“No way in hell.” Grant laughs, and I hate that everything about the sound pulls on me to pay attention when I don’t want to.
“C’mon. A bunch of us jump. We could teach you,” Leo says with more slur than conviction after whatever round of drink he’s on.
“I don’t trust anyone enough, let alone myself, to jump out of an airplane and rely on them to know the parachute is for sure going to deploy.”
Chicken.
I don’t say the word aloud, but I think it, and for some reason reverting back to sounding like a kid makes me feel a smidgen better.
“Sounds like you have trust issues,” Leo says.
“Yeah, how is that, Grant?” Desi pipes in while I just keep my head down and focus on picking at my nail polish. “You can risk your life every day doing your job, but you’re scared to skydive?”
“My partner has my back,” he states.
“So, you trust your partner, but you wouldn’t trust a skilled instructor to tandem jump with you? They control the jump, pull the chute, and make sure you land safely.”
Goddamnit, Desi.
I see the maneuvering going on here, and I don’t want any part of the set up. I shift in my seat and try to find an out that won’t be so obvious.
“Tell me something, Desi,” Grant says as he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “When was the last time you jumped?”
“Me?” She laughs. “You’re all out of your minds. There’s no way I would trust someone with my life.”
“And you just proved my point,” he says, and Desi just laughs harder. But that charming chuckle she has, which typically has all the men sidling up next to her, doesn’t seem to affect Grant.
Talk quiets some as we finish our dessert and Leo brings another round of drinks for those who are ready.
“I swear every time Desi invites me over, I leave having gained ten pounds,” Cassy groans as she adjusts the waistband of her pants and then points an accusing finger my way. “And, of course, you’re going to have another helping and grin the whole time you’re eating it.”
My hand stops mid-cut into another slice of cheesecake, but the guilt is only momentary. It’s too damn irresistible to pass up.
“Bitch,” Desi playfully comments.
“You always did love dessert.” It’s Grant’s quiet statement that has our friends turning their heads in his direction, the slow realization that he’s from the past I never talk about settling over them.
But he isn’t looking at any of them. When I glance up, his gaze is on me. Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder what it is he sees when he looks at me. His soft smile exudes warmth, but it’s his eyes that draw me into places and times and thoughts that don’t belong in this lifetime.
There’s a stirring in my belly that shouldn’t be there. The same one that has resurfaced each time the two of us have interacted in some way or another over the past few hours.
I need to stop thinking about the gold flecks in his brown eyes and how he still has the hint of a scar on his chin from when he tried to jump his BMX off a homemade ramp.
Familiarity.
That’s what he is, and it’s something I’m not used to outside the world I’ve created.
It’s too much. Too unexpected. Too close.
“You’re right. I don’t need this extra piece,” I say as I stand abruptly and begin to clear the dirtied forks that were discarded when the paper plates were tossed into the fire. My avoidance of eye contact only serves to compound the awkwardness and reinforce that I’m not acting anything like my normal self.
Once in the kitchen, I do things to busy myself. Wipe down the counters that have already been cleaned. Restack the dishwasher. Anything to settle the discord I feel.
“Emerson.” The deep rumble of Grant’s voice cuts through my thoughts. My hands still. My heart races. My feet turn to face him. “Is everything okay?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
I meet his eyes and struggle with how to respond. “I worked a long time to make this life, Grant.” My voice is shaky, and I hate that it is, but there’s no way I can disguise the emotion.
“Okay.” He draws the word out as he cocks his head to the side, brows narrowing as if he’s trying to understand. “I wasn’t trying to interfere.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To get to know you again. To be friends. I don’t know, you’re my Emmy . . .”
The endearment from our childhood tears into parts of me I didn’t know existed anymore. “You being here . . .” I struggle to explain feelings I’m not even sure I understand. “You’re from another place and time I’ve tried to forget.”
He takes a step closer and leans against the counter, but his eyes never leave mine as laughter from outside floats in. He nods slowly, saying, “I didn’t know that my being here would upset you. I’m sorry. It’s just that since I saw you the other day, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I thought maybe we could be friends again. That’s all, Emerson. Nothing more.”
“I can’t be who you want me to be.” My thoughts explode into words I can’t believe I’ve said and want to take back immediately. For some reason, this conversation . . . he makes me nervous.
“Who’s that? I don’t want you to be anything.”
“A victim,” I whisper.
Those two words knock the wind from his sails. His shoulders sag, and he roughs a hand through his hair before releasing an audible sigh. “Em . . .”
“I don’t need a hero,” I explain, thinking of all the times he had talked about someday being like his dad, a hero who saves everyone from everything.
“No one said you did.” The gold in his eyes burns bright as his temper surfaces. “I’m confused. Did I do something to offend you? Did I . . . Christ, never mind. Nothing’s worth it if it’s this much work. Nice seeing you again, Em. Have a nice life.”
“No. Wait,” I say against my better judgment, causing him to stop in the doorway and face me.
Sadness fuses with the anger in his eyes, and the expression on his face mirrors everything I feel but can’t express.
“Am I staying or going, Em? You decide.”
Words don’t come, and we stare at each other for a few moments before he nods in resignation and leaves.
The front door shuts. Leo turns the music louder outside as Desi begins swinging her hips, but I remain in the kitchen with my chest hurting and my perfectly crafted world spinning off its axis. Even the half eaten cheesecake on the counter holds no appeal to me.
A part of me wants to chase after him and apologize. I was more than rude, and he deserves better. The other part of me has finally recognized the emotion I was feeling but couldn’t put a finger on. It’s fear.
I’m scared to death.
Grant scares me.
Out of habit, I run a hand over the inside of my arm and feel the ridges there. The reminders that fear can be overcome.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, I debate whether I should go back outside, drink some more wine, and waste the rest of the night away.
Something tells me that just might exacerbate the traitorous feelings I’m having. Alcohol, Grant, and fear are a dangerous combination that just might jostle things I’ve long forgotten and never want to remember again.
I’ve spent the last twenty years shutting myself off from all emotion—all feelings when it comes to anyone of the opposite sex—and in a span of one week’s time, I’ve let Grant change that.
My black-and-white world has color seeping into its edges.
I love and hate it all at the same time.
It makes me feel alive inside when, until now, I hadn’t realized I had been dead.