Page 8 of Riding the Curve

“No concussion, miss.” The doctor smiles gently, the wrinkles on his face crinkling around his kind eyes. “However, this bump and deep bruise are going to hang around for a little while. It seems a black eye is beginning to make an entrance as well.”

As I release a small groan, the doctor chuckles beside me. After I thank him for looking me over, we make our way back to our seats. Conveniently, his seat ended up being behind mine.

Emerson’s lips pull into a smirk as I slide past him and fall into my seat. His shoulders shake with mirth as he covers his mouth with his hand, providing me with even more reasons why I should slap him.

“Welcome back, Trouble.” Emerson snorts.

I freeze. The nickname he gave me that night rolls off his tongue with ease. Like it didn’t flood his memories with the same painful emotions that it does for me. A reminder of a time when things between us could have been different. Rolling my eyes, I shift my glare to the window.

The safety flight instructions blare around us, then they do their final safety checks as we taxi onto the runway. After a few moments, we are in the air. I do my best to avoid looking at the reminder of my past mistakes sitting beside me.

“Can I get either of you a drink?” The flight attendant’s cheerful voice pipes through my brooding.

Emerson opens his mouth to speak, but I jump in first. “Yes!” I blurt. A deep chuckle rumbles beside me. “I’ll take a mimosa, please.”

The flight attendant’s mouth gapes wide, her gaze shifting to the bump on forehead then back to my eyes. “Ma’am, I don’t think that’s a good idea⁠—”

Emerson raised his hand, halting her words. “She’ll be fine. I’ll take Jack and Coke, please.”

Her lips purse, still debating whether giving me alcohol is a good idea. I watch her eyes flutter to the doctor behind me. He must give her a nod of approval because she sighs then marches back to the galley to make our drinks.

“Thank you for that,” I murmur to Emerson. “Both of you.”

Peeking through the crack in the seat, I smile at the doctor. When I turn back around, Emerson’s gaze intercepts mine.

“You’re welcome,” he winks. The rising sun peeks through the window, making his blue eyes impossibly brighter. The same ones I’d lost myself in all those years ago.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to refocus. Rein it in, Hen.

After a while, he asks gently, “So, are you heading back for a visit?”

I’ve known Emerson my entire life. His family lives on the land next to ours, and our families have been friends forever. He’s also been my brother’s best friend since they could walk and talk, therefore eventually becoming my friend by proxy. I could tell him now—spill how I’ve failed and must figure out what to do with my life—but the shame twisting my stomach in knots won’t allow me.

“Something like that.”

His head bobs slowly in agreement.

“And you?”

“Something like that.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. Like me, it appears there’s something he’s hiding.

Even after everything that happened between us, I’ve kept tabs on Emerson. Right now, he’s at his peak in his racing career. In my phone calls with my brother, Ryleigh, he’s also mentioned that he hasn’t been home since his Mama, Autumn, passed. It’s the end of June, and I’m pretty sure there are more races coming up. So why is he going home?

I open my mouth to ask just as our attendant arrives with a tray of drinks.

“Here you are, ma’am.” She smiles, taking the mimosa off the tray to meet my outstretched hand.

Emerson’s warm palm brushes against mine in an offer to help pass it my way. The contact sends an unexpected bolt of electricity through me, and my mimosa topples down. Straight into his lap.

“I’m so sorry!” I shout, pulling out all the napkins that dwell inside my cluttered bag. I start pressing and mopping up the fizzy orange juice mess that pools in his sweatpants before it can soak through.

“Hen—”

“Janice, we’re going to need the big towels!” The attendant shouts back to her partner. Janice trots down the aisle with a handful of towels, to which I swiftly grab and continue my efforts.

“Henley, I can do this—” he starts, reaching his hand down to help, but I swat it away while cutting off his words.

“N-no! I did this! I’m so sorry, I-I’ll fix it!”