Chapter 9
Logan
Emma is pale and shaky, and the overwhelming urge to cut her ex into pieces floods my gut with heat. I push it away, focusing on her. I watched them the entire time from my window, and I know they fought. Emma’s face is transparent to me.
Right now, she’s upset and angry, but not at me.
When I come in and she makes to take the casserole from my hands, I shake my head. She’s likely to drop it now, and it would make her feel guilty as hell. My job is to make her feel better, not worse.
I take off my shoes while juggling the dish. The recipe was on one of her pin boards, something she saved a few weeks ago with the tag “easy Christmas dinner” but never got round to making. I hope she’ll like it.
The food is cold since I made it a few hours ago, knowing I wanted to watch her exchange with Marc. Emma follows me when I head to her oven to heat it up. When it’s on, I step closer and fold her into my arms. She stiffens for a moment then melts into my embrace with a long, shaky exhale.
“I like this sweater,” she says, her voice muffled as she pets the grey wool on my back. “It’s so warm. You’re so warm.”
I want to tell her I’ll get her a sweater like this in her size, or that she can wear mine. I’ll give her anything.
But since I can’t speak, I gently push her away and take off the sweater, revealing the black T-shirt underneath. Emma gasps, eyeing me up and down with appreciation, and I smile, draping the sweater around her shoulders. She looks up with wonder then brings a sleeve to her nose.
“It smells like you. I love it,” she says with a shy smile.
Well, we have that in common. I love the way she smells, too.
Seeing that it’s working and she’s already half-forgotten about the jerk, I hug her again and pepper the top of her head with kisses. Emma’s hair is soft and smells like caramel, which I know is the scent of her shampoo.
“Oh, god. You’re so sweet.”
I smile into her hair and breathe in. She feels so perfect in my arms, and whatever happens tonight, I know at least I’ll have this moment. And all the other moments I’ve had with her.
Because I’m going to tell Emma that I watch her. I’ll tell her everything, and… And I don’t know what she’ll do. But I’m done lying to her.
After a long, cozy moment, she disentangles herself from my embrace. Her tension is gone, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and I smile back, ridiculously proud of myself.
“Right. We need something to drink. And I got us dessert,” she says, rummaging in her cupboard for a plate to lay out the cookies.
I get dinner plates, and we move around the kitchen in companionable silence, laying the table and preparing everything. Emma brings in the candle I got her and lights it. I pour sparkling water into tall glasses. There’s wine in her cupboard, but I want us both to be perfectly sober for the conversation we’re about to have.
“God, this is so good. I had no idea you could cook!” she exclaims after she tastes the first bite of dinner.
I grin, laughing soundlessly. It’s such a pleasure to watch her eat. She’s unabashed with her praise and generous with her sighs of bliss, and I know I’ll never get tired of this. Watching her from across the table is a thousand times better than my usual view across the street.
When we’re done eating, I get up to clear the table. Emma starts to rise with an embarrassed apology, and I give her a stern look before coaxing her to sit back down. Truth is, I like cleaning. There’s peace and serenity in putting the world back in order after a disruption.
“We’re like the perfect opposites,” Emma says with a rueful smile. “This place is usually a mess. It only looks decent because for the last few months, someone’s been coming here. Cleaning and leaving gifts behind. I don’t know who it is.”
I keep loading the dishwasher as if nothing is wrong, but my heart starts hammering with nerves. I’ll have to tell her now. And she might throw me out when she finds out. She might never speak to me again.
“But you’re so well-organized, and you even cook. I mean, I don’t know you that well, obviously, but I can already tell we’re totally different.”
I wash my hands and turn to her. Her eyes are dark, curious and inviting, and a shiver goes down my spine. It’s so tempting to postpone this conversation and take her to bed, but Emma deserves to know.
When I grab a small notebook and a pen from my pocket, she nods with a soft huff. “Right. I’ll get one, too, so it’s always on hand.”
I start writing, and she fidgets. Finally, just as I’m about to push the notebook toward her, she blurts out, “I have to tell you something.”
I arch an eyebrow and show her what I wrote. “Emma. I need to tell you something.”
We share a smile, and I gesture at her. You first.
She swallows and puts her hands on the table, fingers woven together with nerves.
“Okay, so. Marc contacted your brother to get information about you. He was completely out of line. I showed him the door and told him never to come back. But he… He told me about what happened. In Yemen.”
I blink a few times, digesting this. It’s not at all what I expected her to say. After a moment of hesitation, I ask, “What exactly did he tell you?”
“That you were forced to watch your friends be tortured for information. That you didn’t break. You didn’t say a word.”
I nod slowly. Emma watches me while I explain, “All of us were trained to withstand torture. That was why those who interrogated us tried another tactic. I wasn’t hurt almost at all. Just stripped and starved, and forced to watch.
“If I closed my eyes, they hurt them worse. If I turned my head away, they killed them. But I couldn’t speak. If I told them what they needed to know, thousands of people would die, so I stayed silent and watched on my knees until we were rescued. But by that time, I was the only one alive.”
“And you didn’t say a word until the end,” she whispers, her eyes wide. “You… I can’t even imagine. And I’m sorry I found out this way. It was yours to tell.”
I shrug. “I would have told you. It’s okay that you know. It’s not a secret.”
“So… So you can’t speak since then.”
I nod. “After they pulled me out, I was ordered to describe in detail everything that happened. And I couldn’t. I tried and tried, until someone realized what was wrong and gave me a pen and paper. The shrink I saw after said it’s selective mutism. There is nothing physically wrong with me. It’s all in my head.”
Her lip wobbles, and she shakes her head. “Don’t say that! That sounds like… Like all you need is a mindset shift or something. But that’s not true. Oh, Logan. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
When tears fall down her cheeks, I shake my head, alarmed. Fuck, no. She shouldn’t cry because of me.
“It’s okay,” I try, and she shakes her head, sobbing quietly.
“Please, don’t cry.”
A sniff. Then a soft, half-swallowed sob. I close my eyes, desperately casting around for something, anything, that might stop her pain.
“It’s not that bad. I can speak. Sometimes. In special circumstances.”
Her eyes widen when she sees it, and I regret telling her almost instantly. If she asks me to show her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to refuse.
But it’s dangerous. My inability to speak is tightly woven with my control. Things got rewired in my brain during that traumatic captivity experience, or at least, that’s how I rationalize it. Now mutism equals order and control. And speech… Speech is chaos.
And with all the ways I feel about Emma, I don’t think she’ll be safe with me when I can’t control myself.
“You can speak? In what circumstances?” she asks, wiping her cheeks.
I sigh, pulling the notebook closer. At least she’s not crying anymore. Mission accomplished.
“I don’t know why it works this way, but if I put on a mask, it’s like a switch flips in my head. Like I’m no longer responsible. I can speak then—only then—but I also let go of other things. Things I normally suppress come out.”
“Like what?”
I study her, those big, brown eyes wide with curiosity and still wet with tears, her lips red and swollen from crying.
The things I want to do to her mouth make me shiver. They are things I would do if I lost control.
“It’s horrible. You wouldn’t be safe with me.”
She seems taken aback by my answer, then huffs with disbelief.
“That’s not true. Maybe I don’t know you that well, but I know you’d never hurt me. You’re kind and sweet, and…”
I raise my hand to silence her, quickly scribbling my reply.
“And all of that would be gone if I put on a mask. You’re right, Emma. You don’t know me. And it’s better if you never find out.”
Her nostrils flare, and I realize she’s angry.
“You know, I already kicked out a man today for telling me I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. So be careful there, neighbor.”
I shake my head in frustration, but at the same time, determination steels my spine. It’s time.
“You’re not stupid. But I am dangerous and you should stay far away from me.
“Emma, I’ve been watching you for months. I know everything about you. The gifts, decorations, clean laundry… That’s me, too. I’m sorry.”
As she reads, her eyebrows hike up in astonishment. She looks at me for confirmation, and I nod patiently. After taking a look around her decorated house, she shakes her head and reads my reply again.
The next time she looks at me, it’s with a wide, joyful smile.
“Was it really you? Thank you so much!”