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I push open doors until I find a room with a bed. There are only three besides Emily’s, and I get it right on the first try, by process of elimination—I knew the door beside Emily’s bedroom is the bathroom—and some luck.
There’s an extra blanket at the foot of the double bed with the white metal headboard and footboard. It could have been there before, but I don’t think so. No, I know for sure Emily just put it there.
Because, of course, she’d push down her own pain and sadness and think about something like that.
About me.
CHAPTER 19
Emily
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep after the late-night fiasco in my kitchen.
But yes, I’m awake now.
Because five minutes ago, a knock at my bedroom door woke me up. It was immediately followed by Asher’s deep voice informing me that his granny would be at my house in about five minutes, which gives me about four minutes to try and pull myself together, cover up the massive purple bags under my eyes, get rid of the red rim accompanying the said purple bags, and put on something decent.
By decent, I mean fair trade clothing that Asher’s granny is going to scorn, but then again, I’m not exactly worried about her opinion at the moment.
I should have told Asher. Indeed, I would have if I weren’t so intimidated by his granny. I think that given a few more weeks, I would have worked up the nerve. I would never have cashed that cheque. Not after Asher was so generous. I probably would have contacted his granny first to tell her that I was going to tell him and to announce I wasn’t afraid of her and her threats to fire me. Well, I honestly still would have been, but I would have stated I wasn’t.
Finding that cheque was the worst thing Asher could have done. I’m not sure why his granny gave it to me at dinner when he could obviously see and have his curiosity piqued. It never slipped his mind, and he went looking to see what it was. If only I had shredded it and thrown it out like I wanted to. Why did I wait?
Anyway, the damage is done now. Asher will probably never trust me again. I couldn’t string two sentences together last night to save my soul and give him a decent explanation. His hurt was obvious, as was his anger at finding out that I was playing both sides, which is what he termed it. And yet, he still stayed the night. He’s still here.
I don’t know how long it’s going to last, so as I slide on a pair of leggings and a tunic from last year’s sports line—my favorite one though, so I own every single piece from it because it’s comfortable—I vow to get my shit together. Not just my shit, but the parts that aren’t shit too—all the ‘unshitty’ shit.
I pull my hair into a high bun on top of my head, swatch on a bunch of foundation, and stumble downstairs. Even though the makeup won’t help my bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, because yes, I kind of did cry myself back to sleep, it might do wonders for the bags, tired lines, and regret oozing from every pore.
Asher has a pot of coffee going. He is truly a walking, living, breathing miracle. I also can’t believe he knows how to operate a coffee maker because no one I’ve ever lived with before—minus my parents, but they don’t count—has ever been able to do that.
He’s sitting on the blue couch in the living room, sipping on a cup, and there’s one waiting for me on the coffee table—black, which is just how I like it.
“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I recall the ones he left at my house yesterday morning, which feels like approximately six thousand stone ages ago. Is that even a term? One of them had cream while the other was black.
“At work. You have a mug of black coffee sitting on your desk. Half drunk and always halfway there. Then you pour it out and get a refresher. Like the bottom half just isn’t as good as the top.
“It really isn’t. And warming it up isn’t nearly the same.” I’m flooded with a feeling I can’t define—a little bit of my own warmth spreading through me.
Of course, Julie Louise Paris lets herself in. Why wouldn’t she? I assume Asher left the door unlocked for her, so she just breezes into the living room. It’s seven in the morning on a Monday, and yes, I realize I have about ten minutes to call in sick to work, but if I’m not going to get fired, maybe my boss can help me out with that one. But that would seem like I’m pulling favors because we’re supposed to be dating, and pulling favors like that is kind of unfair, so maybe I should get my phone out.
