26. Garrett
26
Garrett
T he last day of our trip comes too soon. Waking up with Emma in my arms and fresh mountain air in my lungs is my idea of a perfect morning.
But by midafternoon, the hike is coming to an end and my good mood has fallen straight off a cliff. Thoughts of budgets and meetings and endless email chains force their way into my brain. There’s only one way to describe this feeling: it’s dread, plain and simple – and it’s nothing new. I’ve felt the same way every day for a long time now. I just didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until I took a step back from the situation. The idea of going back to the day-to-day monotony of white office walls and stale office air makes me want to grab Emma’s hand and make a run for the hills.
To make matters worse, Emma is planning to quit. Even though I know it’s probably the best thing for her and for us, I can’t imagine the office without her. Can’t imagine walking into my dull office every day without that little flicker of light that ignites in my chest when I see Emma sitting there at her desk.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, of course,” I nod, bringing my hands to rest on my hips and staring out at the vast meadow in front of us.
It’s a picturesque day with bright blue skies cut with wisps of white clouds. The sort of day they put on postcards. The sort of day I’ll mourn from my tenth-floor office window because I can see it but never truly enjoy it. I sound like the world’s biggest asshole for complaining about the view from my executive suite, which only makes me feel worse about the whole situation.
To my back, there’s a parking lot. It signals the end of our hike, the end of our trip.
Gravel crunches behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find a small bus with the tour company’s logo on the side easing to a stop. The group bustles around us, talking and laughing while they gather their things and make their way to the bus.
Emma grabs her pack and hoists it over one shoulder. That damn strap is still giving her trouble. She’s repaired it every night since it first ripped, always mumbling about how she doesn’t have the right type of thread or how dull her needle is. I sit there watching her, biting my tongue. It’s not the thread or the needle that’s the problem, it’s that stupid bag. Despite my best efforts though, I still haven’t been able to figure out who made it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I grunt and nod, tossing my own bag over my shoulder.
Emma tilts her head at me, giving me a sweet but amused smile. Closing the gap between us, she presses her lips to mine for a few seconds.
“You’re not allowed to be grumpy,” she says as she pulls away. “We’re not even back in the office yet.”
An hour and a half later, we’re being dropped off at the Bozeman airport. Emma didn’t book an overnight stay for us tonight, presumably because she went into this trip hating my guts and wanting to get back to civilization as soon as possible.
We make our way through the airport, which looks more like a quiet mountain lodge, and settle in at our gate to wait for our flight. Emma fishes her dead phone and charger out of her bag, plugging it into the nearby outlet before taking a seat next to me. Her head comes to rest on my shoulder, and we both stare out the massive window at the mountain range in the distance.
Then her phone chimes.
A second later, it chimes again.
And again.
And again.
So much that each noise is tripping over the last.
Emma lifts her head and bends forward to retrieve the phone off the floor. Her eyebrows pull together and the corners of her mouth tilt downwards.
“It’s my mom,” she says. “She’s sent me a million texts.” The screen lights up again, and Emma sighs. “And now she’s FaceTiming me. I didn’t even think my mom knew how to FaceTime.”
“Do you need to answer it?”
She winces apologetically. “I probably should.”
Emma taps a button, and two women appear on the screen. They’re almost mirror images of each other, except in age. Both are blonde – the type that comes from a bottle. The platinum strands are particularly severe on the older woman, highlighting her leathery skin and sharp features. The younger woman has her face screwed up like she was just sucking on a lemon.
This can’t be Emma’s mother and sister. There’s no hint of her in either woman. Emma is lovely and charming, so much so that I couldn’t help but be attracted to her even when she was busy hating my guts. But these two women? There isn’t a charming bone in their bodies, a fact that becomes even more evident as soon as they open their mouths to speak.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls, Emma,” the older woman accuses.
“I’m not ignoring your calls, Mom,” Emma replies with a surprising amount of self-control. “I didn’t have cell service. I’ve been on a business trip. We were…camping.”
If Emma didn’t seem so stressed out by this call, I’d gloat over the fact that she finally acknowledged this as a business trip.
“Camping?!” her mom scoffs loudly. “You hate camping.”
My fingers flex with the urge to grab the phone and remind this woman that Emma has a good reason to hate camping and she’s directly responsible for that, but it’s not my place to interfere. I rest my hand on Emma’s bouncing knee, giving it a light squeeze. Her gaze flicks over to me, the corner of her lip pulling into a tiny but grateful smile.
“What about the dresses?” her mother squawks into the phone. “Are you almost done with them? Keri needs to see them and make sure she approves of the final design. Then there’s the fittings and the alterations…”
While her mother continues her rant, I notice her sister’s eyes shifting to the side of the screen. Confusion overrides the sour look on her face.
“Who’s that?” her sister cuts in to ask.
Taken aback by the interruption, her mom stutters then slides her gaze in the same direction. Glancing at the small icon in the upper right corner, Emma realizes that I’m partially in the frame. She rushes to correct this by shifting in her seat and tilting the phone away from me.
“That’s my boss,” Emma explains.
“ That’s your boss? Mom said that you hate your boss. She said he’s an asshole.” Her sister shoots their mom an annoyed look then starts preening herself. She sits up a little straighter and lifts both hands to fluff her hair, leaving a piece sticking up in the back like a cockatoo. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s so hot?”
Emma stiffens beside me, muscles coiling tight with anger. She drags in a sharp breath, then blows it out in a slow, measured stream. Rage rolls off her in palpable waves. I thought she was furious the day I told her about this trip, but now I realize that I was wrong. This is Emma at absolute angriest.
“For three reasons, Keri,” Emma starts, her tone a chilling mix of both fire and ice. “First, because you’re engaged. People who are about to get married usually aren’t all that concerned with the physical appearance of their sibling’s boss. Second, because we never, ever talk. For years now, every call or text that I’ve sent you has gone unanswered. I text you every year on your birthday, but I never even get a reply, much less a text from you on my birthday. Do you even know when my birthday is, Keri?”
“Of course,” her sister stammers.
“Okay, when is it then?”
Keri’s eyes bounce toward her mother, who seems to know that feeding her the correct answer won’t help matters at all.
“It’s, um, in November.”
Wrong. It’s September fifth , I think to myself.
“Not even close, but you know what? It doesn’t matter,” Emma continues, her voice still calm but laced with anger. “I’ve come to expect so little from you that I would probably be the first person in history to drop dead of surprise if you actually wished me a happy birthday.”
Emma pauses, letting this sink in as both women sit there looking both shocked and embarrassed. Rightfully so, I might add.
“Which brings me to my last point: you don’t listen. It doesn’t make any difference at all what I say because neither of you ever listen to me. If you did, you would know that I’ve told you a hundred times that I’m not making your bridesmaid dresses. If Mom told you differently, that’s between the two of you to work out.”
This time, it’s Emma’s mother who opens her mouth to protest, but Emma shuts her up with a sharp, cutting look.
“Hopefully, you’ll hear this: Not only am I not making any dresses for you, I’m also resigning as a bridesmaid.”
Both women look like guppies, mouths opening and closing in unison as they rack their brains for some semblance a valid argument.
“You can’t do that,” Keri finally blurts out. “I’ve already put down a deposit on the bouquets. And there will be too many groomsmen.
When Emma smiles, there’s nothing friendly or sweet about it. “Look on the bright side, Keri. Now you won’t have to worry about me looking chubby next to the other bridesmaids.” She pauses, basking in the shocked look on their faces. “Yeah, I heard that. Until you can both get over your bizarre obsession with my weight and figure out a way to treat me with respect, I have no interest in hearing from you.” Looking pointedly at her mother, she emphasizes her point. “ Either of you .”
“Emma! You can’t be serious! I’m only hard on you because I love you,” her mother cries.
“That’s not love, and I’m done dealing with it.”
My heart swells in my chest. I’m so damn proud of Emma for standing up for herself. Through it all, she was perfectly composed, never raising her voice or even stumbling over her words. Something tells me they’ve been building up inside of her for a long time. It takes a lot of courage to finally say them out loud. My family may not have had money, but we always had each other. I can’t imagine growing up with a parent whose love and respect was contingent upon something as superficial as my weight.
When Emma’s eyes catch on mine, the smile she gives me is a little frenzied and wild, like a kid stepping off a rollercoaster they’ve always been too afraid to ride.
It’s infectious.
I smile back at her, wanting nothing more than to feel the sweet curve of her lips pressed against mine. Her mother and sister are still on the screen though, wide eyed and slack jawed from Emma’s words.
Then I think back to the question that started it all: Why didn’t you tell me he’s so hot? I couldn’t care less about her sister’s opinion of me, but I sort of like the idea of rubbing this in. More than anything though, I really just want to kiss Emma. So, I lift my hand to cup her jaw, knowing full well that her family sees it on their screen.
“You forgot reason number four,” I say to Emma, ignoring the other women entirely.
“What’s that?” Emma asks with a smile.
“I’m taken.”
My lips crash against hers. Emma ends the call and tosses her phone aside, focusing all of her attention on me instead. The kiss lingers on too long and a little too intense for the public setting – but neither of us stops.
When we pull apart, my hands continue to cup her jaw. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t overstep by doing that in front of your family.”
Emma shakes her head. “Garrett, what you just did is every woman’s mean girl revenge fantasy. Unfortunately, my mean girl is my own sister. My little speech might not have any effect on her, but seeing a hot guy kiss me like that will keep her awake at night.”
“You think I’m hot?” I joke with a cocky smile.
“Obviously,” Emma laughs, rolling her eyes at me. “Even when I couldn’t stand you, I could still acknowledge that you were the most attractive man I’d ever seen in real life.”
“I’m also very rich. Normally, I don’t like to talk about that, but it seems like the sort of thing that would bother your sister. Should we call her back and tell her?”
“No need. Trust me, she’s Googling you as we speak.” Emma laughs then rolls her lips together, her demeanor shifting. She studies my face for a second then asks, “You know that’s not what I like about you though, right?”
The earnestness in her voice and on her face takes me aback. No one who was only interested in my money could ever look at me the way she is right now.
“Emma, I know,” I assure her gently, pressing one more kiss to her lips.
Never in a million years did I think that I’d be kissing Emma in the airport on the way home from this trip. I don’t know exactly where we go from here, but I know I’m not ready for any of it to end.
“Will you stay the night at my house tonight?” I ask.
Emma gives me a big, bright smile. “On one condition: can Purrnando come, too? I miss him.”
And that’s how I end up waking up that night with a fluffy, orange cat sitting on my head.