Page 50 of Anything But Lonely

Emerson’s admission lays heavily in the air around us, and it’s the first time I realize how quiet the tour bus is as it drives through the night.

So many realizations click into place, but they just create more questions.

“And you don’t have to say that you’re sorry or try to validate my feelings. I know that’s always what people feel like they need to do,” she rushes out, almost as if she says the words fast enough, it’ll have me forget what she said just before.

I cross my arms over my chest, knowing how she’s feeling all too well. “And it usually just makes them feel better about it all.”

Emerson’s gaze finds mine, her eyebrows drawing together. The glint of the ring in her left eyebrow catches my eye, and I feel her watching me, waiting to ask a question she might not think she should.

I think about telling her about my parents, but I don’t want the focus on me. She has a way of always turning a conversation away from herself, a habit of hers I’ve learned over this last month of existing in these close quarters with her. “But I am sorry, Emerson. So sorry for your loss.”

She nods her head, her eyes going to the water bottle she’s almost finished—every sip she takes lifting a weight off my chest.

I’ve noticed how little Emerson eats, but I didn’t think it was any of my business—still don’t. Unless she wants to talk to me about it.

But last week, when she wore those same overalls she had on that first day she met Crew, I noticed how differently they hung on her body. They slipped from one shoulder easier than before, the fabric no longer fitting her the way it did just three weeks ago.

And I hated that I noticed at all.

The changes are probably subtle enough that I could convince myself that I imagined them, but I've spent the last month watching Emerson from afar, and I've learned the small things about her without ever meaning to—how she always gives Crew the last bite of whatever she's eating, how she always opts for an iced Americano rather than a proper breakfast, or prefers a bottle of beer instead of a real dinner.

And when she fainted tonight, it just confirmed the fear that she wasn’t properly fueling her body—and whether she’s doing it on purpose or not, it scares me.

I haven’t felt fear—real, guttural fear—in a very long time.

But when she passed out in my arms, I was fucking terrified.

“How did you lose your mom?” I ask quietly.

Emerson sighs. “Cancer.”

“Damn.”

“Right?” Emerson lets out a dry chuckle, but I think she only does it to hide the crack in her voice. Her eyes look cloudy, and she avoids my gaze. The leftover wrapping and crumpled napkins on the table from our dinner suddenly are very distracting to her.

“How long ago?” I ask.

She inhales, holding her breath for a moment. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, exhaling fully before she opens them again. And it’s like she brought a mask down over her face; all the emotion I thought I saw before is completely gone. “She died a month ago.” Her voice is firm, robotic almost.

She’s shutting down.

And I know the feeling all too well.

I don’t want to push her. That will just have her cutting this conversation off.

And I really don’t want this to end.

“I lost both my parents in a car accident.”

“Should we start a club?” she deadpans, taking a few more sips of water, and I feel an odd sense of pride as she swallows.

Lifting a brow, I ask, “A dead parents club?”

She nods, a small smirk on her face. But it’s as sincere as if she drew it on. “We could make fliers. Plan monthly meetings. It could be fun.”

I shrug, pretending like I’m contemplating the idea. “Borderline-unhealthy coping habits are the best team-building exercises.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she dares. “Drugs? Alcohol?” She pauses before adding, “sex?”