Fissure

“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.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That night, I didn’t sleep. Yet again. Although this time it was a conscious choice because I had a few errands of the Emma variety to run. Even after I’d made it back though, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even try because, after everything, Emma Scarlett was here with me. Asleep in one of my rooms. Not even the reminders that it was due to extenuating circumstances and she was still another man’s girl could dampen my mood.

Through a hallway of rooms, a great room, and another hallway of rooms, I thought I could make out the lazy trill of her heart over the ocean erupting below us, but I knew even with my enhanced hearing that was a stretch.

Midway into the night, through the thoughts of Emma only rooms away, the nagging reminder of what Emma had said earlier and how I would come up empty handed in the normal department for her was starting to put a serious damper on my mood.

The way her forehead had lined when she’d said it, I knew normal was non-negotiable in her future husband book, probably sandwiched between breathing and vertical. I wasn’t fool enough to believe I could ever live a normal life, but I could try to shift my normal meter more towards the other end, although even if I made drastic changes, the best I could give her as an Immortal bound by duty and eternity was semi-normal. Semi semi-normal.

But I’d do it, even if it felt like both the world I was a member of and the world of hers I wanted to be a part of never felt in harmony with one another. Harmony was a small thing to exchange to be with Emma.

So I was all copacetic with the semi to the second degree normal, but would she be? Would a quarter of the life she wanted be acceptable if she wanted to be with me, which I was more confused about than ever?

One minute, she showed all the right signs of attraction: avoiding eye contact, pink flushed cheeks, the pulse point in her throat quickening when I moved closer, the smiles that formed a bit too slow, like she knew she should be fighting them, but couldn’t. These were all solid indicators that Emma was perhaps, hopefully, maybe digging on me, but there were just as many and, if I forced myself to be honest, even more signs of tell tale disdain that came my way: narrowed eyes, so many cold shoulders my face was frost bitten, avoidance eighty percent of the time, and flinching away from my touch more often than accepting it.

I didn’t know whether I was up or down on the Emma front, but I could wait it out until I knew for sure. Emma was the kind of woman men spent their lives waiting for. So, wherever we were, I was happy to be there. Especially since, at present, it happened to be Emma and me under the same roof.

The yellow morning light was creeping its way up my wall when I burst off of my still made bed with a renewed mission to do everything I could to be a guy worthy of Emma in the most normal way I could manage. Item number one to scratch off on that list—make breakfast.

French toast was hitting golden perfection when I heard the pitter patter of little Emma feet coming behind me. I grinned into the sizzling fry pan.

“So you don’t only know what fabric softener is, you can cook breakfast too?” Her voice was happy, light from a good night’s sleep.

Sliding a spatula under a piece of bread, I flipped it a few inches shy of the ceiling.

“Oh, I can cook breakfast,” I said, fetching a plate as I spun around, still having a foot to spare before the toast flopped to a stop on the plate. “Good morning.” I smiled at her, sliding the plate in front of a breakfast stool.

“Good morning,” she replied, eyeing the plate with eyes I wore most of the time. So starving I’m going to start gnawing on my arm if I don’t get some sustenance eyes.

“Dig in,” I said, waving at the plate as I settled another plate heaping with two loaves worth of French toast next to her. “I think I made enough.”

“I think you did,” she said, laughing as she slid into the chair. “Unless you invited the rest of California for breakfast.”

“Syrup?” I asked, tilting it over her plate.

“Absolutely.”

I poured until a pool of syrup had crept to the rim of the plate. “I wasn’t sure what you like to drink but I’ve got coffee, tea, juice—”

“Milk?” she said.

“Excellent choice, mademoiselle,” I said, skidding across the kitchen floor towards the refrigerator.

After filling her cup to the rim, I poured myself a glass and lifted it to my lips. She was sitting there, unmoving, looking at the breakfast before her like it was a puzzle that required figuring out before it could be enjoyed.

“You eat it,” I said, setting my milk down. “You shovel it in your mouth in unladylike quantities until your stomach can’t hold another bite. And then you give high praise to the chef.”