Chapter Thirteen
After trying on twenty outfits, getting in at least three fights with Riley, and nearly booking a plane ticket to Canada rather than going through with this evening, I make it out the door to meet Emerson. He’s asked me to meet him back on the Lower East Side, just a stone’s throw from the Bastian offices. I arrive a few minutes after eight and linger on the corner. The birthday boy is nowhere in sight.
Riley dressed me up in a deep red dress with a low-cut back and tasteful scoop neckline. My blonde hair is arranged in a loose chignon, and the warm spring night doesn’t even require me to wear a jacket. My stomach is a little fluttery, and I’m still halfway convinced that I dreamed up seeing Emerson the other day, but I’m willing to stand here for another five seconds or so before I flee.
Five...I count down in my head. Four...Three...
I feel a hand on the small of my back and spin around sharply to find Emerson standing before me. And of course, he looks utterly fantastic. A gray blazer, light slacks, and trendy suede loafers have him looking right at home in this neighborhood. And he’s lost the glasses, too—the better for me to ogle his twenty-five-year-old—or rather, twenty-six-year-old face.
“You showed up,” he grins, his eyes gleaming as he gives me a subtle once over.
“Yeah, well,” I shrug, burning up under his gaze. “I can’t resist a martini, so.”
“Hey, I’ll take it,” he replies. “Come on. The bar’s right over here.”
I clutch onto my tiny black purse as Emerson leads us over to an unremarkable doorway embedded in the busy line of shops. He raps the door three times quickly, then twice at a slower pace. I cock an eyebrow at his antics, but before I can say anything, the door swings open for us.
“It’s sort of a speakeasy type place,” he explains, nodding for me to follow him. “Just a little bit exclusive.”
And he’s not kidding, either. As I step into the dimly lit bar after him, I feel my jaw drop. The place is elegant, impeccable, and super swanky. I almost laugh, remembering the little seafood shack we went to on his eighteenth birthday. How far we’ve come! There are only a dozen or so people in here, all of them looking perfect. This must be some elite, secret spot, known only to the rich and famous. Wait a minute...is Emerson rich and famous now himself?
“This is my favorite table,” he tells me, sinking into a plush corner booth.
“You have a favorite table here?” I breathe, sinking down beside him.
“Sure,” he grins, “And a favorite drink too.”
I gape as a martini appears on the table before Emerson. He winks at the server, who clearly knows Emerson’s usual order. The server, dressed in a finer suit than any of the men I’ve dated, asks me for my order.
“I’ll...have what he’s having,” I say faintly.
The man nods and hurries off to fix a drink for me. I look around at the exquisite room, the beautiful patrons, and the specter from my past sitting across the table from me.
“OK,” I say at last, “This, my friend, is officially bizarre.”
“I guess it sort of is,” Emerson laughs, more than happy to acknowledge the strangeness of our reunion. “But, what good thing in life isn’t a little surreal? I say we run with it.”
A perfect martini materializes before me. I thank the server, pluck up the cocktail, and hold up my glass in a toast.
“Well, happy birthday, Emerson,” I say, “I hope you enjoy your one night of being older than me as much as you did when we were kids.”
“Oh, I think I will,” he smiles, clinking his glass to mine.
I take a sip of my drink and freeze, savoring the mind-blowing deliciousness of it. This is top-shelf vodka. The kind that ought to be kept in a safe. A drink like this must cost a fortune. And this is Emerson’s usual?
“So, I guess the past eight years have treated you well?” I ask, stunned by the fineness of the liquor.
“I’ve done OK for myself,” Emerson nods.
“Well, since there’s no elegant segue to be found here, start from the beginning,” I tell him, “How’s your life been, Tank?”
“Oof,” he cringes, “Using my old lacrosse nickname? Harsh.”
“Yeah, well. Old age has hardened me,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “Now spill!”
“OK, OK,” Emerson says, taking a sip of his drink. “Well, when we last saw each other, shit was going down in flames. Mom had just relapsed, obviously, and I had just...well...”
“Kicked the shit out of grade-A douchebag and gotten expelled,” I finish his thought.
“That would be correct,” Emerson nods. “Mom and I picked up and left. We landed at her sister’s place in Pennsylvania for a minute. We got Mom into rehab, and I found a little apartment outside of Philly. Nice town, you know. I didn’t do much for the next year except visit my mom, take odd jobs to pay rent, and tool around on the computer. I don’t think you knew this about me in high school, but I’ve always been kind of a tech nerd. I became fascinated with programming, data, building things that other people could use.
I got my GED, and told myself I’d take a year to learn some more about programming before applying to college. I took some courses in the city, and found out that I was pretty damn good at the whole thing. The app craze was only just about to take off as I put together my first real project. With a little bit of luck, and a whole lot of venture capital backing, the thing took off. I sold my app, made a ton. Overnight, everything was different. So instead of going to college, I just kept building, and thinking, and meeting new people. Eventually, I ran into Cooper, and he all but handed the European offices of Bastian to me on a silver platter. I’ve been there for a couple of years, and it’s been amazing.”
“So you’re telling me that you went from bad boy jock to tech millionaire?” I ask, staring at him across the table.
“Close,” he says, unable to contain his proud but modest smile. “I went from bad boy jock to tech billionaire.”
My eyes go wide as I try to comprehend the thing he’s just told me. Emerson’s smile fades as I sit silently beside him.
“Sorry, was that a total asshole move?” he asks, frowning, “I don’t know what I was thinking, just bringing that up—”
“No, Emerson,” I say quickly, reaching for his hand before I can stop myself. “It’s amazing. I’m just so, so proud of you.”
In unison, we glance down at our now-clasped hands on the table. Bashful as ever, I lift my fingers away. My skin tingles where it glanced against his. As if I didn’t have enough reason to be nervous around him before, now it turns out that he’s not only my long-lost first love, but also a goddamn billionaire?
This is shaping up to be quite a week, I’ll tell you.
“But...what about you?” Emerson says, breaking the pointed silence, “How did things play out for you?”
“Well,” I begin, taking a nice big sip of my drink. “From the point of our parents’ disastrous one-day marriage, my dad totally wiped out. Relapsed harder than ever. Really just never recovered. My grandparents took me in until high school was over, and then I moved to the city to study at The New School with Riley. We’ve been living together ever since, in this great place my grandparents own...Ugh. Sorry. I sound like such a mooch.”
“No, not at all,” Emerson assures me, “You’ve got to use the resources you have, right?”
“I’ll take that,” I smile. “What else...I studied graphic design and digital media, got my masters, and voila! Here I am.”
“Design, huh? So you still get to be an artist,” he says, his eyes resting warmly on my face. I smile, touched that he’s remembered my childhood passion.
“In a way, yes,” I reply. “And I guess you’ll be seeing a lot more of my work soon, what with your kind of being my boss and all.”
“I’m your colleague, not your boss,” Emerson insists.
“Uh-huh. Sure,” I tease, “Whatever you say, boss.”
“Careful, lackey,” he shoots back, jumping on my joke, “Or I’ll have to dock your pay.”
“Ooh, I’m shaking in my panties,” I snicker. My cheeks flame red as I realize that it’s taken me all of five minutes to bring my panties into the conversation.
“Relax,” Emerson chuckles, seeing my face. “This isn’t Courtney Haines’ house party. I’m not gonna make you hand them over or anything. Unless you really want to.”
“Duly noted,” I tell him, all but swigging my martini.
“I hear she’s on Broadway now,” Emerson goes on, glancing down at his drink.
“Really,” I say, feeling an old trill of jealousy run through me as I remember the redheaded beauty who snagged Emerson’s attention all those years ago.
“Yeah. Almost won a Tony and everything,” Emerson says, plucking up his olive and popping it into his mouth. “Maybe I should call her up and see how she’s doing?”
I’m about to say something polite and change the subject, until I see the look in Emerson’s gorgeous blue eyes.
“Are you baiting me, Sawyer?” I ask.
“Is it working, Rowan?” he winks.
“You’re terrible,” I inform him, relieved that he wasn’t serious about Courtney.
“It’s true,” he sighs dramatically, “Some things never change.”
“Besides, there surely isn’t room for Courtney in your harem,” I go on, “With your whole gorgeous bad boy billionaire thing, you’ve probably got a girlfriend for every day of the week.”
“Nope,” Emerson replies, “But thanks for calling me gorgeous.”
“Like you don’t know,” I shoot back, “So then, just the one girlfriend for you?”
“I’m afraid not,” he says.
“Fiancée?” I ask, with mounting dread, “Wife?”
“Well, there is Roxie...” he says, “She’s very important to me.”
“Roxie?” I ask, “You’re with a woman named Roxie? Who the hell—?”
“She’s my west highland terrier,” he cuts me off with a smirk. “But good to see you’re still protective of me, Ab.”
“I’m not—I just—” I sputter, “I’m just curious, is all.”
“That makes two of us,” he replies, “I’m expecting a report on your love life, too.”
“Or lack thereof, you mean?” I ask drily. “I just finished grad school. That means my most significant romantic relationship at the moment is with my pizza delivery man.”
“Who is he? I’ll throttle him,” Emerson says, raising his fists like a cartoon leprechaun. But the memory of the beat down he gave Tucker all those years ago is too fresh for that particular joke to be funny.
For the first time these evening, the silence between us grows tense. Despite our relatively breezy reunion so far, there’s a lot of ugly, buried emotions hanging between us. I’ve spent a good part of the last eight years being furious with Emerson for disappearing on me when I needed him. I’ve been hurt, angry, and more than anything, just terribly sad to have lost him. All that feeling can’t just evaporate because he’s resurfaced with a shit ton of money and nicer biceps than ever before.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says with quiet firmness, leaning toward me.
“Honestly?” I reply, “I’m thinking about all the imaginary fights I’ve had with you these past few years. All the things I’d dream of saying to you, if we ever ran into each other again.”
“Like what?” he asks intently.
“You don’t want me to tell you,” I mutter, “Your eyebrows might get singed off.”
“That bad, huh?” he asks.
“That bad,” I assure him.
“Well, I had plenty of imaginary conversations with you, too,” he tells me, moving closer by just an inch. “Want to know how most of them went?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Usually, they revolved around me apologizing for vanishing into thin air on you,” he cuts me off, “And for leaving you to deal with the fallout on your own. And hey, now that you’re actually sitting here with me, I can tell you—I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think sorry can begin to fix it,” I whisper, staring down at my drink. “You left, Emerson. Left me alone in that house, with my dad, after the way he treated us. He could have hurt me, if Riley hadn’t shown up to get me. Did you even care?”
“Of course I cared,” he said fiercely, “But try to imagine being me in that moment. Having my mother bring the whole family crashing down all on her own...it was humiliating. I felt like absolute scum for being my parents’ kid. I couldn’t even look at you, I was so ashamed of who I was. And so furious that I couldn’t do anything to help or protect you.”
“Is that why you nearly killed Tucker?” I ask softly.
“I guess it is,” Emerson allows, shaking his head, “I wasn’t really thinking about it much at the time. To be honest, Abby, I don’t lose much sleep over what I did to him. In my mind, that’s what he had coming from the moment he...Anyway. I had to disappear, Ab. I couldn’t stand the idea of you being as ashamed of me as I was.”
“I was never ashamed of you,” I burst out, “Never once, Emerson. That was just some crazy idea you cooked up in your own damn mind. I never gave a shit about our families’ money and standing. You know that. Or at least you should have known.”
“You’re right,” Emerson murmurs, reaching for my hand, “I should have. And for that, again, I am truly sorry. But don’t you think for a second that I wouldn’t have come running back if you’d ever needed me.”
“How would you have known if I did?” I ask, exasperated.
“I followed you,” he says, “Online, I mean. Your social media presence was pretty remarkably unprotected when you were younger. For a while, I scoped you out on Facebook, Myspace, checked in to see how you were doing. But once you got to college, and it seemed like your whole life was just opening up in front of you...I knew you’d be OK. I knew you didn’t need me anymore.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper, my eyes stinging with unexpected tears. “I did need you, Emerson. So much...”
“I needed you too,” he replies, rubbing his thumb against my hand, “But we couldn’t be in each others’ lives then. Not with everything that had happened. But look. We seem to have found a way back in again.”
“So it would seem,” I smile softly.
“I’ve spent the past eight years wondering what I would say to you, if I ever saw you again,” Emerson murmurs, his voice dipping low. I know that dip, know what it means. Between that and the gleam in his eye, his intentions are pretty clear. And despite every ounce of logic I possess, I can feel myself responding to his lead.
“What do you want to say, then?” I ask, my own voice soft and husky. My heart feels like a kick drum as Emerson moves closer to me. Our sides brush against each other as he moves his hand up my arm, pulling me in.
“It turns out, I don’t want to say anything,” he says, his words gravelly and ardent. His lips move ever closer to mine, and I can feel my mouth lifting to his, as if of its own accord. Emerson goes on, his mouth nearly on mine, “I’d rather show you...”
“Hey Emerson!” someone says from across the room.
I jerk away from Emerson as a trio of familiar faces make their way across the room. I recognize the two men and woman as some of the young people manning the communal desk at Bastian. My new coworkers, as it were. And they’ve just happened upon me about to suck face with my superior. I stare at Emerson, my mind scrambling to figure out what my heart wants. He just looks back at me with frustrated desire, forcing a smile as his colleagues come over.
“How’s it going, Bradley?” Emerson asks, as the stylish threesome comes to a stop before us, “Tyler, Emily—Do you guys all know Abby?”
“You’re the new recruit, right?” the man called Bradley asks. He’s doing the whole trendy-pseudo-rustic look, full beard and all. And from the barely-concealed amusement on his face, I know he’s hip to what was about to happen between me and Emerson. They all are.
“That’s me,” I say faintly. Looking up at them, then across the table at Emerson, I feel like we’re back in our hometown diner—that night Emerson’s lax bros nearly gave me a heart attack. I feel the panic beginning to rise inside of me at the mere thought of it.
“You guys mind if we join you?” asks Emily, the chic hipster with bright violet hair.
“I was actually just going to head out,” I say, grabbing my purse and rising quickly to my feet. “I’ll have to catch a drink with you guys some other time!”
“Abby,” Emerson says, his smile tightening. “You don’t have to go already—”
“I really do,” I shoot back firmly.
“What about your drink?” he presses, as our coworkers drink in the tense drama.
With my eyes locked on Emerson, I raise my martini glass and knock back the rest, chugging the insanely expensive and delicious liquor just to spite him. He holds my gaze, his expression hardening into that unreadable mask I know so well.
“See you guys later,” I say to Emerson and our three flabbergasted coworkers. “You have a lovely evening.”
Without another word, I turn on my heel and dash out of the bar. I’ve barely made it back onto the busy street before the tears come. I should have known that this—being alone with Emerson—would be too much for me all at once. There’s too much history there, too much pain, for some breezy birthday drinks to be possible. I hurry back toward the subway, cursing myself for being such a damn idiot.
“I’d love to not make this running-after-you thing a habit,” I hear Emerson’s terse voice say from over my shoulder.
“There’s an easy fix for that,” I snap back, “Stop running after me.”
I draw myself up short as Emerson places his staggering, perfect body in my path.
“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells me, “I shouldn’t have pushed you. It’s just...I can’t pretend that I don’t still want you, Abby. That I don’t still care—”
“Goddammit Emerson,” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around my waist, “Haven’t you ever heard of subtlety?”
“Tried it once. Not a fan,” he shrugs.
“This isn’t going to work,” I tell him, shaking my head, “We can’t just pick up right where we left off after that night at the beach.”
“Why not?” he insists, taking my hands in his.
“Because you took a sledgehammer to my heart, you asshole!” I say, tearing away from his grasp. “I’ve loved you for the better part of a decade, but we’re not kids anymore, Emerson. We can’t just throw caution to the wind, you live in Europe, and—”
“We’re twenty-five!” he laughs, incredulously, “We can do whatever we like.”
“You’re twenty-six,” I remind him, “And I’ve spent the last eight years picking up the pieces of my life on my own. I’m not about to let you shatter them again.”
“Is that what you think I’d do, if you gave me another chance?” he asks, his voice hard.
“No,” I reply, feeling my bottom lip begin to tremble, “I know it’s what you’d do.”
His eyes flash with wounded sorrow as I barrel past him. This time, he lets me go. I charge away, back up to my haven on the Upper West Side, struggling to hold it together.
I manage to make it all the way home before my own grief spills over. By the time I glance at my bedside clock, I see that it’s after midnight. It’s officially my own twenty-sixth birthday. And would you look at that? I’m lying here alone, miserable as ever.
“See, this is why I hate birthdays,” I mutter to myself, surrendering to sleep at last.