My room has a small balcony right off a set of garden doors that have been utilized in many an escape with Marley in my youth. I nod to them. “That’s my room there.”
“Can I still walk you? A lot happened tonight; I want to see you to your door and make sure you’re all right.” The smallest flicker of a smile dances on his face and he adds, “Besides, if my mother found out I wasn’t a gentleman, she’d beat my ass, and she scares me more than Mateo.”
I laugh. “Okay. For your mom, then.”
Tristan follows behind me, hands deep inside his pockets. I reach the door and open it. Before I’d left, I made sure to leave the lights on so I wasn’t stumbling in the dark. I step inside and turn to find him leaning against the door frame, his eyes scanning my bedroom walls.
“You some kind of geography freak?”
I pull his jacket around me even tighter. “Huh?”
“The maps,” he says. “You have so many.”
“Oh. No. Those are just the places I hope to see someday.”
He nods but doesn’t speak.
“So, uh, thanks,” I say. “For everything.”
“No problem. That’s what friends are for, right?”
As Tristan leaves, I close the doors and make sure the lock, the dead bolt, and the chains are all in place. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, then strip down to my bra and underwear. Before I climb into bed, I take his jacket and as I lie down, I hug it against my chest, hoping to associate his smell with something safe. Hoping I can sleep.
FIVE
Tristan
Elevator music makes sitting on hold worse, not better. Mateo’s car pulls into the parking lot and for a brief moment I wonder why he’s not on his bike, but when he steps out holding a paper coffee tray that cradles three cups, I know why he’s driving his winter wheels.
He retrieves one from the tray and hands it to me. “Vanilla whatever-the-fuck your sissy drink is.”
I keep the phone tucked to my ear with my neck and chin and mouth thank you.
“Where’s the old man?”
I gesture to the office and as Mateo slips through the door to give my dad his coffee, Cindy, my supplier’s sales rep, chirps over the phone. I order the fan belt for Emma’s car, ask Cindy politely to expedite the process, and hang up as both Mateo and my dad come from the back.
“Thanks, man,” I say, this time out loud.
“No problem.”
“Welcome to the land of the living, Pops.”
My dad sighs and sits down on one of the racing-stripe bar stools. “Mateo convinced me to take a break and have a coffee with you boys.”
The grin on Mateo’s face tells me he’s proud of himself. As if busting my workaholic dad out from the office is his good deed for the day.
“So.” My dad nods to Emma’s Beetle. “This the car that needed the tow yesterday?”
“Yeah. Fan belt is all chewed up.”
“Unusual,” he says. He doesn’t mean a fan belt being chewed up is unusual. He means anything broken on a Volkswagen is unusual.
“I know. It’s an easy fix.”
Mateo sips his coffee before saying, “Good thing, seeing as how she can’t pay for it.”
Dad says, “I didn’t realize we’re running a charity, son.”
I dagger Mateo with my eyes before turning my attention back to my dad. “Under normal circumstances it isn’t, but the owner can’t afford it. Besides, if you wanna charge someone, we can charge Mateo. He’s the one who promised her a tow and a car repair. It’s not the girl’s fault.”
Dad’s eyebrow inches up his face. “A girl?”
“Yes, a girl. You don’t seriously think any dude in his right mind would be booting around town in a powder-blue bug?”
“Guess not.”
“She’s hot,” Mateo says.
Dad contemplates the new intel Mateo has just armed him with before saying, “And that’s why you promised her Tristan’s services?”
Mateo gives a noncommittal shrug. “Something like that.”
“I thought you only had eyes for Marley,” I counter. I don’t like the feeling I get when Mateo calls Emma hot. I realize I have no claim to her, but it still pisses me off. I grip my coffee cup tighter in my hand and clamp down on my jaw to stop it from ticking.
“My heart belongs to Marley,” he acknowledges. “Doesn’t mean it’s stopped beating altogether. I still have a pulse, therefore I can still very much acknowledge when a girl is hot, and Emma is most definitely hot. If she wasn’t, Brady wouldn’t have hit on her.”
“Brady was two shots short of alcohol poisoning last night; he probably would have hit on his grandmother,” I point out. “He saw Emma as a good opportunity.”
Mateo sighs. “I should have beat him down for talking to her like that.”
I can tell Dad’s interest is at least partially piqued, but the other part, the more sensible one, wants to avoid the drama and danger of youth. He has no desire to live vicariously through me, which works out just fine for the both of us, but only when Mateo isn’t around to volunteer information no one has asked him about.
“Brady Maxwell was trying to mess with her at the party last night down by the pier.”
Dad brings the coffee to his lips. “That kid is nothing but trouble. Doesn’t have a hope in hell, that one.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. “But he does have some kind of guardian angel on his shoulder, because I’m pretty sure Mat was going to kill him.”
Dad doesn’t ask any questions. We finish our coffee that way.
Emma
I wake with the arms of Tristan’s jacket tangled around me. One is snaked around my waist and the other rests near my face, right beside my nose. It smells like mint and aftershave and something I can’t quite pinpoint. I close my eyes and allow myself to think about what it might be like if he were here to fill the empty sleeves. What it might feel like to be held again. Even temporarily.
I woke only every couple of hours last night. A bonus.
Stop. I need to stop. Just because Marley finally noticed Mateo, or at least admitted noticing him, doesn’t mean I need to get in line to board the smitten train. I need to be focused. I need to find a job so I can pay for my car and escape from this place.
I pull back the covers and stand, selecting a pair of sweats and a T-shirt before lacing up my shoes. I run every single day, sometimes more than once, but always in the morning. I grab my iPod from my duffel bag and put the earbuds in my ears before slipping out the garden door and taking off. As my legs move, I push myself harder, taking everything to the limit.
My jog is more like a sprint and beads of sweat drip down my forehead, spilling onto my T-shirt. The song that blasts into my eardrums is powerful and angry. I’ve recently discovered the band Fire to Dust and the lead singer, Kyler, is belting out lyrics about a toxic person and the darkness that consumes him. It’s fitting.
By the time I round the corner back onto Rosemount, I notice my mother’s car is gone. I stop where it’s usually parked and put my hands on my knees to get air into my lungs. My heart is hammering against my chest, begging to stop working so hard. My breath is ragged and labored and my side hurts. It feels like freedom.
As the steam from the shower fills the bathroom, I peel my clothes off and discard them on the floor. I step closer to the mirror to inspect my reflection. My hair is long, too long. I could use a haircut before I end up sitting on it. The muscles in my legs bulge almost grotesquely and the large, jagged scar that starts just below my belly button and zigzags to my hip bone makes bile sting my throat.
With morbid fascination, I run my fingertip along the raised, bumpy crevices, following its twists and turns. It feels as ugly as it looks. No part of me wants to remember how it got there, so I get in the shower, where mirrors and memories cease to exis
t.
When I’m finished, I secure my hair in a twist, apply some makeup, and put on a simple black jersey dress layered with a sweater.
Doubtful that my mother has anything for breakfast, I grab my wallet and cell phone, and the brown kraft-paper envelope containing my résumés.
My first stop is Perkfection, a local coffee shop Marley and I used to hang out at as teenagers. There’s an overstuffed sofa in the corner that I remember cuddling with Marley on while we watched the hipsters and suburban Barbie moms line up for their double-shot mocha-infused coffee, heated to precisely 106 degrees.
I order a regular coffee, black, and a Danish to go. The girl behind the counter has red dreadlocks and a lip ring. She looks bored.
I pay for my coffee. “Do you happen to be hiring?”
She takes my money and pops her gum. “No, sorry. We actually had to let someone go last week. Try back in the fall.”
I can’t wait until the fall. I don’t have that long—but I don’t tell her that as I gather my Danish and coffee. “Thanks.”
By the end of the week I’ve applied at the gas station, the bookstore, the hardware store, and one of the two hair salons in town. The gas station wanted someone to work the nightshift, the bookstore wasn’t hiring, and the hardware store was closed until further notice.
Jolene, the proud owner of the hair salon, couldn’t offer me a job but did offer me fifty percent off my next service in addition to her wishes for luck and prosperity in my search.
The following Monday, my hopes of earning enough money to be able to afford to leave Stonefall are waning alongside my confidence. I’ve gone for my run, showered, and changed, this time into a black pinstripe pencil skirt that I wear with my favorite pair of shoes, black Louboutin pumps. They are secondhand but I love them.
After I slip the pumps on my feet and stand, Tristan’s jacket slides down the front of the pillow where I’d had it resting on the bed. I’d been too embarrassed to return it after the incident with Brady last week, but I can tell that I’m becoming attached to the jacket, so before I can give it any more thought, I scoop it up and head out the door.
Banks Auto is surprisingly chic for a car repair shop. I’d hardly noticed last time I was here but through the front window, I see a sitting area outfitted in furniture typical of a corporate office: a streamlined red leather sectional plus an oversized leather armchair situated around a coffee table. Much more inviting than people might expect from their mechanic.
Tristan’s plaid jacket is in my hands. I told myself I was coming here to bring it back and thank him for defending me, although a small part of me just wants to see him again. That night I felt safe for the first time since I could remember, and it was so good, so incredible, that I fear his presence will become borderline addictive.
I shoulder the door open and it chimes, signaling a new patron. The ring bell for service sign sits on the desk, and for half a second, I debate leaving the jacket and running, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can hear voices coming from the back, so brazenly, I step behind the desk and push open the door that leads to the garage.
Tristan and Mateo are seated with an older man. One look and I can tell this is Tristan’s father, because looking at him is like looking at Tristan in a time machine.
I clear my throat. “Um, excuse me. Tristan?”
Tristan
For a second, I think I’m imagining the sound of her voice saying my name, but the curious expression on my dad’s face tells me I imagined nothing. I turn around, not expecting the sight my eyes settle on.
Gone is the sweatpant-clad Emma. Gone is the Emma with zombie hands groping her boobs. An all-business Emma now stands before me. She’s dressed in the kind of getup that would give any kid a wet dream about his hot teacher or a sexy secretary.
“Emma,” I croak. I clear my throat. “Good morning.”
Her gaze darts nervously between my father and me. “Could I—” She stops. “Would it be all right if I speak to you for a second?”
Dressed like that, she could ask me to bring her the moon and I’d find a way to do it. I slide off the stool and place my coffee down in front of my dad. “Yeah, sure.”
As I near her, the butterscotch smell that sticks to her skin and begs me to taste it infuses the space around her. I swallow hard and push the door to our reception area open, leaving Mateo and my father behind to speculate.
I gesture to the red sofa my mother had custom-made for the shop. “Please, sit.”
She does and I follow suit, careful to leave a respectable distance between us. She crosses one long leg over the other and, intentional or not, the movement is seductive. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She smiles. “Hardly a pleasure, but I brought your jacket back.” As she speaks, she holds out the worn plaid jacket I’d given her last week. I wonder if it smells like she does after spending time with her. If so, I’m tempted to take it back.
I put my hand on the fabric and look at her, attempting to gauge her expression. “I gave it to you.”
“I can’t take it,” she insists.
“Why not?”
“Because between the tow and the car, I don’t know how to pay . . .” She sighs, obviously frustrated with having to explain herself. “I can’t keep your coat too.”
I consider what she’s said. If she weren’t so bloody skittish about everything and averse to the idea of getting close to anyone, I might take it back. But she’s piqued my interest. “I thought we were going to be friends.”
She nods. “We are. We can be, I mean. We can be friends without me keeping your jacket.”
I lean back into the couch, bring a boot to my knee, and cross my arms over my chest. “Let me ask you something. If it was your birthday and I gave you that jacket as a gift, would you give it back?”
“Of course not.”
“So why is this any different?”
She fixes her gaze on her hands, which twist in her lap. “Because it isn’t my birthday.”
“I want you to have it, Emma,” I say. “Please.”
She chews on her lower lip, and it drives me a little crazy. “But why?”
The answer should be obvious, but because it’s not, I wonder what kind of friends—aside from Marley—she’s had. “Because,” I say, “when you’re friends, I guess you don’t really need a reason.”
“Okay,” she agrees. She stands and smooths her hands over the skirt that’s hugging her body like cling wrap.
“You look nice,” I blurt out. “A little overdressed for the garage, though.”
“I’m job hunting.”
My dad comes through the door then, ready to head back into the office. Fate. “Dad,” I say, way too quickly, “this is Emma Fletcher—you might remember her from when we were kids. Emma, this is my father, Louis Banks.”
Emma smiles. “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Banks.”
Dad is grinning from ear to ear now that Emma is in his sight full on. She’s beautiful, she’s polite, and he’s already under the spell she has no idea she can cast. “Emma is looking for a job,” I say.
Dad’s eyebrow shoots up. “Really?”
Emma nods.
“Do you have any office experience?”
She frowns, but I look at him hopefully, like a kid asking his dad for a bike. Only I’m asking my dad for a girl—a little bit different but just as fun.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she replies.
“Customer service?” he inquires.
“Oh yes,” she says. “I’ve worked in retail. I was in a management position at the last store I worked at, Thread.”
“Why did you leave that position?” he asks. I glare at my father. This was a mere introduction with some gentle nudging, not a full-on job interview. Way to put a girl on the spot.
“Dad,” I say.
&
nbsp; “We need a front desk person–slash–office administrator. The job is yours if you want it. You can start tomorrow.”
SIX
Emma
Mr. Banks vacates the reception area almost immediately upon offering me the job. He doesn’t even wait for an answer—probably a good thing, because he’s rendered me speechless. The smirk on Tristan’s face tells me that the look on mine must be entertaining.
“You all right?” he finally says. “You look a little shocked.”
I square my shoulders. “I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“That makes two of us.”
I look at him incredulously. “Bull. You practically asked him to give me the job.”
He jams his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and grins. “I did nothing of the sort.”
I deepen my voice and mock him: “ ‘Emma is looking for a job.’ ”
“Ahh,” he says, “a statement, not a question. I reiterate, I did nothing of the sort.”
“I guess I can work off my car debt.”
He nods, his shoulders subtly rising, then falling. “Perhaps; if it was a debt. I’ve told you not to worry about your car.”
“And I’ve told you I’m worried about my car.”
“Okay then,” he allows. “You worry about it. Be here at nine a.m. tomorrow. Eight if you want in on the coffee run. Coffee is optional. Not mandatory as an employee of Banks Auto.”
An employee of Banks Auto. I let the words sit with me long enough to sink in. I want to jump up and down like a lunatic. I want to scream and shout and hug Louis Banks for giving me a job, for giving me a purpose, for giving me a way out of this place. Instead I rise from my spot on the couch and offer his son a grateful smile. “Please thank your father for me.”
“Sure thing.”
“See you tomorrow?” I want to chomp down on my tongue. My simple statement comes out sounding like a question wrapped in some kind of hopeful anticipation rather than having the cool and casual tone I’d intended.
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 5