24
Trystan
The silent darkness finally creeps back as my breathing slows.
"Emmy? You still there?"
"Yes." Her voice is tiny.
"Don't hang up." I say it out of instinct. I don't know how I know she's probably lying there, her hand covering her eyes, mortified.
"Okay," she squeaks.
"Just breathe," I tell her. I sit up and by feel, grab a dirty T-shirt from my suitcase at the end of the bed and clean myself off. "That was amazing. You're amazing."
"I cannot believe we just did that. I've never—"
"Me neither." I climb back in bed.
She exhales. "You've never had phone sex?"
"Never."
"I'm embarrassed, Trystan."
"Why? Didn't it feel good?"
"God, yes. It felt good. Too good. I just feel . . ." she trails off not finishing her thought, and I worry she's going to say dirty or something.
"There's no such thing as 'too good.' Emmy, it was beautiful. You're incredible. I will replay the sounds you made in my head probably for the rest of my life."
"Oh, God," she moans and lets out an embarrassed laugh. "And you, Mr. Montgomery, are a really dirty, dirty talker."
I chuckle. "I can hardly remember the things that came out of my mouth, Emmy. I was in flow state. But I think, though I can't be sure," I say in a dry tone, "I think you liked my dirty, dirty talking."
"Oh, God, I'm mortified." Her voice is muffled like she's covering her face, but I still hear laughter. Thank God.
"Be honest, Emmy," I warn.
"Yes, I did."
"Did what?"
"I liked your dirty, dirty talking."
"That's my girl. Now, do you need to go to the bathroom or anything, coz I'd really love to fall asleep talking to you."
I roll over and lay her phone on the bedside table. And we do just that.
The last thing I remember is Emmy asking, "What makes you cry, Trystan?"
"All your unread emails," I mumble as my eyes close.
I text Emmy as soon as I wake up. It's Friday. I'm supposed to do tours of an apartment building and a student housing project at some point today, but I'm waiting on the details from Robert. After my initial frosty reception from him, he seems to at least be going through the motions of helping me get my bearings about everything to do with Montgomery Homes & Facilities. I change into shorts and a T-shirt and check my email on my laptop, then I pull up a map of Charleston on Emmy's phone, pop my earbuds in, and pick a playlist entitled, "If I ever decide to start jogging." I smirk because it's so her.
I head out and follow the map of downtown, jogging to East Bay Street. Turning left would take me out toward the docks and warehouses, turning right will take me toward the Battery and the water. I turn right as I listen to Sia telling me she's the greatest and how much stamina she has. I push on, dodging a few early tourists, passing carriages, hopping over horse shit, and checking out the architecture. By the time I'm on East Battery, I catch sight of the morning sun sparkling silver across the water in the big soup bowl where the wide Ashley and Cooper Rivers merge before they join the Atlantic Ocean. I'm in stride, working hard. Sweat is a second skin and I'm humming along with U + Ur Hand by P!nk. I head along the waterfront sidewalk then cut right to pass under the majestic live oaks to a bench I spot. This town—I can't quite call it a city yet—has a great energy. I like it.
I feel . . . happy. I haven't felt this much lust for life in some time. For months now, I've had a feeling—odd dissatisfaction creeping in my life. Like there was nothing left to accomplish with my business, hence my decision to sell it. But I love New York.
Or do I?
I contemplate this as I breathe in the sea air.
I'd heard a couple of buzzes cutting over the music as I ran, so I pull the phone out of my bicep wrap, but there are no texts from Emmy. There are two missed calls from her work number I'd seen and ignored and then two texts from someone named Steven. I frown. I hope she was able to tell her boss she couldn't be in today. I slide the text open.
Steven: Emmaline. I haven't heard back on the email I sent you. I expect you to be in this morning as previously arranged. We have an important pitch at noon, and they specifically requested you attend.
Steven: I don't think I need to tell you that not being able to keep to your approved time-off schedule speaks of unprofessionalism.
I text Emmy again even though I haven't heard from her yet. Your boss is texting. Apparently he sent you an email. I'll forward it to you now. You should probably call him. My watch says it's nine o'clock. She could still be sleeping, but something feels off.
In the email icon on her phone, which shows thousands of unread messages and makes my neck itch, I spot two emails from her boss that came in. One last night and one this morning. I forward them to my own email without reading them. I wish she'd text me or call me.
Continuing my run, I turn right to pass the Montgomery house on South Battery. I don't have clear memories of it from the outside from when I was a kid, but I check it out as I pass the grand entrance, the facade in original brick with wide porches to take advantage of the breezes off the water. From the looks of it, many of the neighboring homes have been turned into inns.
Armand is outside Indigo Café, clearing cups and saucers off the two bistro tables he's set up outside.
"Morning," I call, out of breath.
He straightens and smiles as he sees me. "Come have breakfast."
"I will. I'm starving. Just let me get showered. Ten minutes."
After my shower I realize Emmy still hasn't texted me back, and I feel another twinge of concern.
Armand is slammed with customers when I return, but he's reserved me a spot in the corner. He points to it, and I nod gratefully. "Same as before," I mouth, hoping he remembers what I had so it saves him the time of coming over to take my order.
I scroll through my emails on my laptop, seeing the two I sent Emmy and hoping she answered them. Then I call Mac.
"Hey old man," I greet him.
"Trystan. How did it go? You disappeared on me. Are you back?"
"Nope. But I'll probably fly back tomorrow." Then I fill him in on the will. It feels good to talk about it again, and I realize I should be talking more with Mac generally. He's been a good business-mentor-turned-friend since I did my first deal with him.
"So you're going to run the operation from New York?" he asks.
"I'm going to try. At least for now."
"I heard Charleston's a neat city. It's not New York of course, but there could be worse places."
"Ha. Nah, I'm used to New York," I say. But even as the words come out of my mouth I think of Emmy. Although, since we've never actually spent any time together, there's no reason why we can't continue to be “phone friends” when I get back up north. I experience an uncomfortable sensation as I think it, but mentally I move on. We chat about the logistics for closing next week and then say goodbye as Armand brings my breakfast.
"Do you have a break soon?" I ask him. "It's busy."
"Busy, but I love it." He grins. "Maybe come by later."
"I'll see. I have a few meetings."
"Everything okay at Emmy's casa?"
"Perfect," I tell him, though my smile feels tight. Emmy still hasn't texted me.
Beau calls me then, and Armand nods and goes back to work.
"Hey, Trystan?"
"Beau. Hi, how you?"
"Good. So I'm going to tag along today. And I've been tasked with asking you if you'll attend a family dinner at the town house."
I swallow. "Seriously?"
"Yep."
"I'd have thought Isabel had heard enough from me. I don't want you and Suzy trying to patch things up between Grandmother and me."
"Actually, the invite came from her. She called and asked me if I'd please invite you."
I run a finger under the collar of my shirt. I want to say no, but suddenly, I think of Emmy and her hanging onto David with everything she has. She'd go, if it was her. It can't hurt to humor Isabel before I go back to New York. "So you and Suzy will be there? Your dad too?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, I'll come. What should I bring?"
"Just yourself. But wear a jacket. She's formal. A bottle of wine wouldn't hurt either."
"I'll need it." I laugh and we say our goodbyes.
I'm consumed by the need to tell Emmy I took her advice. Not that she's been explicit about it. But I got the sense she thought I should at least give my family a chance.
As I dial my number again, I experience a wave of awkwardness. If she hasn't texted, she's either asleep or doesn't want to talk to me because she's having an attack of the morning-afters. I feel certain it's the latter. The phone rings and then goes to voicemail. I hang up and dial the hotel.
"Hi, it's Trystan Montgomery. Can you put me through to my room, please, I have a guest staying there."
The call is patched through, but there's no answer. She said she used to visit David in the Village, she's probably gone for a walk in the neighborhood. But even as I think it, I doubt that's the case.
I open another text message, but I'm clueless what to say. Everything is starting to feel weird and cold in the daylight. I think over all the things that came out of my mouth last night and realize they are starting to feel lascivious and disgusting. My breakfast doesn't feel too settled either. Everything feels wrong.
Emmy, can we talk, please? Call me.