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Then again, it could be the million-dollar mountain view that has her catching flies. It is what sold me on the place, after all.
“I do.” I close the door behind us and usher her deeper into my house.
“It’s amazing.”
“You like it then?” I ask, moving in close behind her.
She shivers at my nearness. “I love it.”
For some reason, her approval sends a warm tingle through me.
“Are you hungry?” I know I am, but food is the last thing on my mind. I’m craving another taste of Emmalyn, which is unfortunately not on the menu.
“I could eat.”
I swallow down a million dirty retorts, and instead ask her if sandwiches are okay.
“As long as there aren’t pickles or onions involved, I’m down.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Such a giver.” Her playful tone is a shock to my system, but I decide to roll with it.
“Typically, I prefer to take.” I wink. “But something about seeing you in my space has me feeling particularly hospitable.”
“Lucky me.”
“Why don’t you head out to the deck, and I’ll throw these sandwiches together and join you?”
“Are you sure don’t need help?”
“I am one-hundred percent sure I can slap meat between some bread.”
She hesitates for only a moment, a dopey smile on her face, before the tempting view lures her toward the massive sliding glass doors.
As soon as she steps outside, I take what feels like my first full breath since she walked into class this morning.
Something about seeing her in my shirt, in my space, it feels right. Natural, even. Which is downright terrifying.
Maybe bringing her here wasn’t the best idea after all...
I shake the thought off. Too late now.
In the kitchen, I make quick work of plating up some turkey sandwiches, along with some fresh fruit and leftover pasta salad.
“It’s beautiful, right?” I step onto the deck, our lunch tray precariously balanced in my right hand.
“Oh!” She tears herself away from the view and rushes toward me. “Let me help you.”
I set the tray down onto the table with a flourish. “I’ve got it. Let me take care of you, Emmalyn. Something tells me very few people have ever bothered to do that.”
“To do what?”
I slide out a chair for her and help her into it. “Take care of you.” She blushes as she sits, and I help scoot her into the table.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling I get.” I grab two waters from my outdoor fridge and join her. “Am I wrong?”
She drops her eyes to her plate and pokes at the fruit with her fork. “I guess you’re right.”
“You deserve to be taken care of.” I almost gag at the saccharine words leaving my mouth. But I also kind of mean them.
She pops a grape into her mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “I think I do okay taking care of myself.” She scrunches her nose. “Most days at least.”
“Your mom isn’t there for you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I’m fairly certain if you looked up gold digger in the dictionary, Sarah Pearson’s picture would be printed beside the definition.
“Um. Well.” She sets her fork down and wraps her arms around herself. “She... her marriage... when everything came to a head, she decided her status meant more than my suffering.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Suffer?”
Emmalyn laughs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“It’s a fairly simple question.” I’m not sure what I’m hoping to gain here, but I keep pushing, hoping for a crack, a fissure, some kind of chink in her armor.
“Yes.” She whispers the word with her eyes still downcast. “Every day.”
My heart clenches at the pure sorrow in her tone. It constricts at the hurt, the agony—and then, because I’m a sick bastard, it beats a little faster.
“As you probably know, talking to someone can help. Have you... do you talk to someone about your... trauma?”
“I do.” She frowns. “Well, I did. I haven’t found a therapist here. I do a video call with my old one sometimes, though.”
“You should find someone here. I can make a few suggestions, if you want.”
“Um. Sure. That... that’d be great.”
I want to smile, but I know it’ll be all teeth and far from charming, so I bite down on my lower lip and suppress the urge. “And in the meantime, you’re welcome to talk to me. You know, if you want.”
Emmalyn pushes her plate away, still mostly full, and I worry I’ve pushed her too far.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to.”
“No, it’s...” She trails off. “I think I’d like that, but maybe you could talk to me, too. Open up to me a little? I’ve known you since I was eight, but you’re still virtually a stranger to me.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, little mouse.”
“Why do you call me that?”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “At first, because you were always so scared. Now though, it’s because I think you’re brave.”
