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He smells like a cologne that makes me want to bury my face into his chest and not come out.
We’re so close like this, so near, that it makes me a bit self-conscious.
Like he’s sure to notice the ugly scar on my chin from when Josie and I were having a flipping contest on the trampoline and I bashed my face on the side. Or how I messed up the line of my cat eye in the middle of my left eye. Or how I’m already getting a slight wrinkle between my eyebrows from the frustrated face I apparently always make.
Or even that I’m keeping something from him.
I look away just as we pull up to the restaurant.
I have to laugh. “Wow, it really was close.”
“You bet,” Emerson says, getting out first and hurriedly taking something out of his pocket as he comes around to the door on my side.
Seconds later, he’s unfurling an umbrella and gesturing for me to come under it.
“You’re all prepared, aren’t you?” I ask.
He just smiles.
We hurry to the door, Emerson careful to keep the umbrella covering me completely. He holds the door while I head inside.
One look around, and I already like this place. It’s covered—as in, floor to ceiling, wall to window covered—with masks. Dark wood masks, ebony masks, masks painted bright garish colors, masks with big gaping holes for eyes, masks with crooked jack-o’-lantern mouths. It even smells of wood, rich and musty. The one thing that’s keeping this ode to masks from being a bit creepy is the presence of exotic plants. Pothos and philodendron thread among the masks, lush and expansive, so easily that part of me has to wonder if the masks are some sort of fertilizer. I’m probably being ridiculous.
“I hope there are no curses on any of these,” I lean in to whisper to Emerson with a chuckle.
He wraps an arm around me. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
Our waiter is already arriving, a lean man who could be anywhere from twenty to forty. He takes us to a table by the window.
One look outside, at the deluge still going on, makes me breathe a sigh of relief. My gaze wanders and stops on a funny mask just beside me—it has cartoonish, bulging painted eyes paired with a droll little mouth that doesn’t seem to match.
“Wine would be nice to start out with, don’t you think?” Emerson asks, a wooden slab of a menu already in hand.
“No,” I blurt out.
When he looks up, surprised, I quickly improvise. “I think, with how sick I was... it’s better to hold off for a bit.”
How about nine months, to be exact?
Kill. Me. Now.
Emerson’s glance flickers back to the menu. “Makes sense. I won’t make you suffer seeing me enjoy myself, then. We should try some of their homemade mango juice.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
As the night goes on, I find myself relaxing bit by bit. After all, there’s no huge rush to tell Emerson.
I can let us enjoy ourselves for the next week, then go home, see what happens, and get some perspective on this all. Even without getting pregnant, this has all been such a crazy whirlwind.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a breather.
It’s so easy to be with Emerson, most of all tonight.
If he notices the admiring gazes some of the swankily half-dressed gorgeous women here shoot him, he gives no sign. As for me, when I chat with a man at the bar on my way to the bathroom, before I know it, Emerson’s there, introducing himself. “Emerson. Wynona’s boyfriend.”
Back at our table, I almost grin. “What was that all about?”
Emerson shrugs.
“Okay...” I say.
His look cuts to me. “I’m not one to not let you go out with your girlfriends dancing or anything overprotective like that, but if a man tries to chat you up when I’m in the room, I’m going to make sure that he knows where we stand. That okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Cool if I do it too?”
He smirks, taking my hand. “Knock yourself out. Before, it was my brothers steering me away from sketchy women, but feel free to take that up if you want. My brothers don’t have time anymore, with kids and all.”
“Kids,” I say, a tremor going through me at the word. I should leave it at that, let it be, but I can’t. Something nameless is impelling me on. “It seems so crazy that people our age have them. I feel like I only recently got the hang of looking after myself... let alone a child.”
Emerson nods. “It’s a huge responsibility. I don’t know how they do it—balance the work, a relationship with their partner, and the kid. Not sure I could.”
“Could,” I ask lightly, “Or would?”
Emerson shrugs. “Either? I wouldn’t say never, but I’m definitely not where I’d want to be for a kid to come into the picture.”
