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“Private?”
“Quieter.” He glances around, amused. “You’ve made... a lot of friends tonight, by the looks of it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Everyone’s been... really nice.”
Emerson nods. “I’ll be nice, too. I promise.” He holds out a hand, though I’m not sure if he expects me to take it or shake it.
I do neither. “Lead the way,” I say.
He smiles, happy to oblige, making a path for me to follow him into the kitchen. It’s quiet here, only a few Northies scattered about, desperately trying to get as much out of the bottom of the keg as possible. Emerson takes a cup for himself as he passes. I expect him to stop here, but he continues through the back door onto the deck outside.
I follow, still too tipsy to conquer the momentum in my step. And my curiosity, truthfully. Emerson has never been one to ask nicely for anything. Especially not from me.
The air is warm and humid, Midwestern August in full swing, but it’s nice against the bare skin of my legs — constant airflow being something I’ve worked to get used to since I started wearing dresses more often. Strings of white outdoor lights line the backyard, hanging above the deck and illuminating the grass. Northies gather on the lawn, some playing Spin the Bottle around a fire pit and others playing catch.
Definitely quieter than inside.
Emerson leans forward against the railing on his elbows, the lights casting gentle shadows down his chiseled face. If I didn’t know him better, I’m sure I’d describe him as handsome,but I’ve felt the sting of his grin before. The pain of his laughter.
I stay a full meter stick away from him.
“I’m sorry about before,” he says as I reach the railing.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say, feeling clever.
“Do you really want me to be?” he asks, his grin tight.
He has a point. Do I want to stand here and hear him list off — in all its hurtful details — the way he’s treated me throughout the years?
“No,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you now. Too little too late and all that. But I want to make amends.”
I raise a brow, my curiosity curling around my gut. “Why now?”
His gaze hops along my arms, my face. “Well, we might see each other a lot going forward.”
He raises his hand, showing me his own golden sticker.
“Delta Xi,”I say, my voice soft enough not to prompt a wave of echoes from the people on the grass.
“Delta Xi,”Emerson repeats, lowering his hand. “Your brothers didn’t seem interested in working things out with me, but I’m hoping to have better luck with you.”
I snort.
“I know it sounds dumb,” he says, “but I look back on who I was, and I hate him.”
“So do I.”
He laughs, warm and self-deprecating. Not at all the mean and wicked laughter of a bully who haunts my memories. “I don’t want to be him anymore. I’m not him anymore.” A gentle pause as he takes a breath. “And I know the only way forward is to acknowledge the pain I’ve caused and, if you’ll allow, ask forgiveness.”
Whoa.
“Someone went to therapy this summer,” I say.
“Is it that obvious?” he says, not at all ashamed.
“A little bit.”
