Fuck this. Mateo owes me a beer.
When she emerges, she looks a lot drier than before. Her hair is off her face and tied up in a pile on the top of her head. She’s sporting sweatpants and a hoodie, along with some serious cross-trainers.
I try one last time. “Are you sure I can’t give you a ride?”
“I’m sure.” She shoves her camera bag in her backpack and forces the zipper closed. “I’ll call about my car. I’ll find a way to get you the money.” With that, she scoops up her bag, swings it over her shoulders, and takes off running. As she vanishes from my line of sight, I doubt she’s running toward something. In fact, I’m certain that she’s running away.
TWO
Emma
The more space I’m able to put between Tristan and myself, the freer I become. With every calculated stride, the burden I carry is lifted, all of it easier to shoulder with the solitude I seek. My legs are pumping, propelling me forward, and my heart is racing with built-up adrenaline. I run as long, as hard, and as fast as I can. I run until my legs ache and I’m ready to collapse.
Tristan is far more attractive than my memory gave him credit for. He’s taller than me and lean. I’d venture to guess he hits the gym no less than three times a week. His cheekbones are cut, so defined that he looks like a statue, like some artist’s rendering of perfection. His eyes are the color of the sky, framed with thick, sooty midnight lashes. They burn with such intensity, being subjected to their careful assessment made me squirm.
Getting into the tow truck and again at Banks Auto, I’d squeezed past him. It was the first time in months I’d had physical contact with another human being and when I felt Tristan’s reaction to that contact, I freaked out and ran. Men like Tristan Banks were all the same—fire—enchanting to look at, but dangerous to touch.
I round the corner to Rosemount and slow my pace. The butterflies in my belly crash and burn. At twenty-one years old, the last place I expected to find myself is at my mother’s house, but I saw no other choice. Stonefall could be my only safe haven, even if it’s littered with bitter memories I once vowed I’d never come back to.
My heart is still hammering as I make my way up the gravel drive, the rocks crunching under my feet. It’s been three long years since I’ve been here, since I’ve seen my mother, and I have to give myself a mental nudge to keep moving.
The siding on the two-story farmhouse is old and wooden. When my mother was pregnant with me, my father had a huge addition built on one side of the house. Now both parts—old and new—are saturated from the rain and I wonder how much longer the siding can truly last. Surely it’s a breeding ground for mold and bacteria. The grass is long and overgrown; it hasn’t been cut in ages, and one of the dark gray window shutters hangs, lopsided, by a single screw.
I walk up the steps, noticing the screen on the door is ripped, and when I open it, it creaks like the hinges have never seen oil. The smell of stale smoke permeates the air. It’s been absorbed into each and every surface, embedding itself in the fibers of the house. I cover my nose with the crook of my arm and step inside.
My mom is passed out on the couch in her work uniform. She must have worked the night shift at the diner. I examine her, sad to find she’s aged ten years in just a few. Her dark hair is styled in a pixie cut and she looks underweight. Her head is tilted to the side, the rise and fall of her chest subtle. I expected to see a bottle of brandy clutched in her grasp, but there’s nothing. On the table beside her sits a notebook, an ashtray, and a pack of gum.
I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and drop it on the floor before unzipping my hoodie and allowing it to fall on top of the pack. I didn’t tell her I was coming. “Mom.”
She grumbles in her sleep and rolls over, so I poke her in the back. “Mom,” I say more forcefully. “Get up.” I sit down on what little room there is beside her. “C’mon, Mom, let’s get you to bed.”
This time it works. She flips over, opens her eyes, and bolts upright. “Emma, what are you doing here?”
I shrug. “I came to visit.”
She rubs her eyes. “For how long?”
“Listen, can we talk about it after you sleep? I’ll clean up a little bit.”
She gives a small smile followed by a yawn. “That sounds nice.”
Something is amiss. She seems tired but fine . . . normal. My mom was never fine and sure as hell not normal. She shuffles up the stairs toward her room and after I’m sure she’s settled herself, I tackle the task of cleaning this place. My mother has never been much of a housekeeper, nor has she been a light sleeper, so I turn the radio on and crank it as I start on the dishes. I’m sure that the ground beneath us could split through the middle and swallow us whole and she wouldn’t so much as bat a sleeping eyelash.
Once the dishes are set to dry, I move on to the countertops, scrubbing vigorously with steel wool. I wish I could scrub away at myself this way, removing the layers and layers of filth.
I’m so engrossed in the effort of cleaning the counter perfectly that I don’t look up until the music stops. I spin around to see Marley Scott standing there, arms folded over her chest, lips pursed and her brow arched. She’s shorter than I am and incredibly curvy. A total buxom blond bombshell, desired by every man and envied by every girl. She’s the reason I bleached my hair when we were younger. I wanted to be her.
“I was going to call you,” I say, immediately defensive. “I just wanted to tidy up first.”
She bites her bottom lip and I watch as it stretches into a huge smile. Marley is dressed in a short denim skirt and a tank top so low that her boobs are risking an appearance with a run-of-the-mill wardrobe malfunction. “You’re forgiven,” she decides. “But if I have to find out my best friend is back in town from Mateo Cruz ever again, I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass.”
“I was trying to keep it quiet until I was a little more settled, but my car broke down. Mateo drove by and called Tristan.”
She steps into the kitchen, and the numerous chains that hang loosely around her neck jingle each time she moves. Rather than sit on a chair, she hoists herself up onto the table. “Mateo’s got a big mouth.” She grins wickedly. “You know what they say about guys with big mouths.”
“You’re hopeless.” I point to the table. “Your ass is where I eat.”
Her eyes widen and she wiggles around the table. “Excellent. Easier for you to kiss it. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, Em? When I didn’t hear from you, I figured you were bailing like you did last summer and the summer before that and so on. In fact, I was making plans to come to the city to surprise you.”
I can’t tell her why I’m here. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words. “I guess I beat you to it. Surprise!” I say. “Do you want something to drink? I have—” I stop, realizing the only thing I truly have is no idea about what could be behind the fridge door. I open it and peer inside, expecting to see beer, but there is only a carton of orange juice and a cardboard box coated in grease. I use the tips of my fingers to uncover whatever it is and pull it out to show Marley. “Orange juice and something that was maybe once chicken.”
“I’ll take the OJ. Negative on the chow, if you could call it that.”
I toss the chicken-like substance in the trash and grab two glasses before filling them with the rest of the juice. “Nothing around here has changed much,” I mutter, handing one to Marley.
She sips her juice. “You can’t expect me to believe that’s why you came back to this shithole. To confirm that nothing has changed—which, by the way, you’re wrong about. Your mom stopped drinking. Maybe you’d know that if you bothered to show up or listen to me at all.”
“My mom says she stopped drinking; that doesn’t make it true.”
“She did. Right around the time you stopped coming home.”
Home.
When Marley told me
my mother had given up the bottle, I was far too afraid to get my hopes up. Denying it was possible seemed like an easier—and less disappointing—option. Now that I’m here, all signs point to the fact that Marley was telling the truth.
I look down. “It seems a little too good to be true.” Marley isn’t a fan of bad news or things that are less than perfect, which makes me question how we ever became friends in the first place, but she doesn’t push me further.
“Well,” she says. “You picked a good day to come back. There’s a party tonight at the beach for the start of summer.”
“I don’t want to go to a party, Mar.”
She sticks her bottom lip out in a pronounced pout. “Please?”
“I just got here. I need to find a job soon, not be ripping it up like we’re still in high school.”
She holds her hand up. “Whoa. Wait. What? I thought you were here for the summer. How long are you staying?”
“For a while.”
She clasps her hands under her chin excitedly. “You have loads of time to find a job! C’mon, Emma, you skipped out for three summers, all with really lame excuses, and didn’t even tell me you were coming back even though we text all the time. I think it’s fair to say you owe me.”
“I owe you a party?”
“You owe me something,” she says. “And I want to go to the party.”
I roll my eyes. “I really don’t want to.”
“You need to loosen up. To relax a little. It’ll be just like old times.”
The guilt about avoiding both Stonefall and Marley for the last three years chews at my insides. I don’t want to see her unhappy, so I force a smile. “Fine. Sure. But I need time to get settled.”
“Is that your way of kicking me out?”
I consider her question. “Yes. Yes it is.”
“Fine,” she says. “But I’ll be back here at seven sharp. Be ready.”
Marley stands and stretches her hands high above her head. Her body leaves no question about why men fall all over themselves for her. She’s not too tall, not too thin, her curves those of the pinup girl days and all very real. Most of all, Marley is the most confident girl I know.
Nothing has changed.
I still want to be her.
Tristan
I’ve moved on from the dead sexy carburetor to trying to determine why Emma’s Volkswagen died. As soon as I crank the ignition, it makes that terrible screeching noise. That sound combined with the smoke billowing from the engine leads me to believe that it’s a super-simple fix like the fan belt.
I’d taken her car off the tow and crawled inside to start the engine. The smell of butterscotch lingered in the air, a small tease of what her skin must taste like. Lip glosses in every flavor imaginable were strewn all over the passenger seat next to a bottle of water, but other than that, the car was clean. Almost obsessively so.
I pop the trunk, where the engine is located in an older Beetle, and begin to investigate when Mateo’s booming voice echoes through the shop. “What did I tell you, amigo?” He begins to gyrate his hips like a moron. “She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “She is. She’s also an ice queen. A beautiful ice queen with no money to pay for her car. Fucking stellar, man—thanks.” I flip him the middle finger and return my attention to the engine.
Mateo waves his hand. “Psh. Details. She’s hot.”
I rest my hands on the back of Emma’s car and squint my eyes at him. “Is that all you think about? Women?”
He mocks offense, then holds three fingers up. “I think about three things in life. Women, boxing, and Marley Scott.”
“Marley Scott is a woman,” I point out.
“Marley Scott isn’t just a woman and doesn’t deserve to be in the same category as other women. She encapsulates every ounce of femininity that is a woman within her.” He perches himself on a bar stool shoved up against the wall and looks as dreamy as a lovesick girl. “She’s sex and candy.”
I shake my head and duck it back under to try and retrieve the fan belt. The crappy thing about little cars is that my hands have a much harder time removing parts. Sure enough, when I finally get in there and take it out, the thing is snapped in half and chewed to shreds. I hold it up proudly. “Knew it!”
“Are you even listening?” Mateo gripes.
“First of all, last I checked you aren’t my girlfriend, so stop acting like it by asking me if I listen to you. Next thing I know you’re going to tell me we never fucking cuddle anymore. Secondly, yeah, I hear you. Marley is Skittles and sex, or whatever.” I narrow my eyes. “Did you come here for a reason? I’m working. Actually, I’m volunteering, since your business referral can’t pay for her car repair or tow truck.”
“Ah,” Mateo says, “maybe so, but now she owes you and that can’t be entirely bad.”
“You’re a doofus. She doesn’t owe me anything. What do you want?”
“There’s a party at the pier tonight.”
I shrug and head to the shelving units where we keep supplies. I have no idea if we have the right belt for her car or if I’m going to have to order it. “You going?”
“We are going,” Mateo says. “I just came to remind you.”
“ ‘Remind me’ implies that I agreed to go in the first place. I told you I wasn’t going.” My eyes scan the shelves. No dice. I’ll have to order it.
“You did not,” he says. “You said you’d think about it.”
I didn’t say that, but I’m not going to argue. “I thought about it. Still not going.”
“You’re going, bro.”
“Nope. I could think of a million other things I’d rather do.”
“You’ll come. Know why?”
“I won’t, but I’ll play along. Why?”
“Because when I told Marley that I’d run into Emma she threw herself at me.”
“Threw herself at you, huh? Is that why you’re here in my shop instead of making sweet love to Marley Scott?”
Mateo looks away. “She hugged me. You’re missing the point. The stars are aligned and I’m going to make her fall in love with me.”
I roll my eyes. “Marley isn’t going to fall in love with you, dude. She’s too in love with herself.”
Mateo points an accusing finger. “Don’t talk about her like that. Also, you’re painfully fucking responsible and I am going to drink like a damned fool, so I’ll need you to drive me home.”
“I don’t want to drive your sorry ass home so I can listen to you complain about how Marley doesn’t know you have a dick.”
Mateo grins, knowing he’s almost worn me down enough. He’s like water eroding a rock. “You don’t want to, but you will because I want to.”
“Whatever,” I say. “But I’m not staying late and if I’m driving, your ass better remember that.”
He throws his arms in the air victoriously before sliding off the stool. “C’mon. I’m starving—let’s go for pizza. Carb load.”
When Mateo has decided I’m done working for the day, there’s no point in trying to continue because he will harass me until he gets his way. I wipe my hands and throw the towel at him. He catches it and puts it down. “I gotta have a shower. Meet you at Luigi’s,” I say.
“Don’t be long.”
It takes every ounce of hot water to wash away the chill from the rain and Emma’s glacial attitude. By the time I’m done, I feel almost human again. I select a pair of dark jeans and a plain black tee. When I tie the laces to my running shoes, I can’t help but think of how Emma and I are the same, both running from something.
Emma
For the next hour after Marley leaves, I clean the main floor of the house. When I’m done it’s far from perfect, but it’s undeniably a definite improvement from when I got here. There’s an array of microwave dinners in the freezer and I sel
ect a sad-looking lasagna, which I pop into the microwave before hoisting a black garbage bag up and over my shoulder to deposit on the curb.
Logan Spade, the boy next door, is outside hauling crates of plants from the trunk of his mother’s car, his eyes peeking over the top of the foliage.
“Emma.” His voice is obnoxiously chipper. “Long time no see. How’s it going?”
For a fraction of a second, I debate telling Logan how it’s going but decide against it. “Fine, I guess. How are you?” I don’t really care how he’s doing, but it seems like the next logical step in the conversation.
He walks forward and sets the crate on the front porch before turning to face me and raking his hands through his messy hair. “It’s good. Fantastic, actually—I’m getting ready to head to New York in September.”
“Wow.” Logan was always a bit of an introvert. New York is the last place I’d expect him to be. “That’s great, Logan.” I feign enthusiasm to hide the part of me that’s jealous and wonder what it must be like to chase dreams rather than hide from nightmares.
He beams. “I know. It’s crazy, right? What about you? What brings you back to Stonefall?”
My survival instinct.
I kick at the gravel with the toe of my shoe and jam my thumb behind me toward the house. “It’s my mom,” I say. “You know how it is.”
Logan has lived here his entire life. He knows how it is. I’d be willing to bet money that he’s helped her home from the bar a time or two. I almost want to ask him if he’s had to do so lately, but there is a small part of me that wants to think it’s possible that my mother’s days of alcohol-fueled benders are over.
The look he shoots me is one that is rampant whenever I’m in town. Sympathy. He’s uncomfortable, so he changes the subject. “So are you coming to the beach party tonight?”
I nod.
“Me too.”
“I have to go eat something,” I tell him. “So I guess I’ll see you there.”
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 2