“Okay, I can’t take it any longer,” Emma shouted, her fingers punching at the Mustang’s CD player like she couldn’t turn it off quickly enough. “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” she hollered as the second chorus of We Built This City vibrated at top volume through the car.

     “Impressive,” I hollered over the music, fumbling around her spider fingers until I punched the disc skip button. “I didn’t even make it to the chorus the first time I heard that one.”

     When two minutes of awkward silence passed after we’d left the Scarlett house, I proposed a game of Hell on Wheels because I couldn’t take wasting any time I had with her in silence.

     It was a game devised by Joseph and me after about going mad three hours down an Oklahoma highway, facing another four more of the same, flat, scenic-impaired stretch. We loaded up a shopping cart of CDs that should have been a capital crime to record and took turns playing the most ear damaging songs known to man. There wasn’t a shortage. Whoever was the first to call mercy was a stinky tube sock. Juvenile, but fun.

     I kept the storage container of abominations in the car for long journeys or, in this case, long silences.

     Emma winced when the opening notes played on the next CD, her head slapping the headrest like it would keep her from yelling mercy longer.

     A ring interrupted the coup d’etat of butt rock ballads. Emma shot me a victorious smile as she fished through her purse for her phone.

     I punched the off button. “To be continued.”

     Emma made a slitting motion across her neck before answering. “Hey, Jules. I’m on my way—” The smile was sucked from Emma’s face.

     “He’s there now?” she whispered, gripping the arm rest. “Okay, okay. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

     Julia’s voice raised a decibel, so I didn’t feel as guilty eavesdropping. “He’s drunk, Emma. Really drunk. Do not, and I repeat, do not come by here.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous.” Emma swallowed, glancing at me from the side. “I’m coming.”

     “Listen to me, Emma, you crazy lunatic,” Julia hissed over the phone before a pounding interrupted her in the background, accompanied by a male voice that was beyond pissed. “Dammit,” Julia hissed. “This crazy mo-fo is going to take down our door. I’d swear he’s on meth right now, Em.”

     “Okay, Jules, just yell at him through the door and tell him I’m two minutes away.” Emma was frantic now, no longer trying to play the whole thing cool for my sake. “Keep the door locked.”

     “Emma Marie Scarlett, listen to me!” Julia screamed so loudly I wanted to cover my ears. “Go to our favorite coffee shop downtown. Chill there, and when meth-head is done decimating our door, I’ll come pick you up. Think you can manage that?”

     Julia was too irritated to listen to Emma and Emma was too frantic to listen to Julia. I was going to have to be the voice of reason. Yes, that’s exactly what I just said.

     I snatched the phone from Emma’s ear. “Julia? It’s Patrick.” I gave Emma a warning look when she tried to pluck the phone away from me. “I’m taking Emma back to my place for the night. She’ll give you a call tomorrow to check in.”

     “What?!” Emma shouted, turning in her seat to glower at me. “I most certainly am not going back to your place with you.”

     Moving the phone from my mouth, I stared her down. “Yes,”—my voice was all edge—“you most certainly are. End of story.”

     Once I was satisfied she wasn’t going to throw herself from a moving vehicle or pull the steering wheel away from me, I moved the phone back into position.

     “Julia, listen to me,” I said, feeling exhausted. Trying and failing to calm two women at the same time was taking its toll on me. “Tell him you’ll call the cops if he doesn’t leave, and if he doesn’t leave in ten seconds flat, call them. If he manages to bust in before the cops get there, grab the handy dandy baseball bat I saw hidden under your bed and use the opportunity to perfect your swing, slugger.” I smiled, just imaging Julia landing a bat in Ty’s gut. “Aim for the junk, but since it’s questionable he has anything there that would cause any damage”—I winked over at a cross armed Emma, who was crossing them tighter—“aim for the knees, stomach, or throat. Sound easy enough?”

     Julia chuckled as another round of pounding sounded in the background. “Thanks for the low down on self defense, but Ty knows better than to mess with me. He’s scared I’ll cast some kind of curse that will bestow an eternally flaccid penis on him,” she said, clucking her tongue. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.”

     This time it was my turn to laugh. “I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on that matter,” I said, sneaking a glance at Emma. Her unyielding glare snapped my eyes forward. “You good, Jules?”

     “Positively chipper cheery,” she said in a fake sugar voice.

     I was about to hang up when she said, “Hey, Hayward, in case you haven’t already, seize the moment.” She didn’t need to make any other clarification—I knew exactly what she was insinuating between the lines, and she knew I did too. “Good luck, my friend.”

     The phone went dead, but I didn’t lower it for a few seconds, trying to piece together something to say that wouldn’t set Emma off more than she already was. It wasn’t me, though, that ended up breaking the silence.

     “Patrick, I know you’re doing what you think is best,” Emma said, regulating her voice. “But I can’t go back to your place. I can’t,” she repeated, staring out the window.

     “Why not?” I asked. “I have utter faith Jules can take care of herself if Ty dares stumble through that door, I’ve got more than enough space at my place. You can have your own end of the house if you like. What’s the big deal?”

     “You know what the big deal is,” she said, all elusive and vague again, like I was a mind reader, but I could take an educated guess that the big deal included her going to my place to spend the night while her boyfriend of six years waited for her outside her dorm room. On the surface, this was a juicy rumor that would hold the campus captive for a solid week.

     “Fine,” I relented, sighing. “I’ll take you back to your mom’s.” I zipped across three lanes, preparing to take the next exit. “But I am not taking you back to your dorm room.”

     “No,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t go back there. I don’t spend nights there anymore.” She paused, wringing the hem of her skirt in her hands. “Too many nightmares waiting for me when I fall asleep.”

     I closed my hand over her knee. “Okay, then we’ll head to my place. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman, and you can even call and invite your brothers to stay with us if you don’t believe me.” I meant it, but I really hoped she didn’t take me up on this offer.

     She let out a breath that was long and tortured, like there was no other outcome than a lose-lose situation here.

     “I feel helpless right now, Emma,” I admitted. “It’s not something I’m used to. Let me do something to help you. Please.”

     She examined me for a moment, like she was making one of the most critical decisions of her life. “Okay. Take me to your place.”

 

“So you live in Maverick’s Point. How appropriate,” Emma said as we cruised down the last few blocks before we’d be at my place.

     I was still convinced I was dreaming. She’d willingly agreed, after a push of encouragement from me, to come to my place. To spend the night.

     I didn’t care if we wound up on opposite ends of the house; we’d be under the same roof. I didn’t care that she’d only agreed to come here because she didn’t have any other option, and I didn’t care that she wasn’t my girlfriend, and I didn’t care that I swore I’d be on my most gentlemanly behavior, which wouldn’t result in a long, desperate kiss on the balcony that we’d both wake up to regret, her for one reason and me for another. I only cared she was coming. She was here right now. With me.

     “And since I’m getting to know you so well, I’d wager the twenty dollar bill in my wallet that’s got to get me through two more weeks that you live in an oceanfront mansion with a butler to go with every room, a pinball machine in the foyer, and a Slurpee dispenser in both the kitchen and your full sized theatre room.” She looked over at me, a smug line curved into her mouth.

     “Actually, smarty-pants,” I said, turning onto my block. “Only one of your outlandish assumptions is correct.” Although in another week there would be a Slurpee machine in my kitchen. At present, it was sugary slush of heaven free.

     I pulled in the driveway and killed the engine. Even with the windows up, the sound of the waves thundering against the shore below made it seem we were only steps away from them. Which we pretty much were.

     “Oceanfront,” she stated, shaking her head.

     “It’s not because it’s the best,” I said, guessing at her thoughts. “It’s because it’s what I like.”

     “Yeah, you and every one of the other six billion people of the world,” she replied, tossing her door open. “But there’s a reason the world’s population doesn’t live at the beach.”

     “Sand in your shoes isn’t for everyone,” I said, keeping a straight face as I closed my door and came around the front of the car to her.

     Giving me a stern look, she said, “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

     “Don’t I know it,” I said, leading her up the walkway. Turning my head over my shoulder, I said, “I’m funnier.”

     She sighed, one of those never-ending ones that moms do a lot when they’re not sure what to do with their misbehaving toddler.

     “Wilkommen, fraulein,” I said, swinging the front door open for her. “Minha casa es tu casa.”

     “Wow, did you just welcome an unsuspecting, innocent young woman into your bachelor pad with a half German, half Spanish greeting?” she asked, shoving my stomach when she passed by. “I don’t think that’s been done in the history of mustache twirling men attempting to lure a doe-eyed virgin to their lair.”

     Of course I would hear one word in her rather lengthy insult. “Virgin?” My voice cracked. It cracked. It hadn’t even cracked during puberty.

     She froze to a stop. “Figuratively speaking,” she finally replied, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder.

     I flicked on the lights, only because I knew this was included in the gentleman-like behavior clause I’d verbally signed a half hour ago.

     Doing a full spin in place, she looked up, down, and all around. “I guess it’s all right. Although it’s a downgrade from my super posh dorm room.”

     I tossed my keys into the bowl sitting beside the door, undoing the top couple buttons of my shirt. “My apologies, Miss. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.”

     Her eyes narrowed at me, a hand creeping over her hip. Probably had to do with the sing-song voice in which I’d delivered that last comment.

     “And by comfortable,” I said, keeping my tone innuendo free, “I mean fresh towels, one thousand thread count sheets, and a mint on your pillow. I do not, and I emphasize, do not mean comfortable as in me dressing down to my speedo and massaging you with hot scented oils,”—another hand joined the other on her hips—“or dipping succulent strawberries in a vat of molten chocolate and lifting it to your lips while James Brown plays in the background.”

     I was grinning like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and knew no amount of apologies would get him out of trouble. “That is, unless that’s what you’ve got in mind. I’ve got the speedo on right now, in fact,” I said, untucking my shirt and making a move for my fly.

     I would have stopped the act before any zippers moved south, but my internal radar suddenly detected an unidentified flying object coming straight for my  . . . ahem . . . fly area.

     I caught it, no problem, but I didn’t catch the words that slipped from my mouth when I processed the trial sized bottle of baby oil in my hand.

     “Hot damn,” I mumbled, stupefied for one of the few times in my life.

     Emma burst into laughter, her body curving around the laugh it hit so deep. “You should see your face right now,” she managed between the laughter explosion. “Gosh I’m so glad I keep that in my purse.”

     I shook my head, but that didn’t work. So I tried again, with more success. “You keep baby oil in your purse?” I said, turning the bottle over in my hands like it was a sacred artifact.

     “It’s a great moisturizer,” she said like it was common knowledge.

     “Of course it is,” I said, smiling tightly at her. “Now would you mind helping me find my jaw? It fell to the ground somewhere around here.” I prepared to toss the bottle back at her, hopes crushed, last hanging shred of dignity flying away into the wind of letdown, when she shook her hand at me.

     “Keep it,” she said, fighting the smile on her face. “As a souvenir.”

     I slid it into my side pants pocket. “I’ll treasure it forever,” I said, smirking at her as I patted my pocket.

     Fighting the battle to keep a straight face, she spun away from me and meandered around the room. It was nothing elaborate: a wall of windows facing the ocean, a few pieces of furniture purchased for their comfort and not their appearance or feng shui appeal, and an array of family photos situated at random places.

     “This is really great, Patrick,” Emma said. “Although I am surprised there aren’t halls labeled with the wings they lead to and a handful of staff waiting at the ready to bring you a strawberry topped funnel cake whenever the midnight craving should arrive.”

     I watched her navigate through the sprawling room and, while she didn’t blend in with the setting, she fit it. I’d never been able to quite figure out why the place had never had the warmth of a home until now. I wrote it off as being void of family and, a good majority of the time, void of me, but as a radiant warmth rolled over me, I had my answer.

     It was because it was missing Emma.

     Okay, time to put the brakes on the philosophy bus before it time traveled its way back to Woodstock. There’d be no coming back from that free-loving acid trip.

     “I didn’t buy it because it was the best by hundred thousand square foot great rooms and marble covered mini-blinds standards,” I said, stepping around the kitchen island, which was, ironically, marble. “It appealed to me because it was the best for me. By my standards.”

     “Well, I’d hate to give your ego another boost in case it should explode and go all Chernobyl on us,” she said, grinning at me from the side as she picked a frame off the sofa table. “But I have to say I’m a big fan of your standards.”

     I turned my head, flicking my ear. “That couldn’t have been what I just heard.”

     “A compliment?” she provided, nodding her head once. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s what it was, but I had a long day and an even longer night,”—for the first time since we’d entered the house, a touch of darkness targeted her face—“and I’m too tired to keep this game of wits going with you.”

     “So I guess that’s a no for a campfire on the beach tonight?” I said, teasing, but not if she would have said yes. Although I knew from the hollows darkening beneath her eyes she wouldn’t.

     “Rain check?” she asked, settling the frame back into its place.

     “Absolutely,” I said. “They’re calling for meteor showers and clear skies tomorrow night.”

     “Tomorrow night?” she said, arching a brow at me. “I agreed to stay for one night. Who says I’m staying two?”

     Another school boy smile. “You will,” I said simply. “You just don’t know it yet.”

     Her mouth popped open, a rebuke dying to make its way over to me and then her lips closed. “Too late. Too tired,” she said. “I’ll look forward to peppering you with snarky comments first thing in the morning.”

     “Now there’s a reason to pop out of bed in the morning,” I replied, heading down one of the two hallways in the house, the one opposite the hallway leading to my bedroom.  

     Most of the time, I really hated chivalry.

     “Come on,” I said, tilting my head for her to follow. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

     “I’m thinking this couch looks pretty sleep-worthy,” she said, patting the oversized pillows as she followed behind me. “Just toss me a blanket and I’m in heaven in about two seconds.”

     “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” I said, thinking it strange that a couch could look so welcoming to her. “And it will be a distant memory when you experience the perfection that is a memory foam mattress. Plus, there’s like fifty feather pillows stacked on this thing for some reason. Making the bed in the morning will be a serious chore.” Ducking into the laundry room, I grabbed one of my folded undershirts and a pair of linen pajama pants.

     “It was nice knowing you, couch,” I heard her say around a yawn, “but I’m trading you in for a nicer model.” 

     She was already turning the corner into the room I had in mind when I popped out of the laundry room. She braced herself in the doorway.

     “If this is a guest bedroom,” she said, her mouth dropping open for a moment, “I don’t want to see your bedroom.”

     “My bedroom’s nothing special,” I said, burying my shoulder into the wall. And it wasn’t, not when I knew what was now missing from it. “Here,” I said, remembering the garments in my hands. “They’ll be five sizes too big, but they’re clean. Even spring fresh from the fabric softener.” I laughed—nervously. I didn’t know I was capable of that kind of laugh.

     “Okay, I’ve seen it all,” she said, reaching for the tee and pants. “A man who folds his laundry and who knows what fabric softener is.”

     I lifted a shoulder. “My mother raised her sons to be well-rounded individuals.” And she had, although laundry had consisted of wash basins, metal boards, and soap so strong it left your hands red for a week in her time.

     “She did a good job,” Emma said, facing back into the room.

     We stayed this way for another minute, her inspecting the room like it wasn’t real, me inspecting her in the same way, before she looked over at me. Her eyes were too shiny to only be sleepy.

     “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I fought you on this, I’m sorry I was such a brat earlier, and I’m sorry you ended up having to deal with this tonight”—I’d held up my hand at the first sorry, indicating she didn’t need to go on, but she ignored me as normal—“but this is exactly what I needed tonight.” She didn’t look back into the room, or down the hall, or to the floor like she did so much of the time. She looked into my eyes without blinking.

     I held her stare until she finally looked away. “Me too.”