I congratulated myself on following the former and ignoring the latter.
Until I walked out of Brooke’s room that night (another Reid-related panic attack) to see Emma leaving my door and sprinting to her room like she didn’t want me to see her. I had two choices: go to my room and beat my head on the wall, or knock on her door and try to mitigate the damages of her having witnessed me leaving Brooke’s room late at night.
I knew the best case scenario for keeping Emma at arm’s length was to let her assume Brooke and I were involved. She was already halfway there; all I had to do was nothing. Then the image of her upturned face that morning flashed across my mind’s eye, and my memory conjured the smell of the rain on her skin and in her hair. I considered the easy rapport we’d established, and the comfort I felt when she was near. In a fit of unprecedented impulsiveness, I was at her door inviting myself in, and before I left her room I’d held her and kissed her and fallen so hard that I was happy to be broken into bits.
24 hours later: Emma and Reid’s kiss-seen-around-the-world. The kiss that occurred the night after my daughter was rushed to the hospital, unable to breathe. The night I’d stoically accepted a blistering lecture from Mom about my smoking and Cara’s asthma, incredulous at the timing of Emma’s big plan to help me quit. That night, shot through the concern for my daughter, was the anticipation of returning to the first girl I’d fallen for since Zoe.
And then Brooke texted me the photo from the concert—the same photo that ended up on multiple gossip sites the next day, though she swore she only sent it to “a couple of trusted friends.” I didn’t chastise her, not really, though I was disappointed that she’d be so careless. Her defense was that Reid and Emma had kissed in public, and anyone could have taken a photo of them.
“Anyone didn’t, though—you did,” I said.
She shrugged. “The point isn’t the picture. The point is the kiss.”
She was right. For me, the point was the kiss.
***
Now, we have less than three hours together, and we’re on the street and I’m remembering belatedly how freaking cold it is, along with the fact that I was in such a fog this morning that I forgot to grab a jacket when I left the house. I glance down at her, hunched and shivering in her thin sweater. Nestling her against my side, I point to a subway entrance. “It’s warmer underground, I think.” We head for the descending stairs and hop on the R. The view from the bridge into Brooklyn can make you fall in love with New York, if you haven’t already.
Once we’re seated in the sparsely occupied car, Emma leans her head on my shoulder, our arms entwined and hands tightly clasped on my knee. I don’t think we even let go for the turnstile. “Let’s play Truth or Dare,” I say, “but without the Dare.”
Her brows elevate. “I thought you weren’t a games sort of guy.”
I smile down at her. “I did say that, didn’t I?” She nods. “All right, then. Let’s not call it a game. Let’s just call it getting the hard questions out of the way, because I know we both have them. You can go first. Ask me anything.”
She chews her lip, staring into my eyes. “Okay… Why did you kiss me in Austin?”
I laugh softly and she frowns. “Sorry. That one’s too easy.” My gaze flicks to her mouth and back. “I’d wanted to kiss you ever since Quinton suggested playing spin the bottle, and by that night in your room, I’d run out of the willpower to fight it.”
“Why were you—”
I place my fingers over her lips and shake my head. “Nuh-uh. My turn.” When I slide my fingers across her mouth, she parts her lips. I want to kiss her again, but if I start, I suspect I’m not going to stop, and we need this talk. I’d rather spend the next month dreaming about kissing her than worrying over questions never asked or answered.
“Why did you kiss Reid the day after you kissed me?” I’ve pulled no punches. This is the sorest point I’ve got, and I want it behind us.
She takes a deep breath, staring at our intertwined hands. It’s a full minute before she speaks. “When I went to Austin, I thought he was what I wanted.” She checks my reaction, and I urge her to go on with a slight nod. “I was wrong. I just… didn’t know it yet.” Her eyes fill and her voice is uneven. “I know that’s not good enough.”
Fingers below her chin, I tip her face up so I can look into her eyes. “It’s the truth, so it’s good enough. Did you… love him?”
Sniffling, she shakes her head, setting a finger over my lips. “Nuh-uh,” she says. “It’s my turn.” When I frown, she laughs, and a tear escapes the corner of her eye. She dashes it away with the back of her hand. “But no, I didn’t.”
Squashing the urge to beat my chest like a Neanderthal, I pull her closer and inhale her scent, so familiar, even these months later. My voice drops. “Can I kiss you now?”
Her expression turns coy. “Graham, that’s three questions in a row. I’m starting to think you don’t understand the concept of taking turns.”
To hell with questions. We can talk on the phone. I can’t kiss her long-distance. “Oh, I’ll give you your turn, Emma.” Closing the small space between us, I slide my hand behind her neck and touch my lips to hers. She presses closer—warm lips, sweet breath, soft fingertips drifting down the side of my face as we kiss.
Up to this point, we’ve been ignoring the small number of fellow passengers entering and exiting as we move down the line, stopping every few minutes. And then the train squeals to a stop, and three dozen loud, matching-t-shirt-wearing middle schoolers and their harried chaperones crowd into our car. A small pack of girls stare at Emma and me unabashedly, like we’re on a screen and not real people. Whispering behind their hands, their eyes wide, their attention swings between us and the group of boys who plop onto the adjacent seat and proceed to make fart noises with a weirdly impressive array of body parts.