Page 134 of Anything But Lonely

Relief hits first.

Then confusion.

Then something that looks dangerously close to fear.

He’s wearing a wrinkled Northshore Fire Department T-shirt, and his boots are untied. His dark hair is messy, like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. His eyes scan over me quickly—not in judgment, not even surprise, but like he’s checking for injuries.

Like he’s making sure I’m real.

“Emerson…”’

My name leaves his mouth like he’s been holding it in for hours.

I’m standing in my doorway, half-dressed, surrounded by the disaster of my apartment, looking at someone who looks terrified.

And I realize I have no idea what day it is.

No idea how long I’ve been gone.

No idea how long everyone else has been worried.

“Mateo,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking over my face again.

“I’ve been calling you.”

My stomach drops.

“I know you said you were sick, and I got in my head that maybe you wanted some space, which is fine.” His eyebrows pull together, like he’s still trying to make sense of the moment. “I can give you space—I will give you space, if that’s what you want.” The words hang between us for a moment, and then Mateo clears his throat. “But then today I ran into Jack at the station, and he asked how you were doing, and I was so confused because I haven’t seen you all week, not since we went to dinner after Crew’s orientation.” His eyes flick past me briefly, taking in the apartment—the dishes, the clothes, the darkness—and something shifts in his expression. “And then I got a call from Talia, and Crew—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

The fog in my head shifts.

Mateo’s face.

The panic in his voice.

Then another name breaks through.

“Crew.”

“He’s okay, baby,” he repeats, but I can only stare at him.

“What happened?”

“He fell.”

The pounding in my chest eases just enough for me to breathe. “What do you mean ‘he fell’? What does that even mean?”

Mateo exhales. “Talia took him to the park.” His shoulders drop slightly, exhaustion finally showing through. He steps through the doorway, and I move to the side to let him, letting the door shut behind him. “He was running around on the playground, and he tripped. He landed directly on his arm.”

“His arm,” I repeat, trying to register the words.

Mateo’s expression softens slightly, but it’s not his frustration fading; it’s like he’s trying to rein it in. “He’s okay. He cried when it happened, obviously. He’s four—well, almost five. He thought his arm was going to fall off.” He ushers me inside, leading me to the couch, but his arms hover a few inches from me, like he doesn’t want to touch me—or maybe he thinks he can’t. “I came straight here after they put the cast on. He was scared at first. Kept asking if it was going to hurt and if his arm was going to be stuck in the cast forever.” Mateo smiles, but it’s a sad one. And I hate it. “But then they told him he could pick the color, and suddenly he was fine.”

We sit down on the couch, and he sets a blanket over my lap. I didn’t even see him grab it.

“What color?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s probably the least important information I need right now, but it’s the only thing that comes out.