Jake
She doesn’t have any idea how beautiful she is, but when she looks up at me through her lashes, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips, I almost blurt it out. I stop myself. I don’t want to sound repetitive.
Em holds a forkful of chocolate cake out to me. “Try some?” she asks.
I take a bite. “That’s good,” I say. “Not as good as a s’more, though.”
She grins and scrapes the chocolate sauce from the plate. I watch her. I could keep watching her like this for a year: happy, relaxed, laughing, eyes shining in the candlelight. Our feet are tangled beneath the table. All night I’ve been feeling this warm glow in the pit of my stomach.
I really don’t want this night to end, but we’re the last customers and the waiters are starting to clear the tables as well as their throats. Em’s eyes widen when she sees we’re the only ones left, and she bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, what time is it?”
“Nearly twelve,” I say, waving over the waiter and handing him my card.
Em blushes and looks at the table as I sign my name on the receipt. “Em,” I say. “I want to buy you dinner. I can afford it, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, “but next time is on me.”
I shrug. That’s not happening, but I’ll deal with that when it arises.
It’s cold when we wander out into the night, so I slip off my jacket and put it over Em’s shoulders. She leans into me and I put my arm around her waist. When we get to my car, I reach inside the inner pocket of the jacket she’s wearing to get the car keys, my hand brushing against her side.
I feel her shiver in response and my hand lingers, tracing a pattern down the silk of her dress, feeling her rib cage rise and fall as rapid as a bird’s against my palm.
I glance at her face, at her lips, then press my own against her neck. She tips her head back with an exhale that sends a shiver through me. The jacket falls open and suddenly I’m pressing against her, drinking her in. Her arms wrap around my neck and her hands run through my hair, tugging it, pulling me closer so I’m pressed up against the warmth of her body. I keep kissing up her neck, my heart pounding now in time with hers.
After a minute or two, I have to pull back to catch my breath.
Em’s eyes burn like coal in the darkness.
I reach for the door handle. “We’d better go before we get arrested for public indecency. I want to get you home and get you naked.”
“Not tonight,” she whispers in my ear. “Shay’s back. I promised I’d go see her.”
I sigh. Damn. I’d forgotten about that. She slips inside the car and I close the door behind her, then jog around to the driver’s side, taking a few deep breaths as I go to try to get my blood recirculating to my brain.
Em is curled up on the passenger seat like a cat, with my jacket still around her shoulders. Four weeks, I think as I start the car. Just four weeks. Then we’ll be apart a whole semester, unless I can convince her to fly out to see me. If my coach lets me back on the team, which I think he will as we have some major games coming up, then I’ll be busy every weekend and most of the week, too—between practice and academic work, I barely get a spare minute. How are we going to make this work? I have no idea. But I know that I’m determined to.
“What are you thinking about?” Em asks me as I drive.
I shake my head at her. I don’t want to ruin the mood by telling her.
“Tell me,” she wheedles, leaning over the hand brake and kissing my neck.
My hands grip the wheel tighter. She kisses the edge of my jaw.
“Emerson, I’m going to crash,” I tell her, laughing.
She stops and sits back in her seat, frowning. “Why did you call me Emerson?” she asks.
“What?”
“You just called me Emerson. You never call me that.”
I turn to stare out the window. “I don’t know.”
Em goes quiet.
“It’s just that everyone calls you Emerson now, and I figured maybe you didn’t like being called Em anymore.”
“No,” she says. “I like it when you call me Em.”
“Okay,” I say. “Em it is.”
It’s then I look up and see that I’ve taken a shortcut and it’s leading us right by the ice rink. It’s too late to turn around. Em’s body stiffens beside me as we pass it. She turns away, staring out the opposite window, and the smile vanishes. I could ignore it, talk about something else, but I don’t. Instead, I turn to her. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” I’ve been doing my best not to talk about anything from the past, figuring that Em doesn’t want to go there and I don’t want to do anything that might upset her.
“It’s okay,” she says, swallowing nervously. “I haven’t been back on the ice, not since then. The only thing I kept up with was track. I didn’t want to do team sports after. And the track coach was a woman.”
I nod, understanding.
“Do you miss it?” I ask after another pause.
Em doesn’t answer for a while. “I never used to,” she says finally. “But yeah,” she says, and her voice cracks. “I miss it.”