CHAPTER 28
Emma
Emily is dropping me off at home just before noon. She has a twelve-to-six shift at the mall, so she’s decked out in Hot Topic gear. Today’s version is oddly similar to Chloe’s Madonna circa Like-a-Virgin costume from last Halloween.
I’m so not going to mention that thought to Em.
“We’ll pick you up at 7:00. Be ready, and be hot. Because Joe is tssss.”
“Emily, I really don’t feel—”
“Eh-eh-eh!” She holds up a hand and closes her eyes, like these things will keep her from hearing my objections to being set up with another of Derek’s friends.
I try a different approach. “I’ve intruded on the last two nights with you guys… Don’t you want some time to yourselves?”
She lowers her chin and levels a look at me over her purple-lensed sunglasses. “Yes. That’s why we’re pawning you off on Joe for the night. Now be a good girl and play nice. I’ll see you at 7:00.”
I pull my overnight bag onto my shoulder in defeat. I know she and Derek are only trying to dissuade me from wallowing in depression over Graham, but it took me months to get over him last time, and there wasn’t even a significant relationship to get over. I’ll probably be twenty-five before I get over this. I can’t divulge such a pathetic outlook to my best friend, though, because she’d likely answer, “Challenge. Accepted.” And then I’d be subjected to a parade of boys all summer long… Although it appears that strategy has already begun. Ugh.
She cranks her stereo and pulls away as I trudge up to the house, where I’ll no doubt be assaulted by the smell of Pine Sol and bleach. Saturday is housecleaning day, and Chloe loves Pine Sol. When I was eight or nine, I asked her why, and she said, “It smells so clean!”
“It smells like a hundred car air fresheners hanging in a hospital,” I retorted before Dad said my name in his stop-taunting-your-stepmother voice. I’ve been cleaning my own bathroom since then, using the same non-toxic, environmentally safe stuff Mom used. I’ve heard that the sense of smell is more powerful where love is concerned. I don’t remember if my mother wore perfume or if her shampoo was scented like flowers or fruit, but I remember the minty smell of the kitchen after she’d wiped down the countertops.
I unlock the front door, and surprise, Pine Sol. Blech. “Dad, Chloe, I’m home!” I call, closing the door and heading for the stairs and the sanctity of my room, inside which no Pine Sol is allowed.
“Emma?” Dad calls from the living room. “Come in here, sweetheart. You’ve got a visitor.”
I still smile when Dad calls me sweetheart.
And then I register the other part, and turn back from the staircase. I have a visitor? Dan, maybe? He’s only been here a handful of times, but Reid and I are doing Conan on Monday, so maybe—
Graham is sitting on the sofa.
Graham. Is sitting. On the sofa.
I’m frozen on the opposite side of the room. Staring at him. Speechless.
“Well, come on, Chloe, we’ve got cleaning to do.” Dad hustles her from the room.
His eyes never leaving mine, Graham stands, smoothing his hands down his thighs in a nervous gesture. He seems taller, standing here in my living room. He’s wearing his thick-soled boots, barely laced, jeans haphazardly rolled at the bottom, t-shirt inscribed with (of course) the name of the band Emily was just introducing me to in her car.
Graham runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. Finally, with a determined scowl, he crosses the room. My flip-flops leave me more than a head shorter and craning my neck to look at him, because he doesn’t stop a safe distance away. His hands grip my shoulders. “We are not,” his voice is a gentle tremor, “breaking up.”
“Oh?” I say, still stunned. Graham is standing in my living room.
“I fell asleep next to her. That’s all. I don’t know why she took that picture. I don’t know why she sent it to him. But it’s nothing. And I will not lose you over it.”
I take a huge, shuddering breath, as though I haven’t been able to breathe fully in two days. Maybe I haven’t. He’s getting blurry from my tears. I blink them away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, one hand sliding to the small of my back while the other moves to cradle my face. He kisses me, lightly. “I’m sorry.” The second kiss is deeper, longer. I lean into him, on my toes as he pulls me closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I shake my head, my arms knotting behind his neck, pulling him to me. His tongue sweeps through my mouth as I hum my surrender.
“Oh!” my stepmother exclaims from the kitchen door.
Chloe. Ruins. Everything.
“So sorry! Um. Coffee in the kitchen. If you want it.” She scurries away. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her scurry before. I laugh, muffling the sound by leaning into Graham’s chest. He’s laughing quietly, too.
“That must have been a pretty good kiss,” he says. I look up into his dark eyes. One eyebrow angled up, he’s every inch a very self-satisfied boy.
“You don’t know if it was?”
He leans closer, his breath in my ear. “Oh, I know it was, all right. Let me prove it to you.”
“Huh,” I say.
He chuckles, the tip of his tongue touching the skin behind my ear. When I shiver and melt into him, his arms surround me, pulling me in tight before he claims my mouth again.
***
Me: Change in plans…graham is here.
Em: Brooke—>bed—>photo—>not speaking to him???
Me: Misunderstanding
Em: What about joe? ARGH. Calling you when I get off.
With a sigh, I cram the phone into my front pocket and reach for Graham’s hand as we stroll the last half-block to the park.
“She’s not happy, huh? If you want to go without me tonight—”
“No, I’m not going without you.” I stop walking and pull my hand from his, crossing my arms over my chest and scowling at him.
He turns back, his eyes that rich caramel they become in the sunlight. God, he’s beautiful. But I wish he’d stop being so… complacent. Taking in my posture, he grins towards his feet and releases a pent-up breath. His expression is hypnotic when he raises his eyes to mine. “Emma.” He steps close, tracing his fingers from my shoulders to my elbows. “Are you upset that I’m not more… possessive?”
“What? No—that’s the last thing I’d want.” My arms loosen. The memory of Meredith and Robby last fall makes me shudder. When I talked to her a couple of weeks ago, things weren’t going well. The enraged phone calls and accusations had started up again, and her emotions were a mess. I can only hope that Robby’s angry verbal outbursts never become physical.
“Really?”
I roll my eyes a little—Graham’s notion of possessive would probably consist of a sharp glare and terse answers. “Well. Maybe not the last thing…”
He laughs. “Oh yeah? What would be last?”
I chew my lip, not meeting his eyes, until he tips my chin up. He’s wearing a cocky grin that I’m about to make cockier. “Disinterest. Goodbye.” I shrug. “Those would be last.”
Instead of a smug look, he shakes his head and slides his arms around me, resting his forehead against mine. My hands come to rest on his chest. “Never, Emma.”
*** *** ***
GRAHAM
“I forgot to ask—when did you get here, and how long can you stay, and are you staying with me?” Her questions are rapid-fire, shading her cheeks a little pink.
We’ve been sitting on a park bench, people-watching. Emma’s neighborhood park boasts a man-made pond with a fountain in the center. It’s about half the size of Turtle Pond in Central Park, and it contains a collection of fat, lazy ducks. When small children toss bits of bread on the water, the ducks only gobble it up if it’s within a close enough range. Anything thrown outside of a four-foot sphere surrounding any duck just gets soggy and sinks.
“I landed in Sacramento late last night. I leave tomorrow at noon—which gets me to JFK around eight New York time. And I’m staying in a hotel downtown.”
Her eyes follow an elderly couple who amble by on the paved sidewalk, holding hands. “Why didn’t you call when you got in town last night?” I give her a hooded look and wait for her to remember her powered-down phone. “Oh. Right. But you can’t stay later tomorrow, or another night?”
Chuckling at a small boy whose goal appears to be nailing the ducks in the head with hunks of bagel, I allow myself a private smile at the barely-discernible sulk in her tone.
“Cassie has to take Caleb for a checkup, and everyone else is working Monday, so I’ll have Cara. And I promised her a trip to the zoo since I’ve been gone or studying so much lately.”
“Oh, of course.” I watch her face as she pretends to watch the ducks and roller-bladers while she contemplates my responsibility to my daughter. I sense, too, the other question she isn’t asking.
“I’d love for you to stay with me tonight,” I say, and her eyes shift up to mine. “But I’d rather have your dad like me.”
“He does.”
“I’d rather him to continue to like me.”
Emma stares at the ducks again, which have all paddled just out of bagel-hurling range. “I talked to him about getting an apartment instead of a dorm.” The wind kicks up and sends a strand of hair across her face, and I automatically reach to tuck it back behind her ear. She turns to me, her forehead creased, her eyes searching mine. “I know you think living in a dorm would be more normal-girl or whatever, but I want an apartment. I’ve wanted a cat ever since Chloe made me give Hector up, and no dorm will allow that. And I want the plants Chloe said would suck up all the oxygen.”
I narrow my eyes, sure she’s making that up. “She did not.”
She nods, laughing. “She did. She also said they would ruin the floor, which might be true, but I don’t care. I want to try to grow things. I want to cook. And make non-flavored coffee. And leave my shoes in the living room, and bowls in the sink. And never, ever, ever use Pine Sol.”
I pull another strand of hair from her face. Her skin is soft, and she’s so beautiful. My fingers are restless, pushing into her hair, stroking behind her ear. “And Graham, I told him I wanted more privacy than I’d get in a dorm… because of you.”
My hand freezes. Her father hadn’t punched me in the face or tried to kill me this morning when I showed up at his door, unannounced. He hadn’t even been rude. My thumb strokes across her lower lip. “What I said before about moving into a dorm, I said because I don’t want to be one more person who hinders you living your life as it should be. I want you to be free to make the choices that are best for you, without regard to me.”
Her small hands close over my forearm, and she leans her face into my palm. “Then you have to trust me to make those decisions. Even if some of them have everything to do with you.” When she speaks, the vibrations of her voice travel through my hand. “Just because I consider you when I’m deciding doesn’t make it any less my choice.”
I close my eyes. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve her, and yet here she is.
She kisses me once—a swift, shy brush of her lips. “I’d like to come have breakfast with you tomorrow, before you fly home, if that’s okay.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight, you’ll meet my best friend, and she will love you, or she will rue the day.”
I laugh softly and she does, too. “I guess I’d better make sure she loves me, then. I don’t want to be responsible for you losing your best friend.”
***
When Emily calls, Emma walks into the hall with her cell, leaving me sitting on her bed perusing old photo albums her mom put together before she died. Emma’s side of the hallway conversation is still perfectly audible, even if executed almost completely in coarsely hissed tones.
“No, you can’t bring Joe for comparison.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Emily, I turned my phone off. He had no other choice—”
“No, you don’t get a vote.”
“He’s nothing like him at all.”
“Okay. See you in an hour.”
She walks back into the room, her mouth screwed into a grimace. “You could probably hear all of that, huh?”
I subdue a grin and pat the space next to me. “Come here.”
Her eyes shadowed with worry, she tosses her phone on the bedside table and comes to stand next to me. I pull her onto the bed and kiss her until she relaxes into me. “Stop worrying. It will all work out.”
A slight pucker remains on her forehead. “How?”
“To be determined. But it will.” Picking up the photo album, I point to a series of photos she’d told me about—the ones taken in Griffith Park. “You look like your mom.”
“Except for her eyes.” She leans her head back against my shoulder. “Mom’s eyes were very dark brown, like yours. Mine are like my dad’s.”
I use this excuse to examine her eyes again. If I was painting them, I would use a base of stormy gray, with flecks of green layered on top, and miniscule slivers of gold. “I remember thinking that when we met in the café—how you look nothing like him, except for your eyes. I’ve never met anyone with eyes like yours, and they’re the exact likeness of his—the beautiful color, the slightly tilted shape. Based on eyes alone, anyone would know you’re his.”
“Cara has your eyes.”
I nod. “She does.”
“And her mother’s hair?” I nod again, watching her confusion build. “But she’s never met Cara, or called, or requested a picture, anything?”
I shake my head.
“Is Cara okay with that? Does she ask about her mother?”
“She’s fine. She’s great, in fact. Mom, Cassie and Brynn more than fill that vacancy.”
Emma stares at the photos of the mother she lost at six. “That’s good. I’m glad.” I watch her face from above, the way her cheeks raise a fraction with her smile. “My grandma and Emily’s mom did an okay job filling in, I think. Teaching me how to be a girl.”
My fingers trail down the side of her face. “They did an incredible job.” I tilt her chin up and bend my face to hers, silently praising every woman who’s had a hand in making her who she is. Even Chloe… though I’ll never tell Emma that. A truth learned from four years of literary study: nothing beats an antagonist for character-building.
***
Emily is so directly opposite of Emma in looks that I have to give myself a mental shake. Pink hair. Combat boots. Darkly-lined eyes. Emo girl with an anime bent. And a preppy boyfriend?
Of course this girl is her best friend.
When we’re all seated in a booth at Chili’s, Emily gestures to my t-shirt. “So, you, uh, like them?” Sneaking into her offhand tone is a note of fangirl enthusiasm.
I glance down at my chest and back up. “Oh, yeah. They’re brilliant. Have you seen them perform live?”
She shrugs. “Not yet, but I definitely will. You?”
I nod. “A couple times.”
“What? Really?” So much for indifference. She clamps her lips together to try to rein in her interest while Derek and Emma exchange suppressed smiles.
“Yeah, I know the bassist and the drummer—they were classmates of mine at Columbia. Cool guys.”
Her mouth drops. “Get out.”
“Yeah. They’re supposed to do Unplugged later in the summer, I think. I could probably get you into the taping, if you’re going to be in New York.” Emma’s hand slips into mine and she pulls it onto her lap. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.
Emily blinks, stunned. I would guess she doesn’t stun easily. Or often. “Uh, yeah, that would be great.”
Derek clears his throat to hide a laugh. “So you went to Columbia, man?” he asks. I nod. “Theatre, right?”
“No. Literature.” I expect him to react like Reid: Ah, and nothing else to say. But no, he plans to study English at CSU Long Beach, where Emily plans to major in anthropology. When we start to discuss literary theory and writing programs the way some guys discuss sports stats, the girls mock our academic jargon, but they grin at each other, covertly.
And just like that, I’m in.