“I was at a job site with no phone signal and when I went to my motel for the night I realized I had left my charger at home,” he said, confirming what I had already thought. “I’m sorry, Emily. I feel terrible that I wasn’t there while this whole thing was going down, but I had no way of knowing….”
Guilt flooded my heart. “No, I’m sorry.” My voice dropped an octave. “Of course you had no way of knowing. I’m just very tense, Dave.” I had turned my back on Jem so he couldn’t see me, but I could still feel the burn of his glare on my back.
“Of course you are, sweetheart. I’m being insensitive,” Dave said. “You’ve been through a lot. As long as you’re safe now, I don’t care who’s with you. I trust you.” Oh boy, I really hoped that trust was deserved. “I’ll let you go. Rest.”
“I love you, Dave,” I whispered, hoping Jem wouldn’t hear me. But when I hung up and turned around, my eyes met his and I knew he wasn’t happy.
“Boyfriend worried much?” he said, spitting the words like poison.
“What do you think? He loves me, after all.”
My words were meant to hurt him, and they hit their mark. Jem’s face dropped, and his jaw tensed up. “I won’t bother you anymore. Good night.” He got up and left me in the living room, alone and confused as usual.
My heart was bleeding. Hurting my best friend was like hurting myself. Sometimes it was almost like we were somehow connected; he hurt, I hurt. I hated him for making me feel at fault. Of all people, he had absolutely no right to make me feel like that.
Frustrated and angry, I searched for something to calm me down. A shower sounded great. A thorough scrubbing would be good for the soul as well. When I stood up, something fell from the couch to the floor. It was a wallet. Jem’s wallet. It must have dropped from his pocket when he got up. It had fallen open on the floor and, when I bent down to pick it up, I noticed a picture inside—a picture of him and me during my Asian-exploration year. I was dressed in a red kimono, my black hair in a bob, my eyes heavily outlined in kohl to bring out their almond shape. Beside me, Jem, young and beautiful, had his arm over my shoulders and a big, generous smile on his lips. I remembered that day well. Then again, I remembered every day with Jem, no matter how much he had hurt me or how much he now annoyed me.
I put the picture back and left the wallet on top of the cocktail table. Forgetting about the shower, I opened the door to the bedroom and, before I was even aware of what I was doing, I was curled under the sheets and fast asleep.
I woke up suddenly, not sure how long I had slept. A soft groaning reached my ears, and I started. While my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I realized the noise was coming from Jem. What was wrong with him?
I slid off my bed and approached his. “Jem. Are you okay?”
His eyes were closed, but he tossed and turned as if in pain. He was having a nightmare. “No, no. Please, don’t…,” he moaned.
I stood there, trying to decide what to do. Should I let him be, or should I wake him up from whatever night terror was assailing him? Watching him writhe in fear was painful. His face was contorted into a frown of agony. My stomach tightened.
Before I could stop myself, I sat down on the edge of his bed. I brushed his brow with my hand, trying to erase the worry and pain, and he calmed down, his muscles relaxing at my touch. God, he was so beautiful. An angel in his sleep. His muscled chest belied his boyish looks. I sighed. It was so hard being mad at him when he was right in front of me. From a distance, I was able to hate him and wish him all kinds of ungodly mishaps. In his presence, I was barely capable of doing much more than sticking my tongue out at him like a child.
“Em,” he uttered, his eyes fluttering open. “Are you okay?”
I realized I had tears in my eyes. Grateful for the darkness, I pulled my hand away from his face. “I’m okay. You were a little agitated in your sleep.”
He turned on his side, resting his head on his arm. “Bad dreams,” he said. “I get them a lot. Nothing like being isolated from everyone you love to give you all kinds of nightmares.”
I wiped my eyes and moved to stand, but Jem held my hand. “Stay with me. Like you used to.”
I shook my head. “No, Jem. I can’t. Not a good idea.” A great lump grew in my throat.
He lifted his head. “No, I don’t mean like that,” he said. “Lie down with me for the night. I promise I won’t do anything. I just need my best friend close.”
Hesitant at first, I had to admit that I also needed a friendly body next to mine. I was still shaking inside from our misadventures and I did miss my best friend. So much, it hurt.
Jem flipped the edge of the covers off so I could slide beside him. “Jem, nothing can happen, do you understand? I know you don’t want to believe me, but I love Dave.”
“I understand,” he told me, his eyes moist. “I don’t like it, but I get it. I promise.”
I stretched in bed, my back turned to him. His hand came over me and I felt his breath on my neck. “Good night, Emily Rose.”
“Good night, Jem.” His breathing quickly evened out and slowed. He was fast asleep.
In the morning, the sun woke me up as it sneaked in the room through a small gap in the curtains. I stretched and realized Jem still had his arm draped over me, his legs bent behind my back, cradling me against him. My heart grew wings. I have to get up. But it felt so right, it felt like home, and I couldn’t make myself move away. I lay still, enjoying his heat, afraid of breaking the contact.
“You feel so good,” he whispered in my ear, startling me off my semitrance. Instinctively I moved my body away from his. “Don’t! Stay for a little while….”
I twisted myself around to look at him. “You promised me, Jeremy Peter.” The accusation in my tone made him flinch. “Let me go.”
He loosened his grip on me, and I slipped out of bed. “Party pooper,” he muttered. “It’s not like we have anywhere to go.”
On my knees, I searched for my slippers and found them under his bed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
He perked up, his eyes opening wide. “Bacon and eggs?” he asked eagerly.
With a roll of my eyes, I slid my feet into the slippers and opened the door. “Oh hell. You and your junk food will be the death of me.” I groaned at the idea. “All right, I’ll make some bacon and eggs. Get up.”
He shifted his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “Hash browns?”
“Arghhh….” There was no way I was frying potatoes. The smell alone would clog my arteries. I stomped out of the room.
The sound of dragging feet was soon followed by his scuttling out of the room. His tousled hair stuck out every which way, and he had put his T-shirt on inside out. I giggled and opened the fridge.
“What’s so funny?” He sat on a barstool and got busy peeling an orange.
“Never mind.” I pulled a whole slab of bacon and the egg carton out of the fridge. “I can’t believe you eat this crap all the time and stay fit.”
“I haven’t eaten good bacon in five years. The French may be famous for their cooking, but bacon is not their thing.”
I dropped an egg, and its insides spread quickly across the counter. My eyes followed the flow of the egg white as my anger began a slow burn in my chest. Did he really just bring up France? “Thanks for reminding me that I’m still mad at you.” It came out like a hiss.
Jem’s head snapped up. “What? Shit. I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t mean it that way.” He jumped from his perch and ran around the counter to hold me by the arms. “Please, don’t get mad again.”
Anger boiling inside of me, I shrugged him off and walked away. “Make your own bacon!”
The air outside was chilly, and I immediately regretted not having grabbed my jacket. Still wearing my pj’s, I knocked at the door of the attached suite to let the guards know I was going for a jog. One of them insisted on following me. I wish I could say I lost him easily, but I very rarely ran. In fact, I reserved running for emergencies—
like if I were being chased by a bull or fleeing from a burning building. My jog quickly turned into a sluggish walk, and as my anger ebbed away so did my energy. At some point, I gave up and sat down on a tree stump.
“You are not a jogger, are you?” the policeman said, coming to a stop beside me.
I laughed. “What gave me away? The turtle-like progress or the floppy-arm action?”
“I’ve seen worse,” he said, leaning against a tree trunk. “Mad?”
I nodded. It was getting very cold, sitting in the frigid air in my thin cotton pajamas. I rubbed my arms. “Very mad and very cold.” I laughed again and hopped to my feet. “Better go in before I grow icicles on my nose.”
The nice officer walked me back to the house. Obviously used to being a fly on the wall, he didn’t say a word until we got to the front door. Courteously, he opened it and waited for me to go in. “Call me if you get mad again. I’ll be glad to jog behind you. Maybe next time we can even break a sweat.” He smiled.
“Thank you. I’m more of a yoga girl.” I closed the door behind me.
Jem had set the small table by the window. An appetizing spread of bread, fruits, and poached eggs sat on the two plates. “I made breakfast,” he said, unnecessarily. “No saturated fats. I couldn’t find whole grain bread though. I hope white is okay. I toasted it….”
He had such a wistful expression on his face as he stood there, holding the back of a chair, that I smiled. I couldn’t help it. My anger was gone and he looked positively so… Jem.
We sat and ate breakfast in silence. Surprisingly, the food was delicious. Jem had never been able to cook this well. His idea of a meal was a microwaved hot dog and a bag of chips. Finished with the last of the fruit, I wiped my lips on the napkin and stole a glance toward him.
“Listen, Em,” he said, serious and contrite. “I know France is a sore spot for us, but like it or not, it’s part of my life and it will creep up every so often. You can’t get mad at me every time I mention something that happened while I was there. I can’t erase the last few years—as much as I would like to.”
He was right, of course. However, I didn’t have much control over my feelings when it came to him. “I’ll try. I can’t promise though. It’s still all very fresh,” I said. “Give me time.”
“You can have all the time you need.” Jem covered my hand with his. “Just don’t take too long.” He smiled that brilliant smile of his, and I had to laugh.
***
“Did you like it?” my sister asked at the other end of the line.
“Oh my gosh, Celia! Thank you so much.” I was still going through the contents of the care package Celia had sent us. So many little treasures in it. “How did you know I wanted to read Cinder?”
My crazy sister laughed. “I hacked into your Goodreads account. Hell, you have an impressive list of books to read.” It was true. I did have an enormous list of books I wanted to read sometime in the future. It spanned many genres and age groups.
“Tell her thanks for the Oreos and crackers,” Jem yelled from the kitchen, where he was busy putting away the junk food my sister had sent him. “Oh yeah. Tell her the chocolate-covered chips were a stroke of genius.”
In another world, another life, my sister and Jem would have made the perfect match. I smiled. “Did you hear that, Celia?”
“Tell him I will send him a couple boxes of frozen White Castle sliders next time,” she said.
Jem, finished stocking the kitchen shelves with every bit of bad-for-you food known to mankind, sat beside me on the couch and curiously looked through the stuff my sis had sent me. “What the hell is this?” he asked, holding a small backpack up.
“That’s my emergency bag. Thank you, sis, for remembering to send it, by the way,” I said to both Jem and Celia. “In that bag I have anything and everything I need to survive for a week under any condition.”
“Yep, my always prepared sister,” Celia yelled.
Jem had unzipped the bag and was removing items from it. “Foil blankets, hand warmers, dehydrated food… toilet paper?” He was holding up a roll with a quizzical look. “You really haven’t changed, Em.”
I grabbed the toilet paper out of his hands. “Better prepared than sorry,” I recited.
A familiar refrain for anyone who had known me since my childhood. I felt safe if I knew I was prepared for any eventuality. When I was in college my friends knew they could come to me anytime they had a headache or needed a tampon. I always carried a giant purse stocked with things I would most likely never need.
“Marcy wanted me to ask you if you used the potion she gave you,” Celia stated, while I retrieved my emergency items from Jem’s hands.
“No need,” I said. “Everything’s okay. Have you seen Dave?”
My sister was quiet for a moment. “Yes, he… is worried about you.” She was hiding something. I could always tell by the way her voice became just a little higher than usual.
“Celia, what’s going on? I can tell something is up.” I said. “Is he sick?”
“There’s nothing wrong. Really.” There was definitely something wrong. “Did Detective Jarvas tell you when you guys can expect this whole thing to be over?”
Nice deflective move. “He seems to think one more week or so,” I told her, willingly letting go of the issue—whatever it might have been.
“Good. You need to come home.” And there it was again. That note of urgency and concern.
After the phone call, I went out to the porch to read the book my sister had sent me. Jem was fiddling with the television set, and I needed quiet for a few moments. The tone I heard in my sister’s voice after I had mentioned Dave really worried me. What exactly could be wrong? I realized that I was probably being a little too paranoid due to our recent misadventures, and I allowed myself to dive headfirst into the novel in my hands.
My concentration was broken when a loud noise came from inside the house, closely followed by a cry of pain. My legs reacted before I even knew what was happening. I jumped off my seat and ran indoors, where I found Jem on the floor of the kitchen, hugging his leg.
“What happened?” The two officers had also run to check on the commotion. “Are you hurt?”
A string of curses flew out of Jem’s mouth. He really must be hurting. Jem rarely cursed. One of his many idiosyncrasies, and one I was particularly fond of.
“I twisted my freaking ankle,” he said.
One of the cops immediately went to the freezer for a bag of ice. The other crouched beside Jem and asked, “Do we need to call for medical attention?”
I knelt by Jem and, lifting the bottom of his pants, I examined his ankle. It was swollen, but did not feel like it was broken. “Let’s put some ice on it and wait a while to see if it helps,” I told the officer. “How in heaven’s name did you manage to do this, Jem?” I applied the bag of ice the other policeman handed to me.
“I was getting the Oreos from the cabinet and I stepped and slipped on something.” Jem closed his eyes in pain as the sting of the ice hit the skin on his bruised ankle. “Ouch. Are you sure it’s not broken?”
I felt around his ankle again. “I don’t think so. Try to move it.” He moved it easily. “No, not broken. Come on, let’s sit you down and put that foot up.”
With the help of one of the officers, I was able to guide Jem to the couch, where I propped his leg on a big cushion. “You will do just about anything for attention, won’t you?”
He snorted and threw me a mischievous look. “Did it work?”
I squeezed his ankle and he yelped. “You’re pitiful.” I walked away to go pour him a glass of water.
“Is he going to be all right?” my jogging companion asked.
“He’ll be fine,” I said. “Thank you for helping. I’ll call you if we need you.”
From my position in the kitchen I could watch Jem unnoticed. Being immobilized did not agree with him. I remember another time—we were still kids—when he had broken a leg. The first few d
ays had been hell. Jem’s refusal to be still for very long had earned him an emergency surgery then. I hoped his ankle would heal quickly, or he would drive me insane.
My sister had sent a small box of old pictures in her care package and I decided that would be a good distraction. I grabbed it out of the box I had stored in my room and returned to the living room to sit by him.
“Scoot,” I said, shoving his legs out of the way and being rewarded with a groan of pain.
“Ouch! Easy, girly.” He gingerly propped himself up a bit more and opened a space for me to sit. “You’re having way too much fun hurting me.”
I smirked like the Cheshire cat and removed the lid of the box.
“Are you up for a stroll down memory lane?” He looked up at me, a question in his eyes. “Sis sent a bunch of old pictures for us to reminisce over. I have a sneaky suspicion she’s up to something.” And I know exactly what it is, but I am not about to tell you.
“I love pictures.” I knew he did.
When we were kids we would spend an inordinate amount of time staring and commenting on pictures from when we were babies or when our parents were kids themselves. His eyes would become unfocused and he would slouch on the couch or wherever we were at the time, ready to indulge in the past. He would then relish in telling and retelling—often many times over—stories he had heard from our parents or from each other. Even as a young girl, I used to love watching how animated he would suddenly become, his hands moving around like those of a maestro conducting his orchestra—except there were no instruments, only memories.
I handed him the box and he buried his hands inside, as if hungry for whatever comfort those pictures brought him. Pain obviously forgotten, he pulled a picture out of the box and waved it at me.
“Look. This is when we went on that trip to the beach. How old were we?”
I took a peek at the photograph and smiled. “Fourteen, we were fourteen.” The memories came flooding back. “You had turned fourteen that summer and I was about to have my birthday in early fall.”
Jem laughed, a happy, genuine belly chuckle that shook the whole couch and made me smile wider. “I remember you getting super jealous because I was paying attention to all these girls.” He pointed at the blurred figures of a couple young girls in the background.
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