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“Oh! So are we. Maybe I can listen to what you have and help in places you might be stuck.”
His expression flips to one that looks more like panic, and again, instead of answering, he turns to grab the coffee pot. I watch as he fills it with water, goes about adding the grounds, pulls two cups out, and then sets them on the island along with some creamer. He made us coffee back in Nashville too, only then he had a smile on his face and seemed so carefree. Here he’s pensive and withdrawn.
I remember he also drank his coffee black. All he had for me was milk, so I know this creamer belongs to someone else.
“This okay?” he asks, waving his hand in the direction of the creamer. “Do you need sugar?”
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.” Who could this creamer be for? Avery hasn’t mentioned that he’s seeing anyone new. Then again, what do I know? It’s not like I ask about him very often. That would be awkward and put her in an uncomfortable situation.
His light brown eyes find mine and hold. How many times have I wanted him to look at me, to see me, to want me? What is he thinking as he looks at me now? Does he remember that night together like I do? Does he replay the details in his mind over and over again? Does he remember the hours of conversations we had? I think about them so much, and sometimes I’m certain I’ve sensationalized our very brief time together.
I watch as he swallows, licks his lips, and then flattens them. His gaze leaves mine, trails over my face, and then drops to the counter. His cheeks turn a little pinker then he shakes his head and turns to leave, not even waiting for the coffee to be done.
“Clay,” I call out, and he pauses to pivot halfway so he doesn’t have to fully look at me. He doesn’t say anything either; he’s just waiting. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
He raises his hand in acknowledgment then proceeds to his office and closes the door.
12
CLAY
Is it a horrible contradiction to say I love having her in my house and hate it at the same time?
I love it for the obvious reason: it’s Emma. Emma is finally in my home.
I also hate it for the obvious reason: it’s Emma. Emma is in my home.
After that day on the mountain last year, I wouldn’t say I became obsessed with self-help books, but I read more books about becoming the best version of myself than any others. I took several of those online personality tests, I studied the strengths and weaknesses they listed, and I picked up a habit of collecting quotes that resonated with me. One I saw said, “Real strength is letting people lose you instead of begging them to choose you.” This one stuck with me for obvious reasons.
That Thanksgiving weekend and the weeks after, I know there was something there between us. She knows it and I know she knows it. It was hard for me to abruptly let her go like I did, but what would it say about me if I had stayed knowing there were two of us or if I pretended I saw nothing? I am not a weak man. I’ve lived my entire life proving just that by dealing with this speech disability.
There’s a look people give you the first time they hear you stutter. Sometimes it’s pity, other times it’s relief that this is a problem they don’t have. Regardless, I feel I’ve always had to work just a little bit harder than others to be seen for who I really am, not some poor guy, and there was no way I was going to allow myself to be seen as the other guy.
I just won’t do it. I want to be chosen in the way I had chosen her. I deserve that, which leads me back to my initial thought of hating her being here in my house. While I did my best to avoid her yesterday, it was obvious, and that made this already uncomfortable situation even more uncomfortable. I emerged from my room to cook dinner, a frozen lasagna and frozen garlic bread, and barely two words were muttered. So, today cannot be a repeat. We cannot spend another day cooped up in the house together.
“Moose!”
I hear the whisper-yell from the living room. I’m in my office. I was up before her this morning and started the coffee pot early so I could grab a cup and avoid her. Rude? Yes. Do I feel good about being rude to her? Not really. That’s not who I am, but do I know what to do about any of this? No.
“Moose, come here!” she says urgently.
Nails are clicking rapidly across the floor, and curiosity gets the best of me. I open the door and lean into the frame as I watch them. Emma is on her knees in black leggings, a black turtleneck, and thick fuzzy purple socks, while Moose is racing around her in circles with his harness half hanging off him and the leash trailing behind. When she’s down on the ground like this, they’re almost the same height. His tongue is out as he zips past her again, and this time he knocks her over. Lying on her back, she lets out an exasperated growl, and I can’t help but chuckle.
Picking up the sound, her head whips in my direction, and she glowers at me.
“He won’t sit still for me to take off his harness,” she says as he runs up next to her and jumps away again just as she goes to grab him.
“He’s a puppy.” A bad puppy based on the way he’s not listening to her.
Her nose scrunches up as she looks at him. “He doesn’t look like a puppy. He’s huge.”
“He’ll be one next month,” I tell her. I still remember Bryce’s face when I brought him home. Juliet and I planned it out just like you see in the movies. Moose was in a box, and she recorded us as Bryce took off the lid. He cried as he picked him up and hugged him. I was so proud of my decision to get him, and I felt like a superhero at that moment.
“Oh.”
“What are you doing?” I ask as I make my way over to the couch, sit down, and point to the spot in front of me. Moose obediently makes his way over and sits. The fur covering his legs is all wet.
“I took him on a walk for you.” She sits up and crosses her legs in front of her.
