by K. Bromberg
“No.” There’s no waffling in his voice when he says it, and while I should be offended, I’m not in the least.
“Oh, c’mon.”
“Sorry, Em. Trust isn’t going to save me when I’m hurtling to the earth at a million miles an hour and my parachute fails to open.”
“Pfft. Such dramatics.” I roll my eyes but smile when I realize he really is petrified of the idea. It’s in the shift of his feet and the sudden shaking of his head as if he’s physically rejecting the idea every time it gets brought up.
It takes a lot to overcome that kind of fear.
I should know.
“Dramatics? Life and death,” he says as he pretends his hands are scales weighing each one. In his scenario, death wins. “I’ll stay here and watch with my feet planted firmly on the ground.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug as I slip my arms into the sleeves of my flight suit and zip it up over my red tank top. “You’re gonna miss one hell of a ride.”
“I know somewhere else I can get a ride,” he murmurs suggestively as I walk past him and laugh.
“Head up. Wings out,” I say.
There are hard limits.
And then there are hard limits.
Like watching the specks in the sky above me as they hurtle to the ground and knowing one of them is Emerson.
My hand shields my eyes, and my stomach churns when I think of the feeling of falling. It’s total bullshit, there’s no way you can launch yourself into thin air and not feel like your stomach shoves up into your throat.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I murmur to myself as I wait for what feels like hours to see the parachutes deploy.
“A few more seconds,” Leo says and startles me. I was so focused on Emerson that I hadn’t realized he’d walked out.
I glance back to the sky in time to see the first parachute explode in a bloom of color. One after the other they open, dragging each jumper higher before slowly floating down again.
I want to say I breathe a little easier, but fuck if I’m not nauseated just watching the whole process.
“You really don’t like this, do you?” Leo asks, giving me that look that says I’m a disgrace to the male gender for being such a pussy.
I glare at him from behind my sunglasses, saying, “You people are all fucking crazy.”
“Yes, we are.”
The phone rings in the office, and he heads back in to answer it while the parachutes continue to get bigger as they glide closer to the ground. From the corner of my eye, I watch the field person get ready to help jumpers if they need assistance, but I never take my full attention away from trying to find Emerson.
I mean, I know she’s fine, but I need to see it for my own eyes. And when I do, my feet start moving on automatic to where she is standing amid the long grass of the field with a huge grin on her face.
“Great jump, everyone,” she says as she goes from jumper to jumper and pats them on the back or gives them a high five. She takes pictures of a few of them, and some ask her to be a part of the shot with them.
“I have it, Em,” Leo says, appearing out of nowhere when she begins to detach the parachute rigs for the clients. “You need to make sure Nervous Nelly over there’s heart is still beating.”
I open my mouth to make a dig of my own, but when Emerson laughs, it stops the words on my lips. She looks my way and waves animatedly before holding up a finger to tell me just a minute.
Leo may have offered to help, but the control freak in her can’t simply walk away without checking all the rigs out. She heads to the pack nearest her and tugs on one part or another before moving to the next.
Definitely a control freak.
Which, of course, was why I let her think she was in control the other night. Anything to make her feel comfortable in the moment and keep what we had going.
And going it did. Very well, too. So well that I pulled the friends with benefits bullshit out of thin air yesterday as a way to get what I want—more of her, in any way, shape, or form I can get her.
She bends over and tugs on the last jumper’s pack before laughing at something Leo says to her. And the adrenalized, carefree tone of it stops me in my tracks. Realization hits that I want to be the one who makes her laugh like that.
Christ. I know I want more with her—what that more is, I’m not sure—but until I heard that tone to her laugh, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted it.
Studying her as she walks toward me, I know I’ll pay whatever cost to make sure that happens.
“You have some serious balls,” I say off the cuff the minute she’s within speaking distance.
“At least someone does,” Leo coughs out, and I lift a finger in his direction, but my attention is focused on Em—the flush in her cheeks, the lines around her eyes where her goggles pressed against her skin, the ear-to-ear grin on her lips.
She laughs and shakes her head. “We both know that isn’t true,” she says in a voice for only my ears followed by a wink. “You missed a good jump. Perfect conditions. Great visibility. Calm wind.”
“I appreciate the hustle, but I’m not buying.”
“You don’t have to buy; you already have a gift certificate.”
“You’re relentless.”
“And you’re handsome as hell.”
My feet stop moving as she keeps walking, her comment unexpected and probably one of the first things she’s said to me that was complimentary. The thought makes me laugh because to most people that would sound odd, but they’re not Emmy and me.
She’s sunshine with a little bit of hurricane thrown in, and I’m willingly walking straight into her storm with nothing more than the clothes on my back.
She turns to face me, her brow furrowing as I just stare at her as the realization hits me again that I want to be a part of her beautiful destruction. All of it. Without a damn forecast to prepare me for what’s coming next.
“What?” she asks.
“Why do you do it, Em?”
“Do what?” The setting sun plays against the strawberry highlights in her hair and pieces dance in the air like wisps of fire.
“Why do you push the edge?”
“I don’t.” She smiles and takes a step toward me so we’re a few feet apart from each other. Airstrip asphalt stretches all around us, and the excited chatter of the other jumpers coming down from their adrenaline highs turns to background noise.
“What if the chute doesn’t deploy?”
“Then it doesn’t deploy.”
The nonchalance in how she says it pisses me off. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Perhaps.” She shrugs, as if it were no big deal. “But we can die at any time. What if I get hit by a car? What if I have a heart attack? What if a meteor falls from the sky and kills me? What if, what if, what if. No use going through life living scared.”
“But jumping increases your risk.”
“Living every day increases my risk.” She laughs, but it’s the look in her eyes that shuts me up. “Look, I could wake up tomorrow with cancer and never get to jump again. I’d rather take the chance, Grant.”
“Em . . .” I know she’s thinking of her mom.
“Look, the probability that something will malfunction is so small that it isn’t worth even thinking about. Besides, I pack all my own gear, and unlike you, I trust what I do.”
I take the jibe because I deserve it, but it doesn’t help me process how casual she is being about this. “If it doesn’t work, no one can save you.”
“I’m well aware of that,” she says as her shoulders straighten, telling me I’ve activated her obstinate defiance. I’m too pissed at how she can be so careless with her own life to care, though.
“Every time you jump, that probability increases. Don’t you think that’s something to consider? It isn’t as if I could do anything standing here on the ground to help.”
“There goes Grant Malone and his hero complex.”
“I saved—” I saved you once, and I�
�ll save you again in a goddamn heartbeat without thinking twice.
The thought screams in my head, but I stop myself from saying it, from bringing the past into the present. From treating her like the girl she no longer wants to be.
Yet, I remember.
And I wonder.
And I worry.
Just like that fucking case file sitting in my house.
“You saved what?” She grits out the words as she takes another step closer, posture defensive and full of challenge. Sure, she’s angry with me. I’m questioning her, but fuck it, she needs to know I care. Too bad I’m a guy and am not sure how to get that point across without setting off that magnificent and infuriating temper of hers.
“Nothing.”
“I can save myself just fine, Grant Malone. And not just in skydiving. At least in jumping there’s a reserve canopy in case the first one malfunctions. Wouldn’t it be great if life had a backup chute for those moments when you’re falling without anything to catch you?” She shrugs with her hands out to her side.
“And if the backup chute fails?”
“Like I said, life fails all the time. The only way to deal with it is to roll with the punches. Besides, living safely is dangerous. It isn’t good for the soul or the psyche.” She flashes me a huge grin before turning on her heel and saying over her shoulder, “Come on, I’ve gotta close up.”
Standing on the tarmac, I watch her stride toward the office of Blue Skies.
Living safely is dangerous.
Well, shit.
Just as I’m about to walk after her, my phone alerts a text. I groan when I read it and realize I just screwed up royally.
Talking about sex possibilities with Emerson or fulfilling obligations to my family.
I know which one I’d rather choose, and I currently can’t take my eyes off her.
“You don’t have to do this,” Grant says as he pulls down the street I know so well from memory but have lacked the courage to venture back to since I returned to Sunnyville.
I’m not ignorant of the fact that he took the long way through the neighborhood. I am, however, silently relieved not to have to deal with seeing my old house for the first time since I left it twenty years ago.
I risk a glance his way, the anxiety I know visible in my eyes hidden by my sunglasses. “I know.”
I don’t know.
Needing to abate the nerves jittering through me, I slide my clasped hands between my thighs and squeeze my legs together.
Cue the panic.
“My mom is going to be thrilled to have a woman to balance out all the testosterone tonight,” he says and reaches over to squeeze the top of my thigh. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. I appreciate the silent show of support and wonder if he has any idea of the riot of emotions clamoring around inside me.
“It’ll be good to see her,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the houses as we pass.
Sally Glendale’s house is still there and still that awful green color we used to say looked like puke. Then comes Adam Beecham’s house to remind me of the hours we spent on the green transformer box out front playing UNO until the streetlights came on and it was time to go home.
Everything looks the same but so very different from my memories. I bet they’ve all moved out, moved on, and forgotten about the little girl, Emmy Reeves, two streets down who had the unthinkable happen to her.
Did their parents gossip about me for a long time after I left? Did they wonder if I was telling the truth, or did they just think I was making stuff up to get attention from my workaholic mother like little kids often did? Or did they not think of me at all because it was too unpleasant and might ruin the idyllic feeling of their safe neighborhood?
My palms grow sticky as the car slows down. My heart beats faster.
Why did I agree to come?
Because I know all of these people forgot about me a long time ago. I would bet that if I were to ask someone if they remembered the Reeves girl, they’d probably recall her name was Emily or Emma and have to think real hard about why the name sounded familiar.
Maybe I agreed to come because after the nightmare of last night, I don’t want to be alone tonight. I’m so exhausted that I fear what other dreams will come when I finally let my subconscious crash.
“Emerson?”
I look over to Grant, only to notice that we were already parked along the curb in front of a place I remembered more fondly than my own, the Malone house.
My smile hides my nerves as I take in the exterior. It’s just as I remember it being, but the paint’s newer and the flowers are brighter. There’s a woman’s attention to detail in the colorful pots carefully placed on the stoop, and I can hear the wind chimes tinkle in the breeze as Grant opens the truck’s door.
With a fortifying breath, I get out, but doubt shreds me apart with each and every step up the walkway. As positive as I am that most of Sunnyville doesn’t remember Emmy Reeves with the pigtails and freckles, I am certain that the Malone family does.
I spent years going to psychologists, and every single one of them had the same exact look when they spoke to me. Pity. They all thought I was broken and irreparable. As soon as I convinced my mom I didn’t need to go anymore, I promised myself no one would ever know about my past so that I’d never have to see that look again.
Now, for the first time since I made that promise, I’m willingly walking into a room, knowing full well I just might get that look again.
Grant must sense I’m about to lose my courage because he reaches out and links his fingers through mine, squeezing them in silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even glance my way. He just leads me up the last step as if this is an everyday thing for me.
“Hello?” he calls out as he opens the door, but his voice is drowned out by a cacophony of sound. A loud, baritone bark is echoing around the house, along with the screech of a little kid in what sounds like a tickle war. Laughter reverberates off the walls, and the faint chords of music playing in the backyard competes with the sound of an Indy race on a television no one seems to be watching.
Not only is it complete chaos but also it’s exactly how I remembered it.
I follow Grant through the formal living room and stop when I see Betsy Malone. Her back is to me, and she’s chopping vegetables on the counter I used to steal cookies from. Her hair may be shorter now, but everything else about her appears exactly the same.
“Mom,” Grant says.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she says, but when she looks over and sees me standing in her kitchen, her lips fall lax. “Emmy Reeves. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and steps toward me since I’m frozen in place. “Grant said you were gorgeous, but leave it to a man to understate the obvious. My goodness. Get over here, you, and let me hug you.”
Just like that, Betsy has her arms around me and is squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, but it’s okay because if I breathe the tears that threaten are going to fall. I don’t want them to fall. Not here. Not now. Maybe later, but not now.
Her hand smooths down the back of my hair as if I were still a child, and I just close my eyes and sink into the feeling. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The familiarity of her voice and the feeling of her arms provided more comfort than she could have ever fathomed. I know I was stupid for worrying about coming here.
Betsy Malone was my second mother.
This is the closet I’ve felt to being home since long before I never had an actual home to go back to.
“Let me look at you,” she says, squeezing me one more time before stepping back and holding my arms out. When she meets my eyes, there are tears swimming in hers, and I enjoy knowing I’m not the only one who feels this overwhelmed being here again.
“Hi.” My voice breaks with the single word, and it causes her to smile and pull me in for one more quick hug.
“Wine?” She punctuates the word with a decisive nod, most likely to preven
t me from getting uncomfortable. “Wine is definitely what us two women need to combat the five testosterone-laced beings manning the barbecue.”
And as if on cue, there’s a flash of fur followed by a squeal of delight chasing after him. A little boy with sandy blond hair and dirt smudged on his cheek zooms through the kitchen before skidding to a halt and narrowing his eyes at me.
He looks just like the Grant I remember.
The thought knocks me back as I stare at him longer than I should.
“Who’s she?” he asks Betsy.
“That’s Uncle Grant’s friend, Emerson.”
“Cool,” he says as he lifts a foot to continue his mad dash through the house.
“Luke,” she warns, making him stop and causing Grant to chuckle.
With a resigned sigh like I’m ruining his fun, he turns to face me. “Hi, my name is Luke Malone, nice to meet you,” he says in a monotone voice and holds his hand out. He’s absolutely adorable, and I have a feeling he’s also a bit of a hellion. The boy has Malone written all over him, which makes me like him because of and not in spite of it.
“Very nice to meet you, Luke. Is that your dog?” I shake his hand.
“No. That’s Poppy’s. He’s big and slobbery and nice. His name is Moose and right now, he has one of my Pokémon cards in his mouth, and it’s a Pikachu—a really good one—so I need to go get it back before he eats it.”
Before I can say another word, he zooms out of the kitchen like his pants are on fire, leaving me with the glass of white wine Betsy’s holding out to me and Grant eager to properly introduce me to the rest of the crew.
“See? That right there,” Grant says with a laugh, “is why neither of you two bast—jerks have a girlfriend.”
“This coming from the authority on women,” Grayson says with a roll of his eyes.
My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, which tells me it was the right decision to come here with Grant. It had been against my better judgment, but obviously, I was wrong.
Luke is lying on his back on the grass about twenty feet away from us, Moose curled up next to him and dwarfing the five-year-old in size. The little boy seems to be talking to himself while he makes up stories about the aliens in the stars above him. I smile as I think of how many adventures I had in this backyard. It’s the one place that holds one hundred percent positive memories for me, and that isn’t easy to find.