I fumble with my phone and send him a text. You should really come over.
I giggle at my own genius. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
He texts back. U OK?
I smile and cover my mouth to stifle a hiccup. I will be once you get here.
I thought we have plans Saturday?
Come on, Hunter. Don’t make me spell it out. Hiccup. I don’t want to wait. You should come. Now.
Less than ten minutes later, I hear his truck outside.
11
Hunter
My gut tells me I’m going way outside protocol. But fuck, man, I’m pretty sure I know what her texts mean. Am I really supposed to resist?
I sit outside her house for a minute. Why the sudden change of heart? We had lunch two days ago. Has she been thinking about that hug all this time? I’ve had a hard time thinking of anything else, so it’s possible. But why now?
I go up to her door, feeling like I’m walking into a trap. But I’m here. I might as well see where this goes. I knock, and Emma opens the door, dressed in nothing but a long t-shirt. It brushes the tops of her thighs, barely hiding her panties.
Oh, fucking hell.
“Hey,” she says, leaning against the door. It swings open a little more and she stumbles to the side.
Son of a bitch. She’s drunk.
I let out a sigh and my shoulders slump. That’s why. It’s not a change of heart. She doesn’t want to let me in. She wants something, all right, judging by the way she’s looking at me. Her eyes are half closed and she bites her lip.
Fuck, this sucks. It sucks big fat donkey balls, and I have no idea if I can make it out of here in one piece. I need to turn around right this second and leave. She’ll thank me once she sleeps this off.
She grabs my wrist.
Shit.
“Come inside,” she says, tugging on my arm.
Her hand is warm against my skin. I don’t want to pull away, but I do, disengaging from her grasp.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Ems,” I say.
“Yes, it definitely is,” she says. “You should come in. I want you to.”
“You think you want me to, but I don’t know if you’ll feel the same way tomorrow.”
My dick and my brain engage in an epic battle of wills. I could have her, right now. I could push her inside and rip off that shirt. She’d let me. I could fuck her until she begs for mercy.
There’s even a part of me that tries to argue that this might work. This might move things along. We’ll have such amazing sex, she’ll sober up and still want me. I’ll sleep next to her and she’ll wake me up with a hand job, wanting more. I’ll fuck her right into phase four.
She hiccups and covers her face with her hand. She’s so unsteady, she’s practically swaying on her feet. She has no idea what she’s doing right now.
I don’t want her like this.
“Okay, Ems, you need to go lie down,” I say.
Her bottom lip quivers and tears flood her eyes. “You don’t want me?”
I clench my teeth. I’m supposed to be keeping things in the friend zone. If I don’t tread very carefully, I’m going to ruin the progress I’ve already made. I’ll probably find myself at phase negative five.
“Come on,” I say. I step inside and put an arm around her shoulders. She stumbles as I walk her to the couch. “There you go, lie down.”
She does what I ask, and I cover her up with a blanket. Tears spill down her cheeks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting you some water.”
I grab the bottle of tequila and the shot glass off the coffee table and put them in the kitchen. Then I get her a glass of water. She sits up and I hand her the glass, making sure she doesn’t spill.
I sit on the floor next to her. “How much tequila did you drink?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. A lot.”
“I can tell.”
She sniffs and takes another sip of water. “I loved it when you hugged me the other day.”
Oh, man. I wonder if she’s going to remember this tomorrow. I can’t tell. “Yeah, me too.”
“You did?” she asks.
“Of course I did.”
“It didn’t seem like it,” she says.
I look away. “Ems, you’ve had a lot of tequila.”
“So?” Hiccup. “I’m still me.”
“Yes, you are,” I say. “But you’re not acting like yourself.”
She sits forward, leaning close. I can smell the tequila on her, but far from being unpleasant, it makes me want to run my tongue along her lips and lick the last of it off.
“You should kiss me, Hunter,” she says.
Why is she making this so hard? “You don’t really want me to.”
“I do,” she says. “I really do.”
“No.” I put a hand on her shoulder and gently nudge her back. “The tequila wants me to kiss you. You made it very clear you don’t want to date anyone.”
“Who said anything about dating?” She flops back and leans her head against the cushion. “I didn’t ask you over here to take me out to dinner.”
“Ems, if we do this now, you’re only going to regret it later,” I say.
“There’s nothing to regret,” she says. Her voice is clear. I can almost convince myself she’s sobering up. “We’re adults. We’re both single. It’s not even something we haven’t done before.” She pulls the blanket to the side, exposing one of her bare legs. “Aren’t you curious? Do you remember what I feel like?”
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Ems…”
She moves the blanket across her lap and tilts her knees open.
I want to. I want to run my hands up those thighs, bury my face between her legs. Fuck, I want to.
But I can’t.
I push her legs back together and pull the blanket across her lap. Her brow furrows, and her lower lip trembles again.
“Don’t cry,” I say.
She breaks out into a choking sob. “Why did you leave me?”
Oh god. “We can’t do this right now.”
“Why? I have to know. Was I so awful that you had to get away from me?”
I know I shouldn’t touch her again, but I slip my hand over hers and squeeze. “No, Emma. It wasn’t you. I swear.”
“Then why?”
“Let’s talk after you sober up,” I say, my voice firm. I’m still holding her hand. I can’t let go.
She looks into my eyes and tears run down her cheeks, spilling from the corners. I want to die right here. Suddenly my plan seems ridiculous. How can we possibly get past all the pain I caused her? I was such an idiot to think she could forgive me. She won’t spend the rest of her life looking at the man who did that to her, who gave her that haunted look in her eyes.
I’d love to believe it wasn’t me, that it was her ex-husband. But I know I’m kidding myself. It was me. I did this to her.
I let go of her hand and give her the glass of water. “Finish this and get more when you’re ready to get up,” I say. “I’m sorry, Ems, I have to go.”
I can’t look at her again.
Mission aborted.
12
Emma
My stomach roils, and I try to bury myself deeper into the mattress—only it doesn’t feel like I’m in bed. I crack open one eye, just as a test. Pain stabs through my head.
This is definitely not good.
I roll over and my leg sticks out over nothing. I’m not in bed. Where the fuck am I? My eyes fly open in a moment of panic. What did I do? I didn’t leave the house, did I?
No, I’m on Gabe’s couch. I must have fallen asleep here—or passed out, technically.
I suddenly remember why it’s been so long since I got that drunk.
I sit up and put a hand to my forehead. Tequila is not my friend. Why did I do that to myself? I get up and grab the water glass sitting on the coffee table. I need more of that. And then maybe I’ll consider food. Possibly.
I push the
glass against the water dispenser in the freezer door and my eyes widen. I didn’t get myself water last night. I don’t think Gabe did either. He worked so late, I don’t even remember him coming home.
It was Hunter.
Oh no.
Hazy memories come back to me. I texted him, didn’t I? I realize I’m only half dressed. Oh shit, did we? I search my memory. I don’t feel like I had sex recently. In fact, the way I feel even thinking about having sex makes me pretty sure it’s been a long time.
But he was here, wasn’t he?
I check my phone and see that I did indeed invite him over. I sit down on the couch and take a drink of water. Yep, now I remember. I texted that very obvious invitation, and he showed up.
I remember thinking it all sounded so logical. Why not have a little no strings sex with my ex-boyfriend? What could that hurt?
Fuck, tequila makes me stupid.
And then I threw myself at him, and he rejected me.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
On the one hand, thank God he did.
On the other hand, I was half-naked and very willing, and he left. Why did he leave? Was he trying to be a gentleman? Or has he been serious this whole time about only wanting to hang out as friends?
Wow, I managed to make a mess of this, didn’t I?
My head is killing me, so I get up and take some ibuprofen. I know I should call Hunter and apologize, but I avoid it by taking a shower and getting some breakfast.
My delay has the advantage of giving my headache time to ease and I no longer feel in danger of puking. Texting him is probably a cop-out, but I’m so tempted. I could send him a quick message. Sorry about last night. Tequila, right?
Instead, I bring up his number, close my eyes, and call.
But he doesn’t answer.
Shit.
His voicemail picks up. What should I say? I can’t apologize in a message. But hanging up without saying anything is probably just as bad. His message ends, and I hear the beep.
“Hi, it’s Emma. Can you, um … can you call me back? Thanks.”
I hang up, wondering if he will. Are we still on for Saturday? I don’t even know.
A few days ago, I would have told myself this was a good thing. It doesn’t matter who he is, or what kind of history we have—I do not need a man in my life. Even if it’s Hunter. Especially if it’s Hunter.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Hunter doesn’t call me back. Saturday morning dawns and I haven’t heard a word from him. I’ve thought about texting or calling him again. What if he didn’t get my message? What if he got busy and forgot? But I know that’s not the case. He doesn’t want to talk to me.
I’m a mixture of angry and embarrassed. Angry that he’s ignoring me when all I want to do is apologize, embarrassed that it’s necessary in the first place.
At eleven, I decide to text him. We were supposed to meet at the movie theater at noon. I assume that’s off, but I also don’t want to be the one who doesn’t show up. Or the one who gets stood up.
Hey. Haven’t heard from you. Are we still on for today?
The wait for his reply seems like hours. Just tell me, damn it. All this anticipation, this not knowing, is driving me up the wall. Be straight with me, Hunter.
Sure, if you want.
If I want? What does that mean? I hate feeling like we’re playing some stupid game. This is why I said no dating. I don’t need this bullshit in my life.
But I still show up at the theater at noon.
I’m wearing layered green and white tank tops and a chevron print skirt. I stand outside the ticket window, looking for him. At first I don’t think he’s coming. It’s twelve, like we said, and the last couple times I met him somewhere, he arrived first. My heart sinks. I don’t want to admit how much I want to see him, but my disappointment level is pretty high. I get my phone out of my purse to see if he texted.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
I gasp at his voice and look up. He looks utterly perfect in a gray shirt and jeans.
“That’s okay,” I say. “For a second, I wondered if you were coming.”
He shrugs. “I invited you. What are we seeing?”
Crap, I haven’t even thought about that. I glance at the choices. It’s a small theater, so there aren’t many options. I choose one that’s starting soon.
“Sounds good,” he says. He goes to the ticket booth and buys himself a ticket.
I don’t care about paying, but I can’t help but feel a flash of disappointment that he didn’t offer. Of course, why would he? Drunken antics aside, I’ve made it very clear that I don’t want a date. He’s simply respecting my wishes. I should be happy about that.
I buy my ticket and follow him in. I wish he would stop for half a second so I can apologize for the other night, but he goes right to the concession counter. I come up next to him and nudge him with my elbow.
“Can I buy the snacks?”
He shrugs. “If you want. I just want a water.”
“No popcorn?” I ask.
He glances at me, his eyes searching. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
I smile. “I’ll get a bucket and you can have some if you want.”
He nods, and I order the popcorn and two bottled waters, then follow him into the theater. We get seats in the middle, right where we always used to sit. For the first time, thinking about the past doesn’t make me feel ill. It’s a sweet memory, and I can recall it untainted by the way our relationship ended.
We settle in, and I take a few bites of popcorn. When the previews begin I start to get worried; these movies all look awful. After the last preview—a groan-worthy family drama that looks like a great way to get in a nap—I look over at Hunter, raising my eyebrows. Back when we were younger, we used to critique all the previews.
I lean closer. “That looked awful. I hope I didn’t pick a horrible movie.”
“It was pretty bad,” he says.
The movie is worse than I feared. It’s boring and slow. About halfway through, I realize I’m eating the entire tub of popcorn by myself. I tip it in his direction and he takes a handful.
“Are you as bored as I am?” I ask.
“I was wondering if it was just me,” he says.
Boring or not, I’m having a hard time focusing on the movie. I think about how Hunter has treated me since I first saw him in the parking lot at Charlie’s. He’s been sweet and kind, polite. It’s like he’s being patient with me, giving me what I need to feel at ease with him. It’s part of what’s so disarming. He’s so different. Back in high school, he was darker. Angrier. He never took it out on me; he treated me like spun sugar. But he was intense, and he had a quick temper. This older Hunter is so much calmer. The depth is still there, but he seems more relaxed. More at home in his own skin.
Maybe it’s maturity. Or maybe he went through something he needed to experience in order to get here.
I move the popcorn toward him again. “Sorry, I didn’t know what this movie was when I picked it.” I pause, hesitating. “I guess you get to pick next time.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye to see how he reacts to my next time comment. His eyes don’t leave the screen, but the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. He grabs a handful of popcorn and tosses it at me.
“You’re definitely not allowed to pick movies anymore,” he says.
I laugh and lean closer to him. “Hunter, I’m so sorry about the other night.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Thanks for taking care of me, even though I was a drunk mess.”
He shifts so he’s closer to me. “All I did is get you water.”
I settle in so our shoulders are touching. I want to lay my head against him, but I can’t quite make myself do it. “Well, it was a nice thing to do. I’m so sorry I put you in that position.”
He presses his lips together in small smile and shakes his head. “I’m sorry if I hur
t your feelings. Leaving you like that was literally one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
A tingle runs down my spine. Does that mean he did want me?
“I’m sorry I didn’t return your call,” he says. “You threw me off. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Thanks for still hanging out with me today.”
“Yeah. It’s good to see you.”
He reaches for the popcorn and our hands brush. My body lights up, electricity running through my veins. I’m sixteen again, on our first date, desperately wishing he’d hold my hand. We touch and my heart races.
The back of his hand rests against mine. He doesn’t look at me, but slides his hand between my palm and the popcorn bucket. I move the popcorn with my other hand while he entwines his fingers with mine.
I breathe so fast I get a little dizzy. My hand fits in his perfectly. My forearm rests on top of his and he watches the screen, holding my hand.
I have no idea what happens during the rest of the movie. His hand is large and strong, and he doesn’t let go. I work up the courage to rest my cheek against his shoulder. I wonder if he might kiss me—my lips tingle with the anticipation of it—but he doesn’t turn toward me. The movie ends and he lets go of my hand. I miss his touch instantly, but I gather up my purse and follow him outside.
I want him to hold my hand again as we walk, but he doesn’t. I’m jittery, wondering what happens now. Should I make another move? Should I try to kiss him?
I want him so desperately—but, after the other night, I’m afraid to say anything. Granted, I’m sober, which clearly makes a difference. But what if he says no?
He stops on the sidewalk outside the theater. “So, I’m parked over there.”
The disappointment is crushing. Is this it? But wait, what else do I want from him? I’m not supposed to want a man again. I’ve been there, done that. Once with this very man, and it crashed and burned in the worst way. But in this moment, the only thing I want is to stay with him, even just a little longer.
Operation Get Her Back Page 7