Push

chapter Thirty-Eight

Emma—Present Day

My ass is stuck to the couch because I am immobilized by dread. The knock at my door plunged my heart straight down into my stomach, and now I am frozen here, holding my wine glass, knowing that Ricky is just outside my door. A moment passes before my brain kicks in. The instant it does, I put down the glass, run to my bedroom and open the bottom drawer of my nightstand.
It’s there. Thank-f*cking-god. Sitting alone in the drawer, it looks small and powerless. It isn’t, though, that much I know. I know that this gun is far from powerless. I know exactly what this piece of metal is capable of. I pick it up, and a surge of gratitude washes over me. I’m thankful that David taught me how to use it, thankful that it is here now, in my hand. It feels smooth and heavy. I slide the safety off.
On my way out of the bedroom, doubt washes over me. Jesus. I’m about to aim a gun at a person I once loved and adored. A person who gave me a heart-shaped gumball-machine ring for my third birthday. A person I looked up to. I’m about to stick a loaded weapon into my own bother’s face and tell him to go to hell. What the f*ck is wrong with me? What am I doing? Am I even capable of shooting him if shit hits the fan?
Standing in the living room holding the gun, I try to unravel another option, but I can’t focus. It’s only been a dozen seconds since he knocked, but I already know that he isn’t going to go away. He will wait for me. If I pretend I’m not here, he will just find another time, another place. If I don’t do this now, I’ll go back to being afraid. I’ll go back to being nothing more than an emotional hostage. It will be the same as it was with Michael. I will be trapped.
Do this, Emma. Do this now. Stop thinking of Ricky as your bother. He’s not the sweet kid he was so many years ago.
Do this.
I take a breath and straighten my back.
F*ck him. F*ck Ricky. I’m not giving him jack shit. There’s no way in hell am I going to let him blackmail me, too. I’m done thinking about this, and right now, I’m going show him just how done I am.
I lift the gun, holding the barrel up to my line of sight. My other hand grasps the dead bolt and twists it open. I hear it click and drop my hand to the knob, turning it as quickly as possible. I whip the door open and hold the gun straight out in front of me.
“Jesus-f*cking-Christ!” I shout. My heart is pounding, and my body is shaking with rage.
David stands outside my door wearing a hoodie and a pair of jeans and looking surprised as f*ck.
“What the hell?” I scream at him. With my finger pressing tightly against the trigger, an inhumane amount of horror soaks into my body. “You scared the living shit out of me! What the f*ck is wrong with you?”
He stares at the gun still pointed at his chest. His body braces with realization.
I lower the gun to my side. The idea of the flicker of a single finger changing absolutely everything screams through me. I could have wiped out the world with a squeeze. Jesus. The rush of adrenaline pulsing out of me is blatant and fierce, and I can’t stop myself from lashing out at him. “Why would you do that? Why would you knock on my goddamned door at ten o’clock at night when you’re supposed to be at poker?”
Apprehension settles into his face. “I needed to see you,” he says, his expression wide-eyed and electric. “I needed to look at your face and to hear you say that we are all right. I need to know that you to forgive me for what I did.”
It occurs to me that even though our earlier text exchange made it clear to me that we were okay, it did not do the same for David. He is here because he is unsure of himself. Unsure of me. Unsure of us. The vulnerability in his words streaks through me.
I take a deep breath and turn away from him, walking back into the apartment. “I thought you were Ricky. I was positive that you were Ricky. Hell, I didn’t even bother to use the peephole, I was so sure,” I say as I put the gun down on the table. My voice has changed. It’s steadier now. I hear David close the door behind him.
“Then you were right to have the gun,” he says, “but I told you, Emma, he’s not coming back here.”
“I almost f*cking shot you, David. Don’t you see? I don’t trust him. And you shouldn’t either,” I say as I turn to face him.
“Do you trust me when I tell you that he isn’t coming back?” he asks after a brief pause.
I need to think for a second, because it’s a good question. Before I found out about what he did, I trusted David completely. But do I still trust him? Do I trust that he isn’t going to lie to me again?
“I trust you as much as I can right now,” I say, “but this isn’t a matter of trusting you. It’s a matter of trusting Ricky. I know him, David. He is selfish and greedy and about as sharp as a marble. And that is anything but a good combination.”
“It is a matter of trusting me, Emma. I am telling you that he is not coming back, and I need you to believe that. I need to know that you aren’t going to panic every time there is a knock at your door.” His face looks pained, as if my response is somehow a matter of life and death. “I need you to trust me on this.” I am left, yet again, wondering how he can be so sure that Ricky is not coming back. I sigh and rub my hands against my face.
David sits down at the table, sucks in a gigantic gulp of air, and says, “I can’t stand the thought of you being so afraid, Emma. That’s why I did what I did. I wanted to get rid of Michael so you would never have to be afraid again. But after you opened that door and I saw the gun and the panic in your face, I know that your fear of Michael has only morphed into a fear of Ricky. And that is the last thing I ever wanted to happen. So I’m going to tell you something, and you aren’t going to like it, something that I decided not to tell you last night because I thought it might be too much. But clearly it’s the only way you’re going to trust me on this—the only way you are going to stop being afraid.” My eyes narrow. “This is not a lie, Emma,” he adds emphatically, “and the fact that I didn’t tell you about it last night does not make it a lie. I left it out to protect you.” I roll my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest. Again with the protection crap.
“You’re right,” he continues. “Ricky is selfish and greedy. Not only did he come here to blackmail me, he was the one that convinced Evan to kill Michael.”
I am staring at David in disbelief, shaking my head.
“When I took the rest of the money to Ricky on Saturday night, he had been drinking, and he said some things that gave him away. He said that Evan killing Michael was the best f*cking thing in the world. He and Evan had known for years that they would inherit everything when Michael died because they had a copy of his will. Michael gave it to them a few months after your mother died. He had it redone because he wanted you left out of it completely. So, now that Michael is dead and Evan’s in jail, Ricky will get it all—and, believe me, he was thrilled as shit about it.”
It’s no surprise that Ricky would be thrilled with his new windfall, but why would he tell David about Michael’s will? What would he gain by revealing that information?
“Why the hell would he tell you all this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I guess he knew that I would tell you. Maybe he thought that you would be pissed about not getting anything from Michael. Maybe it was some sort of revenge.”
“I could care less about Michael’s money,” I say. “I wouldn’t want it anyway.”
“Yeah, but Ricky doesn’t know that. As he was telling me about Michael’s will, I was thinking about how convenient it all was for him. Then it dawned on me—it wasn’t convenient. It was planned. From the moment I pointed out that he and Evan would inherit nothing if Michael was found guilty, Ricky’s wheels were turning. Somehow he convinced Evan that getting rid of Michael was the only solution, and Evan did it.”
As David is talking, things grow clearer inside my head. I can see precisely how Ricky planted that seed because I know the suggestive power he has always had over Evan. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen how much Evan looks up to Ricky and how readily he is influenced by him. I can hear Ricky convincing Evan that it would mean the end of his financial troubles and an opportunity to start a new life. I can see Ricky bringing up my mother’s missing jewelry and using it as fuel against Michael. I can see Ricky manipulating Evan, and Evan falling for it headfirst and not even recognizing that he’s being played. Ricky knew that Evan was stupid enough to get caught; hell, maybe somehow he even made sure Evan got caught. At this point, I wouldn’t put it past him. But most importantly, Evan would never rat out Ricky, and Ricky knows it. I feel sick.
“And, to top it all off,” he adds, “Ricky knew that he could still get money from me, simply by threatening to take my offer to the police. He’s clever, Emma.”
“So, did you tell him that you figured it out?” I ask. “What did he do?”
“I took a risk, and I called him on it. I told him straight up that I knew he convinced Evan to kill Michael. The look on his face was priceless, and I knew I was right. He was f*cking stunned. I handed him the rest of his money and then I told him we were facing a stalemate.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
David shrugs and raises his brow. “I paid him what he wanted, and I made it very clear that if he tells anyone about my offer, or if he contacts me or you ever again, I will tell the police about his involvement in Michael’s death. And when Evan finds out that Ricky set him up, he’ll sing like a motherf*cking bird. It’s plain and simple—as long as we both keep our mouths shut, neither one of us will end up in prison.” He takes a breath and drops his hands down to his sides. “And that’s why I know he isn’t coming back. That’s why you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
Because I don’t know what else to do, I pick up my glass of wine and finish it. Then I walk into the kitchen to pour myself another. I set the glass down and put my hands on the counter, leaning my head forward until it’s resting against a cabinet door. Holy hell.
“Is that all, David?” I ask. My voice is quiet and rife with exhaustion and distress. “Is there anything else I need to know about my f*cked-up family?”
“No,” he says. “That’s it.” I hear him push away from the table. His feet brush against the carpet as he walks toward the kitchen, and then he is behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding my back tight against his chest. I pull my head away from the cabinet door and drop it back down, repeatedly banging it against the wood in three firm, successive smacks. “Do you want me to leave?” he says quietly.
“No.”
David doesn’t move a muscle, and we stay together in the kitchen for a long time. I think about how happy I was to have someone who wants to protect me. How happy David made me when he told me how covetous he feels. How many years I have lived with no one to look out for me aside from myself. And here I am now, in the arms of someone who wants to protect me so much that he is willing to risk everything, and I don’t know what the f*ck to do. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to say thank you and let life roll on.
“Did you really leave the poker game just to make sure we were all right?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Brad is going to be pissed at you for leaving, you know.”
“No, he isn’t,” he sighs. “He’s the one that told me to come.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
David lets go of my waist and leans back against the door frame. I turn around and rest my rear against the edge of the counter so that we are face-to-face.
“We’re all right,” I say with a small smile. “I get it now, David. Thank you for wanting to protect me. Thank you for caring about me enough to do what you did. But I still think you’re an idiot.”
“I know you do,” he says, completely unfazed. “I guess I’m just a little crazy.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed.”
“It’s your fault, you know. You turned me crazy,” he says, the playful lilt returning to his voice. “I was normal before I met you.” And then he is smiling again. I can see the same happiness I saw at the tattoo parlor. The same happiness I heard in his laughter when we were overlooking the city and I asked him about his last name. The same happiness I sensed when I agreed to be his girlfriend. It thrills me to know that I can make David happy, to know that he is crazy about me. Because I’m a whole bunch of crazy right back.
“Normal, huh? Well, if that’s the case, then I guess the same could be said for me,” I tease. David’s body straightens, and his chest rises, and then he looks down at the floor. What? His happiness is gone, just like that, and now he looks ashamed. It catches me by surprise, and suddenly, everything seems very serious. I feel as if I should apologize, but I’m not sure what for.
“I’m sorry,” I say as he looks back up at me. “I was just teasing. Look, it’s clear that both of us have very valid reasons for being a few coils short of a Slinky, but I say we embrace it.” I plaster an overly dramatic smile across my face and give him two enthusiastic thumbs up. “I say we run with our crazies, and to hell with everybody else.”
He chuckles softly and sinks his hands into his pockets. He regards me intently for a minute before he replies. All I can do is smile at him and wait.
“I can’t tell you how unbelievably relieved I am to hear you say that we’re all right,” he says at last. “I thought I’d f*cked everything up. When you shoved my phone in my face and said that you saw Michael’s number, I swear my heart stopped beating. I thought we were done. I thought the bottom dropped out, and you were gonna walk. That’s what always happens with me. The bottom drops out, and everything that was good ends. Just like that.” His eyes are back on the floor.
“The bottom isn’t going to drop out on us, David,” I say with the compassion and reassurance he so clearly needs, “because I love you. And now that I know what love is, I can see that it makes you willing to do anything to make sure that the bottom stays intact. It makes you forgive the other person for their mistakes. It makes you see past their crazies and their f*cked-up past and their underwear fetish and their gun-toting, drug-addicted ex-girlfriends and their complete lack of self-preservation.” He looks up at me, and as his scalp draws back, I can see acceptance spread across his face. “And what you don’t realize, David, is that you already know all that. You know it because what you tried to do to Michael was meant to keep the bottom intact.”
David pulls his hands out of his pockets and steps forward. He holds my cheeks and leans his forehead against mine. His palms feel cool against my warm skin, and a moment later, when his mouth covers mine, I feel as if I am wrapped in a cyclone. Everything is whirling around me, drawing the air out of my lungs and filling me with the best kind of turmoil. Sweet, unpredictable, endorphin-releasing turmoil. Every time his tongue slides against mine, a prickle in my gut tells me how right we are together. How much I need David. How much I need us.
I hope the cyclone never stops.
He picks me up and carries me back to the bedroom, kissing my neck and shoulders as he walks and then dropping me down on to the bed. I watch as he tugs off my clothes, and all I can think about is how his actions have served to tether my heart to his, to fasten me to him with a braided rope of protection and covetousness and insanity. Everything he did was for me. To keep a secure grip on what we have. To keep the bottom intact.
I unbutton his jeans and slide them down over his hips and then lie back on to the bed. David climbs up over me so that we are face-to-face, and the length of his body is pressing down over mine. His mouth is on me again, our lips full of promises.
David moves slowly down my torso, spreading kisses across my breasts and my stomach, heating me. He slides off me and sits on the edge of the bed, turned in my direction. His hands move over my skin, inciting a ticklish giggle when he streaks them up my inner thighs. But I stop laughing when his fingers hit their mark, when they start their skillful torture, when they move into me. A melody of emotions sweep over me. It’s a heady mix of lust and appreciation and elation and love. It makes me want to reach into myself and hand him my heart, beating with devotion and tethered to his.
I take him into my hand, pushing and pulling his hardness. We are there together, each of us using our hands to lift the other closer. Each of us with coarse breath and singing blood. A few moments later, my body bows up with gratification, curling into itself as I grunt and fold with pleasure. His fingers don’t stop until my body stills.
David gets up and pulls me up off the bed. My muscles are still reverberating as I stand next to him. I’m afraid that I might fall, but David wraps himself around me, holding me steady. We kiss again, and I stroke him, feeling the warmth of his skin. His breath is weighted, and he turns me around, lifting my leg on to the edge of the bed. He presses on the middle of my back until I bend forward and brace myself on the bed. David grips my waist and then I feel the delightful pressure of him entering me. He pulls me on to him over and over, my rear smacking into him with each pull and my arms pushing down on the mattress. His hand dips down between my legs, rubbing me in all the right ways. I force my behind out against him until once again, I topple over the edge. My loud, rough groan hits the air, and David pulls out of me.
“Goddamn, I love to hear that,” he says, his voice dredged in desire. “One more, Emma. Let’s go.”
I turn over and lie down on my back, the melody of emotions still singeing my skin. He lifts my legs up on to his shoulders, raising my rear up off the bed and sliding himself into me. I look at his face and see the power rising there, burning behind his eyes. His eyes meet mine, and a wisp of a smirk touches the corners of his mouth. He wants to watch this time, and the idea of it chokes me with desire. I reach down and touch myself, sliding my fingers across my own wetness, closing my eyes, feeling him move in and out of me. It feels really f*cking good. We feel really f*cking good. I can’t stop myself, and I come again, shouting a loud string of happy obscenities. Making my mind shimmer.
David runs his hands across my flesh. My skin is burning, and when I open my eyes, he is looking right at me and smiling a beautiful smile. I smile back at him. He drops my legs off his shoulders and pulls out of me. And then he is touching himself, his hand slipping tightly up and down as he leans over me. The smile is now gone from his face. It is replaced by heavy breaths and small sighs. I see David’s eyes close and his body stiffen, and then I feel the warmth of his satisfaction fall on to my stomach.
I am still smiling, and when David’s eyes open, his lips part and his teeth shine down on me. He looks absolutely vibrant. I wish I could read his mind. I wish I knew what he was thinking and feeling and seeing. Is my face awash with the same kind of happiness I see in his? The same light? I hope so. I hope he sees it, too.
He kisses my forehead and lies down on the bed next to me for a moment or two before he moves to get up.
“Wanna go get some Indian food?” he says, sitting up and looking down at me. His face is still beaming with energy. It is not what I was expecting him to say.
“What?” I say, shaking my head in surprise. “No.” My answer causes his face to lose a bit of its glow. “I mean, I’d love to, but I have to go to work in the morning. Plus, I already ate dinner.”
“Okay,” he says quietly.
“But, if you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich or something,” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of his glow.
“No. I’m not really hungry either,” he says. His eyes are still bright, but now he looks a little embarrassed.
“Then, why did you ask?”
“Because I don’t want you to make me leave again. I was just trying to come up with an excuse to be with you.” He looks both adorable and electric when he says it. He dresses and heads toward the bathroom. Once his back is to me, he adds, “Come to think of it, ever since the day I saw you carrying boxes into the front door, everything I’ve done has been an excuse to be with you.” A flurry of cyclonic wind is filling me again.
“I won’t make you leave, David,” I say when he returns with a washcloth for me, “and you don’t need an excuse to be with me. You need to realize that the bottom is solid on this one—it is not going to drop out.”
“Promise?”
“Of course,” I answer. As I dress, it occurs to me that David may have heard these words before. That maybe Lucia or Jenny or Anna once said the same thing to him—but then another man, or drugs, or schizophrenia, changed everything and caused their relationship to spin out of control. How do I make him see that I am not them? “It’s pretty clear to me now what you meant when you said that your ex-girlfriends have played a huge role in who you are. Lucia and Jenny—and whoever else there was—failed you, David. They let the bottom drop out. Or maybe they even caused it. But I am not them. I said it before and I’ll say it again, the only way we fail is if you lie. I’m not going to f*ck it up like they did, and I trust that you won’t f*ck it up either.”
He gives me a small smile, reaching for me and rubbing his hand up and down my spine, being careful to avoid the still-sore skin around the tree branch. But a moment later, his smile fades, and a look of sadness spreads across his face. “It happened six times, Emma.”
“What happened six times?” I ask in a state of genuine confusion caused by both his statement and his expression.
“The bottom dropped out.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him about all of them. To find out what they did to make David feel so lost. To find out how things ended with each of them. But I don’t ask. Because I don’t want to hear about Anna Spaight. I don’t want to hear what I already know.
“I told you before about Lucia and Jenny and Elizabeth, but there were three other women.”
“Elizabeth?” I ask. Who is Elizabeth?
“My dad’s secretary.” Ah, yes. Elizabeth was his first lover. “We were together for a couple of months,” he says, his voice trailing off to a near whisper, “but then I found out that she was f*cking my father, too.”
“Jesus,” I say as we both sit down on the edge of the bed. “That’s horrible.”
“Yes. It was.” I wonder if he’s going to continue. My heart is in my throat, and I am begging his mouth to keep quiet about Anna. “But Kelsey was worse than her,” he says. Worse?
“Who was Kelsey?” I ask gently, trying to keep my voice steady and calm.
“She was from my hometown, and we were together for a long time. My dad used to tell me I wasn’t good enough for Kelsey, but that just pissed me off and made me want to be with her even more.”
“Determination is one of your best traits,” I say, trying to force a small smile and lighten the mood. Please, don’t mention Anna. Please. Please. Please.
“And Sarah—she was my girlfriend in high school,” he continues. He doesn’t offer me any more information about Sarah, but from the look on his face, I can see that the end of that relationship hurt, too.
He wraps his arms around his middle. He is protecting himself again, from another imaginary shot to the gut. I feel Anna’s story in the air between us, and I know he is going to tell me about her now. I know the words are about to come out.
“And the sixth bottom to drop out was named Anna. She sent me into utter ruin, and after I moved here and was finally beginning to piece myself back together, I met Lucia.” The words rush out of him, making my head feel dizzy and thick. He looks away from me but keeps talking. “Anna was...Anna. She was good and kind and beautiful. But she was also a paranoid schizophrenic. We lived together for a while, and I tried to help her. I really tried. But I couldn’t.” He moves his eyes back to mine, and he raises his shoulders in a small shrug. His arms are still wrapped around his waist, and he is regarding me very carefully. Waiting to see if I will ask him what happened. But he must see that I don’t want him to continue, I’m going to pretend I don’t want to know any more about her. I’m going to pretend that it doesn’t matter. I let my face tell him as much because I am afraid that if I open my mouth, it will say all the wrong things, and I will start to cry.
I drop off the edge of the bed and down on to my knees in front of him, working my way in between his legs. He releases his waist as I lean in against his chest. My arms slide around him, squeezing his rib cage, and I feel his hands move through my hair and brush against my scalp. My face is pressed into him so that he can’t see me cry. I can’t help it. The tears pour from my eyes, and I have to try hard to keep the sobs from shaking through me. I sniff and his body tenses. He lifts my head away from his body and looks down at me, his brow wrinkling at the sight of my tears.
“Why are you crying?” he asks. He looks so confused.
“Because I’m sad for you, David. I’m sad that you were hurt so many times.” The amount of surprise on his face startles me.
“You shouldn’t be sad, Emma,” he says, wiping his thumbs across my cheeks. “All those things that happened—they shaped me. If those women hadn’t failed me, as you put it, I would not be here with you. I wouldn’t be strong enough to be with you. I wouldn’t be able to recognize how different you are. How different you make me feel. How different I am when I’m with you. I am not the same person I was when I was with Anna or Kelsey or even Lucia. And that is because of you, Emma. You.”
David holds my face and looks down at me for a long time. My mind is cluttered with thoughts of these women and David’s words. As I collect myself, I realize that the tears falling down my cheeks are no longer out of sadness. They are out of pride and happiness and love. Love for this man who has put my very own emotions into words.
“I know what you mean,” I say with a small smile, “because that’s exactly how I feel.”
His lips press into a small grin, and I can see both hope and uncertainty on his face. He is still unsure of us. Somehow, I’m going to have to prove to David that I am never going to fail him. That I am more sure of my love for him than I have ever been of anything else.
“It’s late,” he says. As he stands, he pulls me up and hugs me.
“Are you leaving?” I ask.
“You need to sleep—but I’m not tired,” he says quietly. “As long as it’s okay with you, I’ll stay until you fall asleep and then I’ll go back and help the guys clean up and count. But I’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” I say. “I like to wake up with you sleeping in my bed. You look like a little boy when you’re asleep.”
“Is that so?” he says, pulling away from me and tilting his head to the side.
“Yes. A sweet little sleepy boy—all covered in birds,” I say to him with a coy smile. “My bright little bird,” I add, recalling his mother’s nickname for him when he was small. His eyes immediately leave mine and sink to the floor. I regret my comment instantly. What a stupid f*cking thing to say.
David lets go of me and steps away. I think he is going to say something, but his lips remain closed. He lies down, puts his hands behind his head, and crosses one straight leg over the other. I don’t want to say anything else, so I get ready for bed, set my alarm, and switch off the lamp. I snuggle my head on to his chest and wrap my arms and legs around him. His arm drops down from his head and cradles my shoulders as he pulls me into his chest.
“I should tell you about my mom someday,” he says very quietly. “Maybe tomorrow.” I hear a twinge of eagerness in his voice, and I think that maybe my comment wasn’t so f*cking stupid after all. “I’ll pick you up from work. We can go somewhere fun.”
“Okay,” I say, planting a small kiss on his chest through the fabric of his hoodie.
“Good night, Emma.”
“Good night.”