EMMA
Nicole comes over after work on Thursday to "supervise" my packing for the weekend. I bubble on to her about my notes and outlines for the work I'm doing, and she pretends to be interested in my story ideas. Nicole always lets me talk at her while I'm in the brainstorming stage, and I never think she's listening, but she always has a comment that helps me move a story from blah to fantastic.
Today, she's definitely not listening, though. She's rummaging through my closet, grunting and huffing disapprovingly. "Emma," she cuts me off. "All you own are t-shirts and turtlenecks."
"Well, I have a cocktail dress for when my parents host events…"
Nicole rolls her eyes and looks at her watch. "Come on," she says, pulling my hand.
"Where are we going?"
"We have to get to the mall before it closes."
"Nick, stop. Come on. I don't need to go to the mall to go off into the woods with my fake fiancé and his brothers."
Nicole raises one eyebrow at me, marches over to my dresser, and pulls out a handful of cotton briefs, all a bit gray and saggy. "Ok," I say, "but so what if my undies are pathetic? It's not like anyone is looking."
"Did you not say he looked at you naked and commented on your pubes? Stop." She cuts me off before I can interject. "I am your best friend and I'm running an intervention on this saggy sports bra collection. Girl, not that I am trying to jinx this, but what if you have a seizure and pee your pants again? Do you want him to run into your suitcase and come out with a handful of Hanes?"
I mumble something incoherent, but follow her out to her car, and she drives to the mall. She grabs a giant shopping tote from the greeter in the department store and drags me to the lingerie department. We argue between the lacy, expensive selection and the practical, comfortable briefs, settling on some things that are functional, affordable, but sheer enough that Nicole stops rolling her eyes at me.
"Ok," she says, looking me up and down. "Now for a swimsuit."
"Oh, hell no," I protest. And it continues, but not for nothing is Nicole rising in the ranks at her company, landing investors and convincing top talent to come aboard. By the time she leaves my apartment that night, she has lightened my bank account, packed my bag for the weekend with the Stags, and left me more than a little nervous about what she's rolled into neat bundles in my duffel bag.
Thatcher seems moody when he picks me up from work on Friday. His sullen demeanor leads me to chatter nervously about work, which feels weird to do with him since the subjects of my work lately are all related to him, or about to be. He pretty much just grunts periodically as he drives and I run out of things to say before we hit the state line.
"So," I say with a sigh. "What's on the agenda for this weekend? I should probably have asked before we were almost there…"
This he responds to, tossing an arm over the back of my seat and leaning his head against the glass of the driver's side window briefly. "Ty wants us to go for a run while you girls stay back and paint your toenails or whatever Juniper decides."
This makes me laugh. "I can't see Juniper choosing that particular activity…"
He finally smiles, and I feel the tension ease considerably. "No," he says. "She's not that type, is she, Chezz?" He tells me we will basically just be hanging out while Alice cooks her brains out without having to stop to take care of Petey. "He's back with Alice's dad and brother, having a man weekend."
The trip feels nice, familiar, comfortable, for a few minutes more, until Thatcher asks, "So, what if, you know, there's another seizure? This weekend? What do I do?"
My heart sinks. "I don't want to talk about seizures this weekend, Thatcher."
"Well," he protests, looking irritated, "I feel like I need to know what you can and can't do so you don't end up on the floor while we're in the woods far away from help or something."
"This is why I don't tell people. This. There is nothing I can't do, Thatcher Stag. You sound just like my mother, telling me I can't move away from home, can't attend classes in a brick and mortar school because of what might happen." He seems like he wants to interject, but now I'm pissed off. "I'm an adult, I take my medication, and the only reason I had a seizure the last time was because I didn't take my rescue meds. Because I didn't want to disappoint your damn sister and her special lime leaves."
He doesn't speak for a few minutes, but pulls his arm back to the steering wheel, holding it with two hands while we cross the border into Maryland. "Emma, I apologize for phrasing it that way. I know you're a very capable woman."
"Thank you."
He looks over at me and meets my eye, sweeping his long, dark hair back from those piercing grey eyes of his. In the fading light, in the shadows of his beard and long hair, he's all bright eyes and dark shadows. The tattoos on his arm blend together in the fading light until that looks dark, too. "Will you tell me if there's anything I should know?"
I sigh. "I take medications every day. I've told you--this is why I don't drink alcohol. If a seizure is coming, I can always tell, and then I should take my rescue medicine and sleep. I promise to tell you if that happens. Ok?"
He nods. "That's all I wanted to know."
"I’m just really sick of everyone in my life treating me like a baby," I say, looking out the window. Suddenly, I feel scorching heat on my thigh, and I look over to see him squeezing my leg through my jeans.
"I know you're no baby," he tells me.
I swallow, focusing on his hand on my leg, trying not to feel the pulsing heat, the burning desire for him to slide his hand a bit higher. "I just want someone to forget to be careful with me," I tell him in a quiet voice. When I meet his eye, there's no caution there. Instead, his hooded gaze is wild fire.