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Emma paused then. Childhood trauma? Could this be it?
She skimmed further. Most often, she read, sufferers of extreme commitment phobia failed to have secure bonding with one or both parents, or they might have been hurt by someone they trusted, a relative or caregiver. “Sometimes,” she read, “those with the severest cases of relationship anxiety often show conflicting signs: they might be passionate one minute, and aloof the next.”
Emma nodded her head with conviction. That was Xavier in a nutshell.
“To cure relationship anxiety, the sufferer often needs to confront his or her past and understand that those traumas might not be repeated in the present,” she read aloud. She wondered if it would be that easy? She shut off her computer. Was she really going to diagnose his psychological failings by Google? Wasn’t she projecting her own thoughts and worries onto him? That’s what happened when she didn’t know him. All she could do was guess.
I want to see you. Dinner tonight? She tried.
Emma stared at her screen but saw nothing. No reply. Had she lost him? Was he just in an aloof phase? Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her fishing line had gone slack and he’d cut bait.
* * *
Xavier stared at his burner phone, the one he only used for Nost, at Emma’s invitation. Every fiber of his body wanted to say yes, wanted to see her again, smell her lavender shampoo once more, feel her again: soft, wet and willing. But the very need that rose in his chest scared him. He hadn’t felt this needy since growing up as a child, alone in his room, his father desperately trying to talk his mother down from one of her rages. Later, of course, he’d know it was that she was bipolar, but that would only come after. He buried those memories of his mother so very deeply that he wondered why he thought of her now. She’d died when he was just nine. His memories of her seemed vague at best, though he knew that sometimes she was vibrant, energized, unstoppable, the brightest star in the room, not caring who she burnt, and other times, she wouldn’t leave her bed for days at a time. Papi remained loyal to her her whole life, and when he questioned why, his father told him, you can’t choose who you love. The old romantic. Look what it had gotten him: a troubled marriage, the early death of his wife, almost a whole lifetime living without her.
He shook the thought away. He could choose not to love, couldn’t he? He shut off his burner phone and tucked it into his pocket, vowing not to look at it for the rest of the week.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EMMA TOOK A deep swig of her gin and tonic as she sat at the crowded bar in the heart of Wrigleyville. Outside, the sidewalks were thick with bar hoppers, and the air was chilled with coming fall. The Cubs had long since finished their game at nearby Wrigley Field, though the revelers hung on, still celebrating the first post-season victory.
“You need to let him go,” Sarah advised, as she took a sip of her vodka soda. She wore her red hair up in a messy bun, and a slinky sweater, skinny jeans and open-toed ankle boots that showed off a new cherry-red pedicure. “He’s been AWOL for a week, he probably gave you a burner number and, anyway, he’s not responding... I mean, the writing is on the wall.”
“But...we had something,” Emma protested, staring moodily into her glass. She’d barely paid attention to her outfit: a slouchy sweater that kept sliding off one shoulder and black leggings. She wore her hair loose and naturally dried, the natural waves showing through. The vibe around them was boisterous and loud, but Emma just felt isolated and alone. Despite being surrounded by attractive men, she only wanted to think about Xavier.
“You mean you had amazing sex,” Sarah corrected, thumping her glass down on the bar for emphasis. “And you never know, it could’ve gone south when you found out he still lives in his mom’s basement and spends his off time smoking weed.”
“He doesn’t do that!”
“How do you know?” Sarah arched an eyebrow and Emma sighed. She didn’t know, not really. She didn’t know the man’s last name, much less where he lived.
“It’s driving me insane. You can find anything out about anybody these days just on your phone!” Emma waved her smartphone in the air. “But he’s a black box. It’s just not right.”
“Maybe it’s better this way,” Sarah cautioned as she took another small sip of her drink. “Maybe he’s bad news. Gang-banger?”
“No!” Emma exclaimed.
“Okay, white-collar felon.” Sarah took a little sip of her vodka soda, shaking it so the ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass.
Emma shook her head. “He’s just...troubled.”
