“Would you mind if we just...went home?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“Sure,” Emerson says, “Yeah. We can go home, Abby.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment before turning back to the wheel. Delicately, he extricates his fingers from mine to start the car. But the second we’re in motion, I reach for it again. His hand is my anchor in this moment. I need it. I need him.
We ride home in utter silence. The radio stays off, the windows stay closed. I gaze out the window at the darkening landscape, the familiar contours of the town I’ve called home all my life. The incident at the diner only makes me want to speed up the days until I finally get to leave this place behind, go somewhere where nobody knows me at all. But how can I wish these days away knowing that my flight from here will mean being separated from Emerson?
Anger floods in to replace my fear and shame. Tucker has already taken so much from me. Caused me so much pain. Now my long-awaited conversation with Emerson about where we stand has been ruined, thanks to him. If he proves to be the thing that keeps Emerson and I from every truly getting a chance at being close, I’ll never forgive him. Then again, I never plan on forgiving him anyway. There are some things that no amount of time or patience can mend.
I know that from experience.
Chapter Four
Despite Emerson’s offer to listen if I want to talk about the “diner incident”, we don’t get into it upon arriving home. Dad and Deborah have gone out for dinner, as they do most nights when Emerson and I aren’t around. The house feels cavernous and cold tonight. This place hasn’t felt like home since Mom passed away, but after what just happened with Tucker, the entire town feels uninhabitable to me. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again. Scared, confused, and so, so lonely. Only now, there’s actually someone here to help me through it.
“We still need to rustle up some grub,” Emerson says, moving ahead of me into the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to mind my radio silence about what just went down at the restaurant, but there’s definitely been a shift in his demeanor. His usual grin has been replaced by a comforting smile, and his entire attitude toward me seems gentler. Nicer. It isn’t that he’s pitying me, thank god. It’s almost as if he’s recognized something of himself in me. Go figure—I’m sure he has more pain hidden inside of him than anyone should be made to live with.
“Well, I’m a terrible cook,” I tell him, leaning my elbows on the kitchen island. “Couldn’t even boil water if I tried.”
“Huh. Lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent chef,” Emerson says seriously, opening up the kitchen cupboard.
“Wait. Really?” I ask, surprised.
“Really,” he replies, “I had to cook for Mom most of the time growing up. Letting a wasted person near sharp knives and open flames is a terrible idea.”
“That follows,” I reply. “So, what do you have in mind, master chef?”
“Well,” he says, plucking a few items down off the cupboard shelf. “How do you feel about risotto?”
“Are you kidding?” I blurt. That’s one of my all-time favorite foods. I used to ask my mom to make it every year for my birthday. But there’s no way he could have known that.
“I’ll take that as a ‘fuck yeah’,” Emerson smiles, plunking a container of Arborio rice down onto the counter. “Why don’t you find us a movie on demand to watch or something? I’ll get this thing whipped up in no time.”
I follow his suggestion and head for the living room. Stealing a glance at Emerson over my shoulder, I feel my heart warm up a few degrees. His face is composed, free from the scowl that usually rests there. With Dad and Deb out for the night, I can almost imagine that this is our place—mine and Emerson’s alone. We’ve never once spent time like this together. He hardly ever stays in for a night, and I’m mostly preoccupied with extracurriculars and long study sessions at the library. After our disastrous outing before, this evening is suddenly looking up. Maybe we’ll even get around to discussing this sudden shift in our relationship. He’s cooking me dinner, after all. Clearly, miracles do happen.
I scroll through dozens upon dozens of movies as Emerson cooks. The savory fragrance of his recipe makes my stomach growl in eager anticipation.
“Jesus. Was that you?” he calls from the kitchen. “Not very ladylike, Sis.”
“What do you want from me?” I grin back. “Your gourmet masterpiece is taking forever. I’m starving in here.”
“I could always just scrap it and make you some Easy Mac instead,” he teases.
“You’re not that inhumane,” I shoot back.
“That is true,” he chuckles, filling two bowls with the steamy, decadent meal he’s prepared. “Besides, this looks too good to waste.”
Emerson walks over to the deep sectional couch where I’ve made myself a nest of pillows and blankets. I let out a low moan as I smell the garlicky, mushroomy goodness of the food. Emerson hands me a heaping bowl topped with a mound of parmesan cheese and plops down onto the couch beside me, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Almost reverently, I scoop a bite of risotto onto my gigantic silver spoon and raise it to my mouth. Emerson watches expectantly out of the corner of his eye as I sample his cooking.
“Oh my god,” I mumble around a mouthful of rice, “I think I just came.”
Emerson lets out a bark of surprised laughter at my crass joke. “So you like it then?”
I nod eagerly, burrowing into the couch while I take bite after delicious bite of the food he’s prepared. It occurs to me, as I nosh, that I haven’t had an honest-to-god home cooked meal since my mom died. That awareness only makes this gesture of Emerson’s that much more meaningful to me.
“So, what’re we watching?” he asks, taking a bite of risotto for himself.
I grab the remote and click through to the film of my choice. It’s an old favorite of mine. “Ta-da!” I say happily.
“The fuck?” Emerson scoffs as he sees what movie I’ve picked out for us tonight. “I thought you were gonna go for something with super heroes. Or vampires. Anything but this.”
“What?” I reply. “Dr. Zhivago is a classic!”
“Classically depressing,” he says.
“Have you ever even seen it?” I press.
“Well. No,” he admits, “But look at all that snow and shit on the poster! Unless we’re talking about Snow Dogs, that’s never a sign of a cheerful movie.”