Page 51 of His Second Chance (Love Comes To Town)

“But Emerson, you said—”

“The money could come in useful, I’ll grant you that,” he admits. “Especially with what we now... know. But you can’t just jet off for four months, and I won’t leave you again. I made that mistake once. Not again.”

“And you weren’t even going to tell me?” I demand.

“It just would’ve made things complicated,” he growls. “Like it is now.”

“It’s a good offer,” I say. “A damn good one. If you want to be able to do this...”

“I do,” he snaps. “But not like this.”

“But the exposure too, your career.” I eye him steadily. “Emerson, this is the kind of publicity that could put you on the map. That’s what you always wanted.”

“It is,” he admits in a strained voice. “Though not as much as some things.”

We stand there, not looking at each other. I need to sit down, but I don’t want to move.

Someone once told me it’s a power play, silence. You keep your mouth shut, and it makes the person uncomfortable, forces them to speak, even give in. Some people will do a lot to avoid silence.

But this silence only seems to fortify Emerson’s decided profile, make it more sure of itself, more hard. More remote.

It only makes the ribbons of doubt in my gut turn into two-hand-thick ropes.

“Emerson,” I say quietly. “This is your dream.”

“No.” He shakes his head in one angry whip. “My dream is making this work.”

“But your music... that’s your dream too. Making it big. Having lots of people know your work, your songs.”

“There are different paths to get there. Maybe it was a childish dream, anyway.”

I want to go over there, grab him, and shake him until he listens to me. Until he gives some sign that he’s not a statue letting words flow over him as useless as water.

“You said that lucky breaks can come only once in a lifetime,” I remind him quietly. “That when they come, you sure as hell had better take them.”

He rounds on me with a snarl. “What do you want me to say, Wynona? That I wouldn’t take this opportunity anyway? Well, I would. I’d take this opportunity in a second if I hadn’t met up with you again. But I did. And that’s it. It changes everything.”

Tears cloud my eyes, my voice too. “I can’t have you give this up for me. This means too much to you.”

His gaze avoids mine. “And yet, there are things that mean more to me.”

“Emerson—”

“Wynona.” The denim blues of his eyes, when he finally turns them on me, are tortured, almost beseeching. “Don’t make this any harder on me than it has to be.”

“But—”

“You think I’d leave you now that I know... that?” He gestures at my belly. “God, no. Over my dead body.”

It’s that tone that does it, that makes my next words—We can’t even talk about it?—die in my throat.

“So, that’s it then?” I say in a wooden voice.

“That’s it, then,” Emerson says before he stalks out of the room.

And that is it.

We avoid each other for the next few hours. When I head out for some much-needed air and get a tap on the shoulder, I jump, though it’s only Josie.

“How are you not in a better mood?” she demands, looking me up and down. “Most men would go running and screaming if you so much as coughed the word ‘baby’, let alone were pregnant with theirs.”

“I know,” I say. “And his reaction has been great, thoughtful, though we haven’t talked specifics. But there’s something else.”

“His crazy ex is back?” Josie asks, starting to walk along the beach.

“No,” I say, walking alongside her.

“He wants to live on the island forever?”

“No,” I say.

“Well, what is it, then?”

“I would tell you if you’d give me a chance to speak!” I grumble.

“Sorry,” Josie says with a sigh. “I was just talking to Mom a few minutes ago. She’s been looking after my plants, and I just found out that my calathea finally bit the dust. It was a long time coming, but still. Death hurts.” Her voice takes on a more musing tone. “Must suck to be God. Whoops! You were saying?”

“I’m sorry about your calathea,” I say patiently. “But it’s just... remember that offer to go on tour I told you Emerson got?”

“Yeah, that he gave up for you?”

“That’s the one.” I sit down on a bench. Talking about stressful things has a way of tiring me out more than actual exercise. “Well, the man in charge just doubled how much he’s offering Emerson to come and offered him the top act.”

“Damn,” Josie says, sitting beside me.

“Damn is right.” I sigh. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you know what he’s doing?”

“He’s giving it up,” Josie murmurs.

“Yep.” I groan. “On account of yours truly. If he doesn’t hate me in a week or a month, he’s sure to in a few more years.”

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