Always Emily

by Mary Sullivan

  “And?”

  “And there’s nothing to do but wait. I felt a bit better for a while, but I shouldn’t have walked over here in the rain.”

  “You walked here? Sick? From your dad’s?”

  She nodded.

  A flush of violence coursed through his blood. “So help me, Emily,” he muttered, swabbing her face too hard, “you are infuriating.”

  She smiled, and it was weak, but sweet. “Wanted to see you.” He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and never let go. No one could make him feel warm and fuzzy as Emily could, even while he wanted to shake her.

  Why didn’t she take care of herself? Why hadn’t she learned to control her impulses?

  “When did you get home?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “And you rushed over here? Why not wait until morning?”

  When his glance fell on her hands, the warm fuzzies came to a screeching halt. He grasped one. Mud caked her fingers. “What have you been up to?” Her nails were crammed with dirt. Digging? In the rain? Where? On this land?

  Wanted to see me, my ass.

  She pulled her hand out of his grasp.

  “What did you do?” he asked, recrimination riding his tone like acid.

  Her gaze slid away from his and she stared at the wall. “Nothing,” she said, voice small but defiant nonetheless.

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “I can’t. It’s better if you don’t know.” He recognized the stubborn set of her jaw, so particular to Emily. There was no fighting her when she dug in her heels.

  “I’m not getting any more out of you, am I?”

  She shook her head.

  “So I’m good enough to come to when you need your forehead wiped, but not good enough to trust. Is that it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  There’d been times when they’d been close, when there had been a connection he’d cherished, when he’d hoped...

  Aw, forget about it.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you had malaria before?”

  “No. I won’t again. The medication will take care of that.”

  “You’re taking medicine?”

  “To prevent it from coming back.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Sure. Help me up.”

  He lifted her into his arms.

  “Put me down. You can’t carry me that far.”

  “Want to bet? What have you been eating? Feathers?” It angered him that she’d changed, that she wasn’t the woman he knew, a go-getter, determined and sharp. Hale and healthy. “Don’t you take care of yourself?”

  “Not lately.” For the first time, Salem understood what a sardonic laugh sounded like. He didn’t like hearing this self-mockery from Emily.

  At the elevator, he stood her on her feet for a minute while he used his key to start it up again. When the door opened and he moved to pick her up, she protested. “Love you holding me, but I can walk. Just let me lean on you.”

  Love you holding me. Did she know what she was saying?

  They made it to the car with Emily leaning on him heavily, with Salem rushing them through the rain to his Jeep, parked behind the resort. He put her into the passenger seat then climbed behind the wheel and swiped rainwater from his face.

  “You picked a great night to come home.”

  Emily laughed, but it sounded hollow, as though more than her body was ailing.

  “What happened to you in Egypt?” He sounded as disgusted as he felt.

  “The Sudan.”

  “What?”

  “Not Egypt this time. Too much political turmoil right now. Country’s torn apart. I was in the Sudan.”

  “What happened?”

  She didn’t answer and he glanced at her, but the country road was too dark. “Are you crying?”

  “Nope,” she said, but the thickness in her voice betrayed her.

  “Was it that boyfriend of yours? What did he do?”

  “Screwed me over.” A bitter laugh barked out of her, but she said nothing else.

  He didn’t want to know more, didn’t want to hear another word about the guy.

  Out of the silence, Emily’s voice floated like a disembodied ghost. “I hit rock bottom.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AIYANA PEARCE CREPT past the living room where her grandfather dozed in the flowered armchair.

  Dad would hit the roof if he knew she was going out without his permission, but what Dad wanted didn’t matter. He wasn’t home, was he?

  She couldn’t help being bitter. Dad used to be home in the evenings with her and Mika, but now he was usually at the Heritage Center, and then when he finally came home all he did was study for his college courses. He wanted to be an architect.

  Dad said a person should have ambitions.

  Gramps snored and Aiyana glanced at him. Gramps didn’t have ambitions, hadn’t even finished high school, but people still loved him anyway, didn’t they?

  Having justified her defiance, Aiyana stepped outside and closed the door slowly. She was careful. There was no way Grandpa would hear the click of the lock catching.

  Bypassing the creaky third step, she ran down the walkway to the street. The cool breeze took her by surprise and she zipped up her jacket. The air smelled like rain.

  A sharp whistle from a couple of houses down caught her attention. Justin! Her heart rattled in her chest like a baby bird flapping its wings.

  She raced toward the sound but squealed when he jumped out from behind a tree and wrapped his arms around her. “Did I scare you?”

  “Yes.” She gasped and caught her breath. She smacked her boyfriend’s arm, but couldn’t be mad at him for long. Boyfriend. She liked the sound of that. Yesterday, he’d said he was hers and had invited her out tonight for the first time. Hers, he’d said, forever and ever.

  Justin White, the most popular boy in school, wanted her for his girlfriend. How cool was that?

  He wanted to keep it a secret, even though she wanted to shout it to the whole world. He said it felt good that it was their special news, only theirs, and they should hang on to it for a while.

  Under the streetlight, his hair shone like gold. His blue eyes filled with humor. Grandpa would call it the devil’s mischief, but Aiyana knew Justin wasn’t like that. He was a good guy. Everyone at school liked him. And he belonged to her!

  He threaded his fingers through hers, his palm warm and callused from shooting hoops for a couple of hours every day after school. Holding hands felt good.

  She glanced over her shoulder, but no one was following her. Good. Grandpa was still asleep.

  Dad thought she was too young to see boys, maybe because Mom got pregnant with Aiyana when she was a teenager. Mom and Dad had to get married.

  But Aiyana was too smart for that to happen to her. Dad should learn to trust her. For Pete’s sake, in a few days, she would turn sixteen. Of course she was old enough to date. All the kids at school did.

  Justin urged her toward the end of Marshall Avenue. “Come on.”

  “Where to?”

  When he smiled, one side of his mouth hiked up higher than the other. She liked his lips. “You’ll see.”

  He led her to the path that went down into the ravine. She never went down there this close to nightfall. The wind had picked up and the sky was getting dark. She shivered and Justin wrapped his arm around her. “Cold, babe?”

  Her heart hammered. “Why are we going down here?” Even to her own ears, even trying as hard as she could to sound sixteen already, her giggle sounded shaky.

  “Someplace private,” Justin said, and the word both thrilled and scared her.

&nb
sp; “I thought we were going for ice cream.”

  “We are. After.”

  “After what?”

  “I made something special for you.” Special. Just for her.

  They stumbled to the bottom of the ravine, where he stopped and pointed. “Look.”

  In a hollow created by a boulder at the back and large old trees on either side, Justin had fashioned a makeshift tent of sorts. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was. A cubbyhole? Just a private spot? He’d stretched a piece of canvas five feet above the ground between the two trees. On the ground he’d covered a plastic sheet with a blanket with a vaguely Native American pattern. It didn’t look like Dad’s blankets at home.

  An overturned milk crate had a bunch of stuff on top of it.

  “I made this for us,” he said. “No one else knows about it.”

  She would rather have gone out for ice cream than sit in the woods when it was getting dark, but Justin looked so proud of himself, she smiled.

  Crawling in on her hands and knees, she noticed that he had everything—candles, a flashlight, potato chips—and beer. She didn’t drink. She’d already told him that yesterday.

  The place smelled like dead leaves and damp earth, but at least the tarp overhead cut the wind.

  He crawled in behind her and pulled the tab on a can of beer then sipped the foam that bubbled out. “It’s warm.” He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, handing her the can.

  “I don’t drink, Justin.”

  “I know, but it’s only one beer. No biggie.”

  She sipped it but hated the taste. That put it mildly. He was right. It was warm and tasted like crap. When she handed the can back to him, he guzzled half the contents then belched.

  She sat on the blanket not really knowing what to do with her hands or where to put her legs. The space was cozy and her knees kept bumping Justin’s thigh.

  Every time they did, it felt as if electricity shot through her. She fidgeted.

  “Relax,” he said, reclining onto the pillows at the back of the tent. They looked as if they belonged on somebody’s sofa.

  He took her arm and urged her down beside him. She resisted, but his grip was strong. “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to keep you warm.”

  She settled her head on his shoulder. It was solid and warm and felt nice.

  He unzipped her jacket. When she tensed, he said, “I want see that necklace you always wear. What is the design? Does it have significance in your culture?” he asked, taking it between two fingers.

  She was having trouble breathing. His heavy arm rested between her breasts. No boy had ever touched her there. He was strong. An athlete. A basketball player. He said Coach made them lift weights to keep fit.

  “It was my mother’s necklace,” she finally answered when she thought her voice might be steady. “She did the beadwork herself. She’s dead now.”

  “I know. The beading’s pretty.” He dropped the necklace. “Your name’s pretty, too. Aiyana. Does it mean something in English?”

  “Eternal Blossom.”

  Justin nodded. “Cool. Maybe I should call you Pretty Flower or Princess Blossom.”

  No. She wanted a white name, like Tiffany or Brittany or Madison. Dad had chosen stupid Native American names for her and her sister.

  “I’m not a princess. My dad isn’t a chief. I’m nothing.”

  Justin smiled and popped the tab on another beer. After drinking a bunch, he set the can aside and wrapped his arm across her shoulders then curled his fingers around the back of her neck, gently urging her head forward. “You’re not nothing. You’re my girlfriend. You’re pretty.”

  She knew that wasn’t true, but oh, it felt good that Justin thought she was.

  He kissed her and his lips were gentle and sweet even if they did taste like beer. She liked his kiss, but wished he didn’t make it so hard so fast. When he put his tongue in her mouth, the taste of yeasty alcohol overpowered her and it was awful. He pushed his tongue in farther.

  His hand touched her breast. It was nice. Sort of. He squeezed and moved his fingers over her nipple. She felt a pull in her belly and lower, excitement and itchiness.

  Following the path of that itch, his hand rested on her there, the heel of his palm rubbing her and his fingers pressing the seam of her jeans into her.

  He was moving too fast, not giving her time to catch up. Her pulse pounded inside her head. His fingers were at the button of her jeans and pulling down her zipper.

  How? What? Wait!

  His hand was on her belly inside her underwear. She grasped his wrist, but he kept moving.

  His fingers were in her curls, touching her dampness. Stop.

  She yanked her head away from his beery kiss.

  “Justin, no.” She sounded breathless. Her chest heaved up and down and her breasts kept hitting his body. She put her hands between them and pushed, but he was strong.

  Fear became a real thing bouncing around the tent.

  “Hey, babe,” Justin said. “We’re just having fun.” He kissed the side of her face, and his hot breath whooshed past her ear.

  She grabbed his wrist again, tried to pull his hand out of her pants, but his fingers were inside her.

  “Stop!” she cried, her heartbeat as loud as a train engine in her ears.

  “What?” Justin sounded frustrated.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Can’t you feel what you do to me, Princess?” Something hard jutted against her thigh.

  “Don’t call me princess.” Her voice shook. “I don’t want you touching me there.”

  “You said you wanted to be my girlfriend.”

  “I do.”

  “This is what girlfriends do, Aiyana.”

  “It’s too soon.”

  “Grow up.” He pulled his hand out of her pants with a hard flick. It hurt and she winced.

  “I can’t believe how ungrateful you are.” He downed the rest of the beer. How many beers made a boy drunk? She didn’t know. She wanted to get out of here, away from him.

  “I went to a lot of trouble to make this place for us.” Justin adjusted himself inside his pants. His place didn’t feel safe, not to her, but more like a black hole in the dark woods.

  “I want to go home.” Her fingers trembled when she pulled up her zipper, but they shook too much to do up her button. She yanked her jacket down over it. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” she begged. “I don’t want people to think I’m easy.”

  He thrust his fingers through his hair. Even messed up it looked good. What she could see of it. There was hardly any light left in the tent.

  “Easy,” he scoffed. “That’s a laugh. Find your own damn way home.” With that, he bolted.

  Aiyana sat stunned. How could Justin do this? He’d seemed so nice. As though waking from a bad dream, she crawled out. The woods were almost completely dark and foreign. Hostile. Every rattling tree branch, every bush, was a monster coming to get her. Justin must have run up the hill because she couldn’t see or hear him. He’d left her alone in the ravine at nighttime. What kind of person did that? Terrified, she ran up the hill.

  The rain started when she was only halfway up, scrambling in the darkness toward the patches of light from the streetlamps flickering through the trees. Something rustled the bushes beside her and she cried out, scrabbling to catch branches to help her up the steep incline.

  Her feet slipped and slid in the muck.

  Rain streamed down her face, ruining the makeup she’d put on to look good for Justin. At least the rain hid her tears.

  She ran home, past their meeting place, and rushed into the house, careful to close the door quietly, even though she ached to throw and break things.

  Grandpa was still sleeping. Thank good
ness. If he’d woken up and seen her, all hell would have broken loose. She needed to get to her room, where she wanted to hide forever.

  She was only halfway up the stairs when Gramps let out his “wakeup” snort and said, “What?” She stopped and tried to calm her runaway heart. He smacked his lips, part of his waking-up routine. She knew he’d be stretching his skinny body every which way to come awake. His spine would make popping sounds.

  The sound of the TV turning on followed her up the rest of the stairs. She tiptoed along the hallway and into her room. Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it and let her tears flow.

  Justin hadn’t really wanted her. He’d just wanted an easy lay.

  What made him think she would be? She didn’t go out with boys. She was quiet at school. Was it because of her heritage?

  In her mirror, she saw the reflection of a girl with dark raccoon eyes because of her ruined mascara. She swiped it with tissues until it was all gone.

  Her hair, usually shiny and straight, hung in wet strings. With the broad cheekbones she’d inherited from her dad, there was no mistaking her heritage.

  Native American. Ute.

  She hated her face and she hated her name.

  Would Justin have attacked her if her name had been Brittany? Or Madison? If she were white, would he have tried to make her drink beer and have sex?

  She grasped the corners of the heavy blankets decorated with the symbols of her heritage and hauled them from the bed, wadding them into a ball and tossing them into the corner.

  It took forever to get out of her wet clothes, to tug the wet denim down her legs and to put on her long nightshirt. She crammed her jeans into her laundry basket. Dad would be mad that she hadn’t hung them to dry. So what? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  She curled into a ball on her plain white bedsheets and shivered.

  * * *

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Salem asked, slowing the Jeep because they were near the turn onto her father’s property.

  “I’ve hit rock bottom. I’m as low as I can go. I need a place to rest.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d told her to leave him alone, but she hadn’t. She’d come to him sick. While he felt used, he also felt an odd sort of honor. In her father’s house, there would have been a dozen people willing to take care of her. She’d chosen him.