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Nighttime is different, at least when it’s empty of people like this. I can walk fast or slow, or even backward. I can skip or just sit flat on my ass for no real reason at all, and the air won’t make a peep. The sky won’t widen its eyes. No, in nature, nothing I can do is unnatural except to cease existing.
“Wynona.”
I sigh. I guess I couldn’t really expect Emerson to stay back there, not after what happened.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I stop, letting him catch up. “I am too.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says.
I turn to look at him.
That sad, sad, beautiful man. The years have made him different, sure, but not in any of the ways that count.
He’s still Emerson. The one I fell in love with.
“Don’t you get it?” My voice sounds sad and weary, as though I’m some seer reciting preordained facts. “This is going to keep happening. We can’t just pretend that the past never happened, that we can be friends.”
“I know.”
We look at each other.
“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend,” he finally says.
I look away. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
I turn to eye him. “So?”
“So, your turn.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I almost laugh. “Because you don’t get to dump me, long-distance, mind you, after three great years, and then stroll up over five years later and act as if nothing happened since. Okay?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to—”
“Really? Because that’s what it looks like to me, Emerson. If you’d bothered to ask.”
I turn away and start walking. “Anyway, I’m not in a good place for anything right now.”
“No?” He walks up alongside me.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Other than the fact that you messed things up all those years ago?”
His teeth grit. “Yeah.”
“I’m going through a bad breakup.”
“Oh.”
As we continue along, nearing the hotel, I shoot him a skeptical sideways look. “That’s it?”
He shrugs. “I went through one of those recently. I know what it’s like.”
“Do you?”
“It’s bad,” he admits. “Though I’ve had worse.”
The way he looks at me as he says it confirms it. Asking him about that would be a bad, very bad idea.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.”
I’m about to turn away when he says, “Did you ever see the new Cosmos? The one that came out this past year?”
I nod. “Wasn’t as good.”
And somewhere between his nodding and asking me a question about my tattoo business, we’re locked in conversation again. And I know I should stop, that this is a slippery slope with fewer footholds the further we go, but I can’t stop.
And at some point, my head has drifted onto his shoulder and my eyes have closed.
The next time they open, it’s sunny and I’m in my own bed.
There’s a knock on the door.
Chapter 8
Emerson
This is a dumbass idea.
She’s not going to answer that door. I wouldn’t answer that door if I were her.
I should just turn around, walk back to my room, and—
“Yeah?” The door opens a crack to show Wynona’s sleepy blue eye.
“Hey,” I say, lifting one of the plates in my hands. “Breakfast?”
“I...”
“I carried you back to your bed last night,” I explain. “Hope that’s okay.”
The eye narrows—but then she nods. “All right.”
When she opens the door further, though, she doesn’t step away to let me in. Her half-smile is frozen, her eyes narrowed.
She eyes me for what seems like an age.
“I’m sorry if I was all over the place last night,” she finally says.
“I’m sorry if I crossed the line, too,” I say.
We look at each other as if deciding something.
She nods, then steps aside, letting me in.
There’s something so timid about her right now, so beaten down, that a step into her room and I’m pausing again. “I can go, you know.”
“What?”
“If my being here at this hotel is screwing it up for you, I could go to another one,” I tell her.
Her stare goes flat. “You’re serious.”
I nod. “I’ve done enough to hurt you already.”
She nods with a twist of a smile. “I get it. You’re running away again.”
“What? No, I—”
Her smile twists worse, once again naked-looking without that bright lipstick of hers that I’m so used to. “Yeah. Things get tough or complicated, and you peace out. Guess some things really haven’t changed.”
“Look,” I snap, “I’m just trying to look out for you.”
Her chin rises as she grabs the plate out of my hands. “Well, lucky for you, I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself, thanks.”
“Good,” I snarl.
“Good,” she snipes back.
We sling ourselves in the two suede armchairs in the corner of the room and start eating.
“So, when would you go?” she asks conversationally.
“As soon as I’m out of this room, if you want,” I growl.
“I see.”
“Right.”
“And what do you want to do?” she asks.
I could throw my plate at the wall in frustration right about now. “This isn’t about that.”
