by K. Bromberg
“She likes rocks. Even ugly zombie ones. She’s been really sad, so I’ve been painting them and putting them in her planter. She said they make her smile.” I push the rocks around some more. “She’s not going to have any more of my rocks, Mom. How is she going to smile now?”
“Oh, Grant.” My mom hiccups real loud, and it sounds like she’s crying again. Before I can look, she grabs me into a hug and holds so tight I can’t breathe.
But I cry, too.
I miss my best friend.
Her and her yucky purple backpack and her Barbies and other girly things I hate but would play with her a hundred times if she would just come back home.
Bye, Emmy.
I’m sorry I told your secret, and it made you go away.
If I had kept my pinky promise, you’d still be here.
I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?
The knock on the door to my office startles me. The person standing there does even more so.
I look like hell.
That’s the first thought that glances through my mind when I look up to see Grant’s mom in my doorway. My second is it’s her son who made me feel this way.
“Betsy.”
Is it bad that just the sight of her—my second mom—makes me want to hug her and just sob? I fight the tears burning my eyes because I will not fall apart. Not here in the office. Not at home. Not anymore.
“Em? You okay, honey?” She steps into my office.
“Yeah. Just . . . it’ll be okay.”
For a moment, she studies me as if she’s trying to figure out whether to believe me. “I’m sorry for stopping by unannounced, but I called earlier, and it went to voice mail. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. Come in and have a seat,” I say as I stand from my desk and shut the door to my office behind her. The last thing I need is for the staff to hear any part of this conversation. I’m certain they’re already wondering what’s wrong with me since I’ve been snapping at everyone. I wait for her to get settled and sit in the office chair next to her.
“It’s a wonderful little space,” she says with a sincerity I know she means. “I can’t wait to see how you improve it when it’s yours. I won’t stay long. I just . . .”
“What is it?”
“Grant will kill me for meddling, but I couldn’t stand by and not say anything.” I hold back my sigh when I realize why Betsy has come to see me. “He told me you’ve been remembering things you hadn’t before.”
I thought her opening statement was going to be about the file folder or some grand pitch about how I need to give Grant another chance—the same spiel I’m getting from Desi. So I’m a little taken aback by her statement. With anyone else, my guard would be up, but I find myself needing someone to talk to.
“Yes, they have. Ever since I saw Grant on the Fourth.”
“And you assume it’s because of him?”
I nod, curious but uncertain about where this conversation is going. “It isn’t a coincidence.”
“You know, sometimes it doesn’t take a reminder to trigger a memory. Sometimes your mind just knows you can finally handle it. It knows you’ve found the right people, the right support network to protect you from the fallout of the memory—keep you safe—and your subconscious just wants to rid itself of all of it and start fresh. Sure, the memory is going to screw you up. The devil is in the details after all . . . but sometimes, what you imagine might have happened is worse because your imagination magnifies it.” She shakes her head and corrects herself. “That isn’t what I meant. What happened to you was horrific. All I meant was that, maybe by knowing the truth, you’ll stop feeling the need to run from the constant and probably nagging unknown. Because I don’t want you to run anymore. You’re the only daughter we’ve ever had, Emmy. You left such a big hole in our family when you left before, and we don’t want you picking up and leaving again.”
I feel like something inside me breaks from her words. I spent months missing Grant and his family after we left Sunnyville. They were the one normal I could count on, and then they were taken away from me when I needed them the most. She has no clue how long it’s been since I felt like I belonged somewhere or how her words are like salve on an open wound. They aren’t enough to heal, but they are enough to soothe.
“I don’t want to leave again, either,” I find myself saying. The truth behind why getting the loan means so much.
“And since I’m being pushy, I might as well just get it all out. You can’t leave Sunnyville. Plain and simple. Grant is the one for you, Emerson. He always has been.” The stubborn lift to her chin is so similar to Grant’s that it makes me smile. “He’s patient and strong-willed and will put you in your place if need be, but he will also be the first one to pull you into his arms and hold you so tight that your demons have nowhere to go but out. I know you’ll keep him on his toes and make him work harder to be a better man because that’s what he thinks you deserve . . . but what do I know?” she says as she waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just his mom.”
“I wish it were that easy, Betsy. Grant’s a great man . . . but I have things I need to figure out first. Things I need to work through. I need to be able to trust him and . . .” I shake my head and exhale, unsure of how to explain it all to his mom.
“I know my son, Emerson. If he had looked at that case file, he would have been eaten up alive by what is in there,” she says so matter-of-factly that it takes me a second to process he told his mom about the file
“You know?” My words are barely audible.
“Of course I know,” she says, her eyes never breaking from mine. “You were like mine, Em. Your mom and I spent many nights together on the phone, sobbing one minute, screaming the next, and sitting in silence between so the other wasn’t alone.”
I blink rapidly, forcing back the burn of tears as my mind catches up with her words. With the piece of truth she just gave me.
I remember.
The murmured conversations in the back of the van when my mom thought I was sleeping. My eight-year-old self assumed it was my dad she was talking to, that she was apologizing to him because I had been such a bad girl, but it was Betsy.
“I didn’t know.”
“We both blamed ourselves, Em. How could the two of us—two intelligent, educated women—not see the signs that were sitting right in front of us? How could we be so busy with life that we failed you?”
“It isn’t your fault,” I say. My need to rid the pain in her voice all-consuming.
“You’re right. It isn’t. Just like it wasn’t yours and it wasn’t Grant’s. Though, to this day, I think he blames himself for not saving you sooner.”
Why would Grant blame himself?
The thought is staggering, and my head is so full of these new revelations all I can do is keep listening to her. “It was your father’s fault. He was pure evil. To make you feel like it was your fault? To trick you into thinking it was all dreams? He was evil to the core.”
My heart drops. How does she know this? How does she know the doubt I have and my mistrust of my own memory? “You knew about that?” My voice is barely audible.
“Who do you think sat and held your mom’s hand as we watched you with the detective and therapist on the other side of the two-way mirror at Children’s Hospital? It was me, sweetie. I know he tricked you. I know you doubted back then, and probably sometimes still do today, whether you were at fault or to blame. After all the games he played with your mind, that’s more than understandable. Let me tell you that you weren’t.”
“I didn’t realize that you were there after . . .”
“Do you think I would leave you and your mom when you needed me most?” She smiles a sad smile as she remembers. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’re remembering some of it. Will you keep remembering? I don’t know. Your mind might continue to protect itself from the trauma . . . or it might not. Just know that we are here for you if you need us. You ca
n call me any time, day or night, and I’ll come to you, even if it’s just to sit with you in the darkness and so you know you aren’t alone with a new memory rattling around in your head. You’re not alone anymore, Emerson. You never were.”
“Betsy, I don’t know what to say . . .”
“Don’t say anything,” she says as she reaches out to squeeze my knee. “Obviously, if you stay and want to be a part of our family—in all our craziness and bantering—it will be on your own terms, your own time frame. And the offer remains regardless if you are or aren’t with my son.” She stands. “But I have to tell you he’s downright miserable right now. My bet is it’s because he misses you.”
You’re not alone anymore, Emerson. You never were.
Betsy’s words still linger in my mind when Desi walks in a couple of hours later.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I say with a sarcastic smile as I brush past her without saying anything else.
“You talk to him yet?”
Jesus. Is this the Save Grant brigade? First Betsy. Now Desi. If Leo joins the party, I might just leave after all. It’s really hard not to think about someone when they keep getting brought up.
“I have shit to do, Des. I have this class coming in to jump. I have . . . I just have shit to do.”
“You think that’s smart, Em?”
“What?” I busy myself with papers so that I don’t have to meet her eyes.
“Jumping. From an airplane. You know, thousands of feet above the ground. I sure as hell wouldn’t trust you to take me in the state you’re in. Like I said, you look like hell. And distracted. Exhausted. And if I’m honest—”
“By all means, don’t hold back.”
“Sketchy.”
“Sketchy?”
“Yeah,” she says and then falls silent until I meet her eyes for the first time. “You look like you couldn’t complete two tasks if your life depended on it.”
“That’s just because I’m trying to avoid talking to you.”
“Well, at least you’re being honest.”
I stop fidgeting and sigh. She’s right, and I don’t want to admit it. “Look, Des. I’m dealing with a lot of shit. I appreciate you coming to check on me, but nothing has changed. Nothing is going to change.”
“So, you’re going to shut me out just like you’re doing to him?” she asks, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised.
“How do you know I’m shutting him out? Did you talk to him?” My voice escalates in pitch, and when Leo walks in and sees the silent standoff waging between Desi and me, he backs back out of the office without saying a word.
“I didn’t say I spoke to him.”
She implied it, though.
“I’m not shutting you out. I’m just . . .” I look out the window to where I’ve noticed a cruiser drive by several times over the past week and hate that I hope to see it.
“Correction. You’re not shutting me out, you just aren’t dealing is what you’re doing. In that head of yours, you’re trying to figure out how you can rabbit out of here without messing up everything you’ve worked so hard for. The loan. Blue Skies. Me, your only family.” Her voice softens. “I’m not going to let you run, Em.”
I hate that my eyes burn with tears. I hate that the chocolate cake she brought me holds no appeal. I despise that as much as I hate Grant right now, I also miss everything about him.
“He hurt me,” I whisper, the words barely audible, as if it pains me to admit it.
“Yeah, I know he did. And I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry you’re hurt, but sometimes, when you’re in a relationship with someone, that happens.” I start to reject her notion of relationship, but she holds her hand up and nips it in the bud. “Have you considered giving him the benefit of the doubt?”
“Why does he deserve it?”
“That’s up to you to decide, but in the meantime, you’re miserable as hell, you look like shit, and in the end, you’re only hurting yourself by not listening to him. Have you stopped for a single second to consider that maybe you’re wrong? That maybe Grant is telling the truth about pulling the file accidentally and never opening it?”
I shake my head, not wanting to hear her reasoning because she should be the one supporting me. She should be the one telling me I’m in the right and to dump him.
But she isn’t.
“I’m not wrong,” I say, using anger to fuel my denial.
“Maybe you are.” She shrugs with a challenging lift of her eyebrows. “Maybe you’re willing to believe he hurt you because it’s so much easier for you to be mad and shut people out than it is to believe them. Because believing him means you might have to put yourself and your heart on the line.”
“I have my rules, Des.”
She’s wrong. She has to be.
She laughs, and I hate the condescending sound to it. “And look what happened when you threw them out the window. You came to life, Emerson. He made you feel alive. Anyone who can do that to you shouldn’t be confined to your self-preservationist rules. They deserve the benefit of the doubt. They deserve a second chance.”
“I have to get to work.”
“Don’t jump today.”
“Head up. Wings out,” I say as I walk into the conference room and away from the truth she’s telling that I don’t think I’m ready to hear.
And straight into Christopher.
Startled, I jump back, but he keeps his hand firmly on my arm.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, completely uncomfortable as I yank my arm away from him.
“The side door was open. I didn’t want to interrupt your girl time.”
My skin crawls with the knowledge that he was eavesdropping. “Next time use the front door please.”
“Or you could answer my calls when I make them, or were you too busy sleeping around with the Malone boys?” He tsks. “Big mistake on your part.”
“Mistake or not, it’s none of your business.” I grit my teeth for the umpteenth time. Patience.
Only a few more days, and I’ll never have to deal with this slime bag again.
His hand is back on my bicep without warning. “Apparently, you don’t want your loan, Ms. Reeves?” he says, purring out my last name and causing my stomach to revolt.
“You asking me out for dinner has nothing to do with my loan.”
“It has everything to do with your loan.”
“Excuse me? I wasn’t aware that when I signed the loan application with you that prostitution was part of the deal.”
He runs the tip of his finger down my arm, and I want to slap his hand away. “You have everything to do with the deal. Don’t forget that I am the only one willing to take a risk on you, Emerson. I’m the only lender even remotely willing to issue a loan with your credit history . . . so, I think it’s you who should be bending to me.”
“No. I don’t bend for anyone. It’s as simple as that.”
“No?”
“You heard me, Chris. Your sexual harassment bullshit doesn’t fly with me, and I’m sick of putting up with it. I’m sure the board of ethics wouldn’t approve of it, either,” I say without even knowing if there is such a thing as a board of ethics for lending practices. “Get the loan approved. Fund the money to the owners. Close the deal. Do your job.”
His chuckle scrapes over my skin like nails on a chalkboard. “Your loan was denied this morning.”
“What?” If I could get whiplash from the change in conversation, I would have it. “What did you just say?”
Is he fucking kidding me?
“Yep. It was rejected today. If you would have answered my calls or listened to any of my voice mails, you would have known that already . . .” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans one shoulder against the wall. “Don’t worry, though. When the lender notified us, the Skies’ broker said they were going to move forward and accept their backup offer. I’m sure if you ask nicely, they’ll put in a good word for you with the new owners. Maybe they�
�ll give you a job.”
“How is that even possible?” I shout as every part of me rages in a disbelief I can’t even process.
“Well, when you drag your feet and don’t provide your loan officer the things he needs, it can happen quite easily.” His smarmy smirk matches the tone in his voice. “One missing piece, one mistyped figure, is all it takes for the lender to throw it out.”
“You bastard.”
“Not from where I stand.”
“You knew my loan was denied, and you pretended it wasn’t to try to get me to sleep with you.” My fists clench and body vibrates with anger. “Get. Out.”
“Too bad, this place could have been all yours.” He holds his hands out to his sides and winks. “Good luck finding someone to lend you the money now . . . but then again, it doesn’t matter. Your dream is already being sold to someone else.”
And with that, he slams the side door shut as I stand there and just stare at it.
With each breath, each beat of my heart, each tremble of my hands, the anger slowly morphs into disbelief.
Then disbelief gives way to shock.
Then shock to devastation.
“Em, you okay? It sounded like something fell,” Leo says as he clears the doorway and looks around, his constant movement faltering when he sees me.
“Emerson?”
I just lost my loan.
“I’m fine. I just . . .”
I just lost my fresh start.
“I just need to get out of here for a bit. Can you handle everything?”
“Sure. Yes. You sure you’re okay?” Concern laces his tone.
“Yeah.”
I just lost my dream.
“How long you going to do this, man?”
“Do what?” I ask as I turn down Serenity Court.
“You’re too close to this case,” Nate says as I pull the cruiser to the curb and put it in park. There are cars in the driveway, the garage door is closed, and there are lights on inside. “How are you going to explain why you’re in their front yard if Davis comes waltzing out? That doesn’t exactly look good. I mean . . . what if he is abusing them, you snooping around constantly looks like a perfect case of police interference, planting evidence, discrimination—Jesus, just about anything people accuse cops of these days.”