full of so many yesterdays and memories? How can he look simultaneously strange and familiar?

  And have I seriously not said anything out loud yet?

  I shake myself free of the shock. "Cole." I paste a smile on and cross into the kitchen, extending a hand.

  With an eyebrow raised dubiously, he shakes it. I try not to suck in a breath when my thumb grazes his and try very hard to stomp down on the voice suggesting I take his hand and put it somewhere… less than appropriate.

  Like a hot coal, I release him and take a step back, swiping my hand against my clothes in an effort to shake the tingles in my fingertips free.

  This is one of the dangers of being near Cole: too close and I risk letting myself be pulled into his orbit again.

  "Don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing in my mother's kitchen? I could have sworn I heard her in here."

  "I'm practicing my ventriloquism," he says. Without breaking eye contact, he sweeps vegetables from a cutting board into a salad spinner in a fluid motion.

  My confusion must show on my face.

  "Kidding," he says. "She went to the bathroom, I think."

  Yet another thing that hasn't faded with time. Cole has an uncanny ability to make me feel like he can see straight into my mind when looking into my eyes. It's like he can read every screaming insecurity, every desperate fiber in me that wants to leave everything behind and sprint back to California if I have to.

  And that train of thought is patently absurd, I remind myself. I don't let his gaze cow me and look right back at him, even letting my lips quirk up into a challenge that I have to fake with all of my might.

  My excellent show of bravado is interrupted when my erstwhile mother appears, yanking me into a tight embrace. "Emmy!"

  I seize the excuse to look away, returning the hug and tucking my face into her neck.

  "Hey, Mom."

  "Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're home." She pulls back and squeezes my shoulders. "Things are going to be better here," she promises and then frowns, her eyes flicking over me. Dread peaks within me. Something in her inspection didn't pass muster, and if I know my mother, next, she's going to say something I don't want anyone else to be a witness to.

  "Have you been drinking?"

  Oh, my God. I am definitely not going to look at Cole now.

  "No."

  "Honey, it would be understandable, given the circumstances."

  "Mom, there aren't any circumstances." I pull out of her grip.

  "Of course there are!" And there's the high-pitch of righteous indignation in her tone. I start counting in an effort to keep my cool. One. Two. Three.

  "I mean, you've lost your job—"

  "It was an internship. It ended." Four. Five.

  "You don't have any family in San Francisco." Six, seven, eight. "I haven't heard you talk about any boys out there—"

  "Okay, I had a drink!" I cut her off before she does any more damage and feel my cheeks heat. "One drink over the course of a five-hour flight," I say, holding up an emphatic finger.

  "Colicky kid on board?" Cole asks sympathetically.

  Gratitude toward him for throwing me a life raft swells. "Yes."

  "Was it you?"

  "Ye— wait, what?"

  He grins. "Come on, I know you hate flying. Did you wail the entire five hours or just until you had a screwdriver in hand?"

  I blink. I hadn't mentioned ordering a screwdriver.

  "I'm just screwing with you, Em. Sorry about the kid. I've been there." He wipes his hands on a dish towel and plucks his keys from his pocket. "Abby, thanks for the dinner invitation, but I didn't realize that Em was coming home today."

  My mother, though, I was sure had. My mother the marathon runner who had very likely jogged an easy five K just this morning.

  From the looks of things, she'd pretended at being at poor, frail widow, who needed a big, strong boy like Cole to help her carry her groceries in. Frail, she was not. But a schemer? Without a doubt.

  "I'm going to go so the the two of you can catch up."

  Thank God. I try not to wilt against the counter in relief.

  Cole pauses in the doorway. He looks like a picture in a frame; stormy eyes, brown hair flopping into them, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled to his elbows. I'd title the portrait Unfair: a painting of temptation. "See you Friday night, Em."

  The door clicks shut behind him. Friday night?

  Oh, no. Nikki and Ron's engagement party.

  I am so screwed.

  "He's such a nice boy," Mom begins the second she's sure he's out of earshot.

  I hold up a hand to stall her. "Can you give me your 'Cole is perfect' speech tomorrow? I'm exhausted from the flight."

  My mother sniffs and gives me an expert once-over. She crosses her arms. "We will be talking about this, Emmeline."

  I wave her off without turning around as I climb the stairs to my old bedroom. "I don't doubt it, Mom."

  THREE

  COLE

  Seeing her again is not unlike facing an oncoming train and being powerless to stop it, Cole muses. If the locomotive had been named Awkward and was powered by an engine called Em. How is it even possible, he wonders, that she still has the ability to make him feel like a bumbling idiot without even opening her mouth?

  Goddamn, he thinks, leaning against the outside of the door to her mother's house. I need a drink.

  Em had been stiff with him— almost cold. She'd shaken his hand, for Christ's sake. Along with Nikki, the three of them used to cram onto a tiny loveseat in the apartment they'd all shared in college. Touching had not been an issue. Not touching, though… maybe.

  Still, she'd looked good. A little tired. A little harried. A lot surprised to see him standing in her childhood home, her mouth parting in an 'o' and hazel eyes shooting wide.

  He'd been surprised to hear from Abby today, but it wasn't the first time she'd offered to treat him to dinner in exchange for a little help carrying in her groceries. He hadn't really thought much of it. He abso-fucking-lutely hadn't thought to find Em there.

  He's going to tear Ron's sorry ass a new one for not telling him that Em was back. At least he has until Friday night to prepare before seeing her again.

  He checks his watch and swears. But he'll have to mull on that later. Right now, he has a dinner date to get ready for.

  ∞

  "I need to call you back." Hours later, Cole cups a hand around the bottom of his phone as he whispers into it.

  "Dude, Nikki is flipping out that she hasn't heard from Em yet," Ron says. "We saw your car at Abby's before we left and—"

  "Yeah, about that—" he says brightly from his position safely behind the bathroom door. "Fuck you for not telling me she was back, by the way. But seriously, now is not the best time." He's only just managed to duck into the bathroom with a towel around his waist and his pants in hand. He winces at the sound of a shoe hitting the door.

  "Please tell me that wasn't what I think it was." Ron's voice was flat on the other line.

  "You could hear that? Man, I must have better cell reception here than I thought."

  "Cole."

  "What do you think it was?" he hedges.

  "Did you see Tori tonight?"

  "Maybe."

  There was a frustrated cry of "Colson!" from the bedroom.

  "Did you end things with her?"

  "Yes," he says with great dignity.

  "And was that before or after you slept with her again?"

  There's silence on both ends before Ron says "Cole" like an oath. "This is the third time."

  "I know. I know." Cole runs a hand through his brown hair agitatedly. "But Ron, I swear, it was like she knew."

  He thinks of his grim determinati
on walking into the restaurant. He'd resolved to stay on his side of the table. He would get through the appetizers with only detached, polite conversation and then he would end it with Tori.

  The best laid plans, he thinks now. That had all been before Tori had shown up, brown hair flowing in silky curls down her back. It swayed as she moved, black dress like a film on her skin, blue eyes wide over pursed lips.

  Cole had stayed on his side of the table. But Tori had not stayed on hers, reaching across the table… and under it. She'd constantly gestured for the waiter to top off Cole's wine until the edges on Cole's judgment had grown a peach fuzz.

  And maybe, after the awkward reunion with Em, he had been a little too willing to imbibe.

  Tori wasn't so bad, really, he'd mused in the cab as she nuzzled him. She'd peeled aside the collar of his shirt to stroke one warm hand along the nape of his neck.

  Sure, she wasn't Em, but they'd always had fun together. And after the day he'd had… seeing Em again… Damn it, he needed some fun.

  That's the last coherent thought he remembers before finding himself blinking up at Tori's bedroom ceiling, horrified. Tori clung onto his arm like a barnacle. He'd extricated himself slowly, but she'd stopped him.

  "Colson, where are you going?" Her soft voice was tinged with steel.

  And, in perhaps not the wisest moment of his life, he'd answered: "This was a mistake."

  That's how he'd found himself here, huddling like a coward as all one hundred and ten pounds of Victoria Lambert promises he'll regret those four words. There's a crash of ceramic breaking and Cole winces.

  "Cole," Ron's voice brings him back to the moment. "We're still expecting you at the engagement party."

  "Yeah, don't worry, I value my life, so you can tell Nikki I'll be there," Cole agrees hastily. The window behind the toilet catches his eye and he's distracted from the conversation again. I bet I could fit. He eyes the window, struggling back into his black dress pants.

  "I swear, you and Em are two sides of the same coin," Ron mutters.

  "Not a good time for that, Ron." He remembers all too well how easy Em finds it to run away and it's not a comparison he appreciates at this particular moment.

  This is different though. He's different. All Em had faced with him was a conversation. A potential future. If he opens the bathroom door right now, he's looking at the end of his future because he's pretty sure Tori intends on his death.

  "Look, I'll help with whatever you and Nikki need if I make it out of here alive." With that, he cuts the conversation short, hanging up the phone and lifting the window frame. He has one leg out the window when the doorknob jiggles and Tori is framed in the entryway, eyes alight with fury.

  His eyes widen and he lets himself drop to the ground.

  As he runs down the street, Tori's scream of "COLSON!" follows him deep into the night.

  ∞ Then ∞

  Freshman Year

  A few years ago, talking to Em would have been nothing. It didn't throw him for a loop. It definitely didn't drive him to lose himself in drinking or someone else's body. No, even if he'd made a mistake with Tori—and he knew he had, one that wasn't fair to anyone involved— that wasn't his M.O. But it had been Em's.

  Talking to Em was something he did every day. Hell, something he did ten times a day. If he heard a funny joke? He called Em. If he needed advice on a girl he wanted to ask out? He called Em. If he needed a study buddy? He called Em. Even if she usually made a better study bully.

  Their friendship had started with that first grilled cheese dinner in her and Nikki's dorm room their freshman year, but quickly evolved into regular weekly meals that included the trio's 'Getting to Know You' dinners.

  So they knew each other pretty well by the time Cole proposed a new game. "The premise is thus," he said with great gravity. "We're going to bet against each other."

  There was a snort from Em's bed.

  "Em, stop laughing," he said exasperatedly. She was burrowed in her comforter, looking rather like a small plaid mountain. The little hill of cotton bedding quaked as she shook with laughter. "Look—" he grabbed her sandwich off of her plate and took a bite over her yelp of protest. "Do you want to stop playing Dirty Balls or what?" he asked around the mouthful.

  Dirty Balls was a game Nikki had initiated, one that her high school chorus had apparently played on retreats. A cheap beach ball with fill-in-the-blank phrases was thrown from participant to participant and each person used it to share a story. The girls picked up a new beach ball from the dollar store every week and scribbled that night's prompts on it.

  It wasn't a bad game, as ice-breakers and 'getting-to-know-yous' went, but neither he nor Em could get its name out with a straight face.

  That stopped her laughs, though Nikki took offense. "There is nothing wrong with Dirty Balls," she said thinly, standing over her own sandwich, still cooking on the hot plate.

  Em eyed her from the bed. "Nik, I want you to think about what you just said."

  She pouted.

  Cole diverted their attention back to him. "Ok, so instead of playing Dirty Balls every month—and I hope to God that those words never leave my mouth again—" he said fervently "—every month, we'll do a dinner."

  "Like we already do every week?" Em teased, hazel eyes dancing.

  Nikki slid her sandwich onto a plate, feet shuffling across the floor to her own bed in her fuzzy blue slippers. "Sometimes twice."

  "Sometimes thrice," Em added, laughing.

  "Seriously? Work with me here," Cole pleaded. He was finding that this was the trouble with these two as his best friends. They tended to get side-tracked into different veins of conversation.

  Of course, he'd've had to have been blind not to notice the benefits as well. Both girls were undoubtedly attractive. Nikki had a wide, open smile, sweet, brown eyes, and short, bouncy stature that just drew people to her like a magnet.

  But the first night they'd met, it had been Em that he'd noticed. Lanky arms, wide, shocked hazel eyes, long wavy brown hair flowing behind her as she trailed in Nikki's wake. She'd schooled her expression into a sarcastic smirk that matched her contributions to the conversation that night and though his palms had sweat while they'd talked, he'd tried to play it cool when accepting their dinner invitation.

  Em was Not His Type, though. She was snarky and—at times— downright aggravating, at total odds with her innocent appearance.

  But sometimes… when she forgot to make fun of him, when she forgot to keep her guard up, he forgot that she wasn't for him. He forgot what a damn good friend she made. When she stretched, arched her back, long hair sliding down to just graze the top of her rear. When she untangled herself from her comforter, straightened her disheveled t-shirt over her lithe body, and turned relaxed eyes and a sleepy smile on him, it was all he could do not to lose his train of thought entirely.

  But he and Em were friends.

  Friends who played a game called Dirty Balls.

  Yeah, that last part needed to change.

  The girls finally silenced obligingly and two pairs of eyes focused their attention on him.

  "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Cole said, pulling Em's desk chair out and straddling it backwards. "Every month we'll do a dinner. And we're each going to make some kind of goal for the month. It has to be a challenge. Something crazy, time-consuming, or really difficult. And we'll all gamble something if we lose."

  Em pursed her lips. "Interesting."

  Nikki clapped her hands in excitement. Cole had come to realize that that was a regular thing for her. "Okay! I'll go first." She screwed up her face in thought. "I bet that I can go for a swim in the fountain in front of the Student Union without getting caught."

  "Acceptable," Cole decreed with a magnanimous nod. "Em?"

  She pulled a face. "Let me get back to you on that."

  "No way." He refused to give her too long to think about it. "I've already got mine."

  "Oh yeah, hot stuff?" E
m challenged. "So what is it?"

  "I," Cole said, puffing out his chest in importance, "am going to play video games with Jerry the next time he wakes me up in the middle of the night and asks me."

  Jerry was something of a night warrior. And Cole wasn't usually a person who appreciated having his sleep disturbed. By his estimations, it was both challenging and kind.

  "Fine," Em sighed. "I guess I'll unpack my stuff."

  This was an acceptable goal. If she didn't do it soon, they'd be moving out into their sophomore year accommodations and she'd still basically be living out of boxes. They were already a month from finals and the end of their first semester, and she still had containers from home stashed under her bed.

  "You couldn't avoid it forever, Em," Cole told her.

  "You'd be surprised," Em replied. A dimple flashed in her cheek, and her throat bobbed as they locked eyes. She looked like she was waiting for something from him. For what, he wasn't sure. But he had an idea of what he wanted it to be.

  His own throat worked as he looked back at her, swallowing hard. His heart accelerated on the precipice of the decision to do something— say something that would dip a toe into the pool of "not friends."

  He waited too long. The moment passed. His heartbeat slowed.

  And Em's gaze slid away from his, out the window. "Maybe I couldn't do it forever," she said. "But I'm pretty damn good at avoiding."

  FOUR

  EM

  ∞ Now ∞

  Here's the thing: I'd been good at parties once upon a time.

  Of course, parties had once been much more low maintenance. We bought a keg. Sent out Facebook invites or a mass text. If we were getting really fancy, we made Jell-O shots and threw in a theme.

  Here's a hot tip from the ancient Romans: togas are always a crowd-pleaser.

  Then all that was left to do was to get good and properly shit-faced. Not so much that you threw up, not if you did it right. But enough that your limbs tingled pleasantly and laughs tripped out easier. Maybe your cheeks flushed.