Emery straightens, smacking my arm. “Filthy little shit.”
“Am I wrong?”
She giggles, walking around the table to face me. “I wouldn’t know. I never met a guy before you who tried very hard to strike the right spot at all.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, feeling proud as hell to hear this. “But just so we’re clear, that won’t count as your secret.”
She watches while I take the shot, sinking the ten stripe into the side pocket before pointing my cue at the eight and indicating that I’m going for the far corner.
“That’s a tough shot,” she says, shaking her head.
“Get your secret ready.” I pull back and look up at her as I strike, smiling at the satisfying sound of the ball hitting the heart of the pocket. “And make it good.”
Emery rubs the chalk over her cue tip while she appears to think. “Everything about me is a secret to you,” she says, finally meeting my eyes across the pool table.
“Don’t tell me something abouthim, then,” I say, meaning the other version of me, the one she knows but I don’t. “Tell me something aboutme. Tell me something you think about this Luca.”
Emery sits back on a barstool and thanks the bartender when she brings her another drink. Music filters through the speakers in every corner, a rock song that pings something familiar in my memory.
After taking a long sip, she sets the glass down and says, “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think you’re sexier than ever.”
I give myself a mental high five. “That right?” She nods. “How so?”
“I think it’s sexy that you’re not letting me off the hook about things.”
I lean against my pool cue, crossing one ankle over the other while this penetrates. “Yeah?”
Emery nods again.
“Is that something you didn’t like about me before?” I ask, feeling mildly queasy. “That I didn’t press you?”
She shrugs, rounding the table again to come closer to me. That guilt is back, creating those parallel lines between her eyes. I reach up, rubbing them with my thumb, murmuring, “I’m not mad, Emmy. Just asking.”
Her gaze darts to mine. “I like that nickname.”
“Emmy?”
She nods.
“Good.” I reach forward, briefly rubbing my thumb over her chin. I also like that there’s something between us that’s just mine. “Answer my question, though.”
“It’s not that there was anything Ididn’tlike about you,” she hedges.
“Okay, but?”
“But,” she says, anxiously searching my expression, “in hindsight, I think I wonder how you didn’t notice all the strange things and secrecy. And if you did, why you didn’t ask me about it. I wonder if you didn’t care, or if you just didn’t like the idea of fighting about it.”
I sit back against a barstool, and she follows, stepping between my legs, seeming uneasy about letting any distance come between us. I’m quiet, letting her words settle in, and she gives me time to do it, but I can feel the vibrating anxiety coming off her in waves.
I don’t like the sensation in my chest right now—this tight, uneasy feeling of a conversation that might take us somewhere ugly. I close my eyes, trying to name this reaction, realizing I have a strange urge to get up and simply walk away or change the subject. Make a joke to lighten the mood.
I fight it, searching for words.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says quickly. “We’re having so much fun, and I don’t want—”
I open my eyes and stop her with my hand on her arm. “Wedohave to talk about it. Right? Like, this is how we move forward?”
After a pause, she nods.
