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Emmett grasps my hand firmly, following me up the stairs and I can barely hide the smile, knowing what his reaction will be when he thinks I brought him here to dance. That’s one of the many, many personality traits of Emmett that I adore. He is unwavering in his morality. If I were to drag him out on the dance floor, he wouldn’t be dancing. Instead, he’d be standing tall like a redwood, thick arms crossed over his chest, a grimace on his handsome face as he stood supervising the safety of whoever he came with.
We arrive at the first floor; I open the door and the beat of the house music pounds in our chests. His hand moves to my hip, his chest pressed against my back, protecting me from the invisible threat. It’s only nine o’clock, late for us, but early for the club-goers, so the dance area isn’t packed, but apparently still busy enough that Emmett is uncomfortable.
I reach my hand back to grasp his and lead him around the dance floor to the stairs that lead to the second floor. A fog machine mists around our ankles and my shoes stick to the flooring, no doubt the remnants of last night’s spilled beverages no one felt the need to clean up.
It isn’t until we reach the second floor, still abandoned this time of night, that I feel Emmett allow a little bit of space between us and the mind-melting music lowers to a dull roar. I turn, ready to ask Emmett what he thinks when I’m met with the most fatherly looking, grumpy as hell stare, and I burst into laughter.
My hands fall to my knees, and I wipe a tear from my eye before looking back up at him. “Yeah, I didn’t think this was the type of place you’d go for.”
His eyes scan the area, taking in the carpeted floors and walls, the empty bar and doorway leading to the coat check closet. Fake leather furniture that couldn’t pass a petri dish test even on its best day. “Hell no,” he says, looking around and noticing the group of older men overlooking the dance floor. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the idea of you being here while you’ve been drinking.”
“I’m twenty-six years old, Emmett . . . I’m not a child.”
“I don’t care. There are guys twice your age standing over there, watching the young girls on the dance floor like fucking vultures.”
“Girls travel in packs for safety reasons, not necessarily because they want to.” Make eye contact with the wrong person for more than a moment, and thirty seconds later they might be behind you on the dance floor, grinding themselves against your ass. And men wonder why women go to the bathroom in pairs.
He shakes his head and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Why’d you want to come here?”
I usher him to follow and start walking toward the coat check, lifting the velvet rope as I slide my jacket off my shoulders. “Let’s sneak our coats back here so we don’t have to carry them all night.”
He follows me into the L-shaped closet but doesn’t shrug off his jacket. I reach a hand out, curling my fingers in a hand-it-over motion. Emmett sighs, reluctance filling his face as he shimmies off his work coat and hands it to me.
“Are we really staying here? I was hoping we could go somewhere we could sit and hear ourselves think.”
I take his coat from his outstretched hand, placing it over mine on the dented metal hanger before tucking it in the furthest corner of the closet. “Come on, Grandpa, there is a sports bar on the third floor that has a live band tonight.”
He follows me up and the further we get from the dance area, the more the atmosphere changes. The obscenely loud house music dims, the air clears and our ears welcome the sound of a faint jukebox playing something that sounds like eighties rock. Peanut shells litter the floor and there are significantly fewer people around. We each take a seat at the bar and Emmett takes off his hat to scratch his head, taking in his surroundings before finally turning to face me.
“Is this better?”
He nods briefly. “A hair, but I’d still prefer we go back home to talk.”
I flag the bartender over, ordering us two beers before Emmett can start “the talk”. I know in a healthy relationship it should probably occur at some point. Two adults, hashing out the past, getting our questions answered and finding the much-needed closure to our frustrations. Part of the reason I wanted to stay out tonight is to prevent any “talks” from occurring. Allie is staying at Savannah’s house, so going back to his place would leave us completely alone without a three-year-old to distract from tough conversations.
Even though I’m considered an adult, that childish notion still lives inside me, telling me to avoid the conversation at all costs so I can avoid the sting of rejection that will come along with it. The bartender sets our beers in front of us, and we both take a long swig.
He sets his bottle down, his thumb gently wiping the condensation from the glass. “Still trying to wash the memory of that first floor from my mind. You wouldn’t catch me dead at a place like that.”
He has no idea how sketchy it can get. I wonder how he would feel, knowing that his ending things between us drove me to clubs like this more than I’d like to admit. Meg and I, putting on our tiniest dresses and working the dance floor in pairs, hoping that each kiss with a stranger or finding a man to fall in bed with would lessen the pain of missing him. I was restless, ready to do anything and everything I could to wash him from my system. Yet somehow, it always seemed to make it worse. I’d lie awake afterwards, another man’s arms around me, my mind always wandering to Emmett, wondering if he was awake, thinking about me. Or if he was curled up around his wife, sleeping soundly.
“You were never the type to go to a club while you were traveling for work?”
“Hell no. We went to bars, sure. That’s common. Some guys went to strip clubs, or clubs like this, sure. But you know me, that’s not my thing.”
I nod along as I take another slow sip, feeling a blanket of tension come over Emmett as he sits in silence, occasionally turning to take in the surroundings.
“Thanks for dinner tonight, by the way, hibachi is my favorite.”
He turns toward me, a small nod as he lifts the beer bottle to his lips. “Are you ever gonna let me tell you about Allie’s mom?”
I play dumb for a moment; thankful he doesn’t refer to her as his ex-wife.
“What about her?”
“It’s something we need to talk about eventually. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” I say, turning back to face the bar. “I don’t want to think about her, I’ve told you that.”
