God, what is wrong with me?
I trek up the stairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I hear Emerson’s music from next door, so I grab my headphones and get to work.
Catastrophe avoided.
Untitled
By Emerson Whittaker
CHAPTER 8
I took four years off between high school and college. Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for more responsibility. I’d been emancipated for two years already, and I wanted to have some fun. So I withdrew the small lump sum of money from my savings account, bought a one-way ticket to Greece, and left.
I left everything behind for four years.
The plane ride to Greece was exhilarating. I’d never been abroad—I’d never even flown in a plane before. I sweat through my T-shirt just taking off, and landing? You don’t even want to know. I managed to find the bus to my accommodation in Athens. This was before the age of smart phones—I had no idea if the hostel had any rooms available.
They did not.
So for my first two weeks in Greece, I slept on the sidewalk near the hostel. The front desk workers were nice enough to bring me leftover food, and I was reasonably comfortable. It was October, so the hot summer had ended and the cold winter had not yet begun. Finally, fifteen days after my arrival, they gave me a room and offered me a job working the front desk.
It was as though I’d won the lottery. Six months later, after too many drunken nights, close calls with a scooter, and after I’d had my fill of souvlaki with pita (the cheapest thing I could find to eat) I made my way to Zagreb, Croatia with the money I’d accrued. The train journey took over two days. I ate out of the trashcan because I was afraid of spending too much money. Anything to avoid sleeping on the sidewalk again.
Once in Croatia I was starving, so I wandered the streets of Zagreb, searching for the cheapest deal. I found a sausage stand and promptly ordered four Polish sausages for nine cents each (the current exchange rate was definitely in my favor). Twenty minutes later, I vomited them all up in the street. My empty stomach couldn’t handle it.
I stayed and worked in Zagreb for six weeks. I had a steady morning gig at the docks, helping the fishermen with their fish. It was a disgusting job if I’m being honest, but I got free fish, which meant I had free food. I managed to get another hostel gig, working the overnight shifts. There were days when I’d have to sprint from my hostel to the docks, just to make it on time.
I didn’t sleep very much those six weeks. But I’d saved a lump sum and I decided to splurge and book plane tickets to London. Once at Heathrow, I accidentally bumped into a young woman around my age at baggage claim. She was frantically looking for her driver. I eyed her expensive-looking clothes, and then I looked down at myself. We were opposites. But she seemed to like me. Either that or she simply took pity on me. She invited me to stay with her at her family’s house in London.
And that’s how I ended up dating a member of the royal family and living like a king in London for a year.
*
Three hours later the sun begins to set, so I head downstairs to grab some dinner. My mind is still racing with the notes from his outline on chapter eight. The only thing I really want to know is who he dated for a year. I want to look this bitch up and analyze her.
But I can’t, because I don’t have Internet.
Emerson is gone—when I look out the window, the Civic is nowhere to be seen. I grind my teeth together when I realize he’s probably with Sylvanna. I told Hannah all about her, and Hannah is convinced it’s just sex—nothing more. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I think it’s worse. I was hoping that whole relationship would taper off, but then again, why would it? Because we got too drunk one night and shared a moment? I have no claim over him. I shouldn’t expect him to give up anything for me.
I sigh and pull out leftover roast chicken. As I’m plating it, I hear a weird sound from somewhere on the deck. I ignore it at first, heating my food and pouring a generous glass of wine, but just as I turn to go sit down in the dining room, I realize what it is.
A meow. A very high-pitched, feeble meow. Maybe more than one.
I quickly set my dinner down and rush to the back door. It’s not quite dark out yet, but I turn the deck light on anyway. The sound gets louder the closer I get to the edge of the deck. When I step down onto the sand, I gasp.
Sitting in an old, decrepit towel are two very young, very fluffy black kittens.
“Oh my goodness,” I coo, bending down and examining them. I reach out, and neither of them turn away. Instead, the fluffier of the two reaches its tiny head out and starts to suck on my finger. “Hey little guys.”
They’re young. I’ve never had a cat, so I’m not familiar with age, but they look way too young to be out here alone. Maybe ten weeks? Their matted hair and hoarse meows give me reason to believe they’ve been out here for a while.
“Where’s your momma?” I pick the first one up and examine it. A girl. Most kittens can’t be sexed until eight weeks, so I know they must be at least eight weeks old. How do I even know that?
She meows loudly, and when I set her down in my lap, she begins to purr. The second one looks a little more skeptical, and when I reach down to pick it up, it hisses. “It’s okay,” I say soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.” I know it doesn’t understand me, but eventually it does let me pick it up. A boy. They both begin to purr. I love that. It makes me feel as if I am just what they needed. An alternate momma.
I stay with them for a few minutes. “Are you all alone?” I ask, petting them. I stand and carry them inside. They don’t stop squirming, so I decide to keep them in the downstairs bathroom for now. I remove the white rug from the floor—that could be a disaster—and run to the kitchen to get a bowl of water for them. “I’ll be back,” I tell them, closing the door. I chuckle at myself. Why am I talking to them like humans?
I go back to the porch and search all around it for the mother cat or more kittens. I even go to the next house and knock on their door, inquiring about the kittens. An older woman with brown hair just shakes her head. No, she hasn’t seen any cats around. I do one more sweep of the area.
Nothing.
I walk inside and close the sliding glass door. When I turn around, Emerson is standing against the kitchen island, glowering at me. The kittens are running around at his feet.
“Care to explain?” he asks, his tone cool.
I hold back a laugh. “I found them outside. I’ve been looking around for their mother, but I think she may have abandoned them.” I pause and look down at them. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just leave them out there.”
Just at that moment, the girl kitten meows loudly and proceeds to poop on Emerson’s boot. His eyes flick down slowly, and then back up to me.
I can’t help but chuckle. I cover my mouth and shake my head. “Oh my God,” I say, cackling. “That’s unfortunate. Here, let me clean it up.”
Emerson smiles. “It’s fine. I’ll do it.” He reaches behind him and grabs a wad of paper towels. “But we have to figure out where they’re going,” he adds sternly. “They can’t stay here.”
I nod vigorously. “I know. I just didn’t want them out there by themselves.”
Once Emerson is done cleaning up, he checks his watch. “Okay, well we better go.” I stare at him. “To the pet store,” he says, shrugging. “They need food, and Petco closes in thirty minutes.”
“Okay. Let me grab some shoes.” I jog over to the stairs and once I get to my room, I slip on my beloved pair of flip-flops. I check my reflection quickly, smoothing my hair and rubbing my lips together. When I get back downstairs, I see Emerson closing the bathroom door slowly, murmuring to the kittens.
“We’ll be back.” My heart liquefies. His fussing is adorable. I clear my throat and raise my eyebrows. He turns around. “I don’t want them to be lonely,” he explains exasperatedly. I smirk knowingly as we walk to the car. Once inside Irma, who recently made a remarkable
recovery, Emerson grimaces and turns to me. “We can’t keep them.” I realize he’s not trying to convince me. He’s trying to convince himself.
“Whatever you say,” I say smiling. “But if you were to keep them, what would you name them?”
He starts the car and looks at me dubiously as he reverses onto the street. “Ralph and Waldo.”
I laugh. “How very original. Is the girl Ralph or Waldo?”
He smiles. “I kind of like Waldo as the name for the girl.” He pulls onto the main road. “My mom named me after Ralph Waldo Emerson.” I make a small noise of assent. I’ve officially delved deep into his life, and the things I’ve learned about his mother make her enemy number one right now. “Transcendentalism fascinated her. She quoted Emerson all the time. It’s too bad she’s wasted her life away. She was a very smart woman at one point.”
“Drugs don’t discriminate,” I add, thinking of Chloe. Emerson just looks at me sideways. I clear my throat and continue. “Chloe did a lot of drugs. She was kind of a party girl. When I . . .” I trail off and look out the window. “When I heard about her death, I automatically assumed it was an overdose. Turns out, she wanted to die.” I look down at my hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “What was she like?” He seems anxious. I ignore it—suicide makes a lot of people uncomfortable.
I smile when I think of her. “She was crazy, but in the best way possible. She loved vintage clothing, which drove my mother wild.” I look at Emerson. “Mary Matthews is a fashionista, you see. Couture is her main language. So when Chloe starting dressing like an Olsen twin, my mother wasn’t happy. Anyway, Chloe did everything to defy my parents. When she was a junior in college, she told them she wanted to drop out of her business program. They lost it, threatened to kick her out of the house and cut her off, and basically forced her to continue.” I frown. “They didn’t love the fact I was a writer, but since they had Chloe, they didn’t really push it. She was their chance at success—she was their golden child. Instead, she killed herself, and I estranged myself from them the day the last tuition check needed to be paid. So now they have no one.”
Emerson pulls up to a stop sign in town and turns to face me. “Have they ever tried to contact you?”
I shake my head. “No. Not that I know of.” I look over at him. His jaw is clenched and he’s gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“I’m sorry.” He creases his brow as if he’s in pain. “Someone should’ve been there for you.”
I nod curtly. “Hannah was. She was always there. She will always be there. And now . . . you,” I say carefully. Emerson looks as if he’s been gutted. “Before this job, I was really struggling. And now . . .” I pause. When I look up at him, his eyes are swimming with elation. “The financial incentive doesn’t hurt, but I think our friendship is what really helped me.”
A car honks twice behind us, and I jump. The moment is gone, and as Emerson continues to drive on, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Friends, eh? BFFs? Compadres?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I’d like to think so. I mean, I know all of your dirty, little secrets.”
He laughs. “Not all of them, Ms. Matthews. Definitely not all of them.”
“Well, I guess everything will be revealed eventually, right?” I’m picking at my nail polish as I say this, and when Emerson doesn’t answer, I tilt my head up to look at him. He’s scowling at the road with narrowed eyes. At first, I think it’s because something is in his line of vision, but there’s a wide, expansive, uninhibited chunk of road ahead of us. It’s not that. Is there something he doesn’t want me to know about him?
“Yeah,” he says, his voice short. “All will be revealed.” He looks at me with a pained expression. “Don’t run too far when it is. Okay?” His voice breaks, and he looks away. He must be joking—that was a joke, right? I watch him for a beat. He doesn’t continue to speak, and he doesn’t clarify. A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“Well, that’s ominous,” I say under my breath.
Emerson doesn’t reply.
When we get to Petco, we only have about ten minutes before they close, so we rush in and grab a cart.
“Okay, we’ll probably need food, a litter box, litter, and some toys,” I say, walking towards the CATS sign in the back. Emerson follows wordlessly behind me. I peruse the kitten food, quickly deciding on some of the organic kind. Emerson is an organic guy, so this makes sense. Then I grab a medium-sized litter box and some natural pine litter. “Want to pick out some toys?” I elbow Emerson in the arm. The contact seems to wake him up out of his moody stupor.
“Yeah, sure.” He eyes the contents of the cart skeptically. “That’s a lot of stuff for kittens we don’t plan on keeping,” he says slowly. His eyes burn into mine. Even under the harsh, fluorescent lighting, I’m in awe of how alluring and handsome he is. No one looks good in this lighting, yet he somehow manages it. His casual The Clash T-shirt, ripped jeans, and loafers do something funny to my insides. Now that I’m getting to know his brain, his good looks only add to his magnetism.
“Just in case.” I shrug.
Emerson chuckles as we walk to the checkout line. Of course he insists on paying, and he won’t let me carry the bulky bags to the car. I study him as he loads the trunk, thinking about the conversation we had in the car ride over.
“Okay,” I say skeptically. “I have to know. Did you murder your student? The one who died? Is that your secret? The one you think is going to scare me away?” It comes out jokingly, but the way his back stiffens, and the way he pauses, tells me I crossed a line by asking. He slowly backs out and faces me with crossed arms and a cloudy expression on his face.
“Who told you I murdered someone?” He begins to bite the inside of his lip, and he watches me with an expression of anger. I take a step back. One, because he’s acting very menacing right now, and I’m actually not sure he didn’t murder someone. Also, we’re in a dark, almost empty parking lot. This probably isn’t the time and place to dig around his past homicidal tendencies.
“There are rumors online. I was just wondering if that was your big, bad secret. You know, since we’re BFFs now.” I hope my joke will ease the tension.
It doesn’t.
“I didn’t murder her,” Emerson says slowly. He takes a step closer to me, and I back up against the wall of the building. “But maybe I murdered someone else.”
My eyes go wide. “R-really?”
He lunges forward, and I yelp. The next second, he’s doubled over with laughter. “My God, Finley,” he says between wheezes. I glare at him. “You’re so fucking gullible.”
I make an exasperated noise and stomp my feet. “That wasn’t funny. It’s dark out here.” I look around nervously. I’ve never liked the dark.
“Come on. Don’t you trust me?” Once again, he takes a step closer to me. Now he’s only a foot away. I feel my body begin to shake. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s nighttime, and unusually chilly for August, or if it’s because of the way he’s looking at me right now.
“I trust you,” I say defiantly. I lift my chin and watch him as his eyes flick over my body. As he inches closer, I can’t help but say the first thing that’s on my mind.
“While we’re confessing,” I start, looking down, “I saw you with that woman. Sylvanna. Is she your girlfriend?” I can’t look up at him, not because I don’t want to know the truth, but because I’m embarrassed I actually asked about Sylvanna. I don’t want him to see how red my cheeks are. I’m also not sure if I can handle seeing his face soften at the sound of her name if she is his girlfriend . . .
“When did you see me with Sylvanna?”
I look up and he’s squinting. “A few weeks ago. You two were, um . . . anyway. I was just wondering.”
“Why are you blushing?” he asks, a smile growing on his face. “Did you catch me in a compromising position?” Now he’s full on grinning.
I place my hands on his firm chest and push him away teasingly.
“No. Maybe. You should invite her over sometime. I’d like to meet her.” I don’t remove my hands, and Emerson looks from me to them twice before nodding.
“Yeah, sure.” Is she your girlfriend? I want to scream. Did he just admit she was his girlfriend? The uncomfortable, burning fire in my belly begins to grow. I’ve only seen Sylvanna once, and even then she was a faraway illusion, but right now I want to claw her big eyeballs out.
“How about tomorrow?” I blurt out. I push away from the wall and open the passenger door without waiting for him to answer.
“Sure,” he responds. I sigh in defeat and buckle myself in as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
I sulk the entire way home. I’m pretty sure Emerson can tell, because the whole fucking time he’s wearing this amused, smug grin. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth?
Fuck Sylvanna.
Fuck the sexy Emerson Whittaker too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Finley
I wake up the next morning as the sun is rising. It’s August 18th, or otherwise known as the day I was born. I get out of bed and stretch before heading downstairs for a large cup of coffee. I’m not even sure if Emerson will remember—I don’t recall telling him when my birthday was, but maybe I mentioned it at some point.
As I’m rummaging around in the refrigerator for some of his “organic” creamer, my eyes catch sight of a large pen set up in the living room. I close the door of the fridge quickly and walk over.
Ralph and Waldo are asleep, cuddled together on a large dog bed, and they each have a small, yellow bow tied around their middles. The pen and the bed must’ve belonged to his old dog. I see a card propped up against the cage. Smiling, I open it.
Did you really think I was going to get rid of them?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
One: there’s no writing work today. So don’t even think about it. Enjoy yourself.
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