Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Jeremy
“ F inished,” I mutter as I tighten the last screw on the desk I’ve been putting together for the better part of an hour. “Fucking finally.”
Emma snickers from across the room, where she’s tucking a fitted sheet under the mattress of a full-size bed.
I narrow my eyes at her from my place on the floor.
“Listen, it was hard, okay?”
“I just bet it was. Who knew Jeremy Wright, the man who played professional hockey for three years and runs not one, but two successful businesses, would be brought to his knees, literally, by an Ikea desk.”
I look back down at the desk to cover whatever look is crossing my face right now. Hearing her say my full name makes me feel something .
The truth is, I’ve been feeling something ever since the trail. The run itself would have been enough. But being on the trail together, talking the way we did, giving each other little pieces of ourselves… Even hours later, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the way I opened up to her. That makes twice in one day—once to Asher this morning and once to Emma on the trail. It’s not monumental, I guess, but it’s a lot for me. I can’t deny it felt good to talk to her. She’s the best listener I know. The way she just seems to know things, to understand things about me and accept them, makes me feel lighter around her than I have, probably ever.
Every time she asks me to tell her something true, it feels like permission to open the lock I’ve had on the box where I keep my confusing feelings for Emma, just a little bit. Feelings I have never really taken the time to explore, even on my own, since I ran out on her eight years ago, placing Emma and me squarely in the never going to happen category.
The it could have been something, but I fucked it up massively folder.
The I could never be good enough for her place.
Because I’m a thirty-seven-year-old washed-up hockey player with a bad knee and the deeply rooted fear that everyone in my life will leave me, trying to hold on to the people I care about and also prepare for the day that they walk out of my life, so it doesn’t hurt too much when they do.
Emma is brilliant and intuitive and kind and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache. Being with her, near her, makes me feel like it’s okay to be who I am, damaged parts and all. And that’s not a feeling I have very often. The fact that she can be at ease with me now despite everything makes me embarrassingly grateful and also worried about the day it inevitably all comes crashing down.
But what if it doesn’t?
It’s a thought I had out on the trail tonight when Emma was talking about magic hour. Being there with her, seeing her all lit up, red hair glowing in the setting sun, made me feel like anything really was possible, just like she said. Like we could find a way to make this work between us, and in that moment, I wanted her more than I have allowed myself to want her since I walked out of her bedroom almost a decade ago. I could see what I felt reflected in her eyes. But I shoved it down, unwilling to do anything to upset the new lightness between us.
I’m glad I did, because now we’re sitting here together in her spare room putting together furniture and getting it ready for a seven-year-old girl who needs a home. When Emma got the call from Hallie and told me about getting approved to be a foster parent, my own emotions threatened to take me down, and I was too vulnerable to hide them. It’s what made me ask Emma if I could come shopping with her to get what she needed for the room, and what had tears blurring my vision.
I tried to blink them away, but I know she saw.
I think she sees all of me.
When she wrapped her arms around me, everything inside of me settled. Safe was the word that kept swirling through my mind. I felt safe with her, and I don’t really know how to feel safe with anyone. Not all the way, at least.
There is a little girl about to live in this house who I bet rarely feels safe with anyone either. I don’t even know her, but I think I know her. At least, I know what it’s like to be seven years old and be moving to yet another temporary home, meeting strangers who are supposed to take care of you, never knowing how long you’ll get to stay. I don’t know how long this girl will get to stay with Emma, but I do know Emma will do everything she can to make her feel safe while she’s here.
And I want to help.
The seven-year-old boy in me already on his fourth foster home wants to help. The thirty-seven-year-old man I am now who still carries scars from those years wants to help.
I need to help. More than I can remember ever needing anything.
So I push everything else away and focus on that.
“I mean, did you see that thing? It was, like, ten million pieces and the directions had no words but too many pictures I couldn’t decipher, and I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have ended up with this many extra screws.”
Emma laughs again, putting the final touches on the bed and coming to stand over me, eyeing the pile of screws on the floor next to the desk still laying on its side.
“I mean, I guess if it collapses, we’ll know you messed it up?”
She smirks at me, and I have to laugh. “Just put them in a zip lock bag, okay? If it collapses, I’ll come back and build it again.”
“If it collapses, I’m buying one from a furniture store and paying them to assemble it for me.”
“Remind me why we didn’t do that this time?”
“I didn’t want Maddy to walk into a half-finished room. I mean, it had all the basics, but I want it to feel like a real room that someone put some thought into, and she’s coming tomorrow, so no time for a furniture store.”
Emma lapses into silence and glances around the room. I follow her eyes, see what she’s seeing. The cheerful green walls. The polka dot bedding and stuffed dog sitting against the pillows. The nightstand with a pink lamp and a clock shaped like a flower. The white bookshelf holding all the books we bought tonight sitting in the corner next to a fluffy bean bag chair, making a comfortable little reading nook.
“It looks okay, right?”
The uncertainty in her voice has me rising up from the floor, wincing a little as my bad knee cracks, and coming to stand next to her. When I do, my hand brushes against hers, and she links her pinkie finger with mine. Her hand shakes nervously, and her gaze keeps sweeping around the room, as if checking for something she did wrong. It’s support she’s looking for from me, and I want to give it to her. I want to give her whatever she needs.
“It’s perfect, Ems. Let’s get the desk set up and then it’ll really be ready.”
I reach down and lift the desk up from where it lies on its side, pushing it gently against the wall under the windows that look out onto the street. It’s dark outside now, but I know that with the leaves just starting to turn and the pretty houses that line the block, it will be a cozy view for a little girl whose life has just been upended.
Together, Emma and I unpack the bags of art supplies. Boxes of brand-new markers, crayons, colored pencils, and water-color paints and brushes go into one drawer. Beads, string, and other jewelry making supplies go into another. Emma fills the final drawer with sketch books and construction paper while I put pens, pencils, and scissors into a purple organizer to set on top of the desk. When we’re done, I push in the chair and step back, taking it all in.
When I hear Emma’s sharp inhale, I turn and see her staring at the desk, hands clenched at her sides and eyes filled with tears. I’m in front of her in a single stride, taking both of her hands in mine, willing her to look at me. When she does, I see fear swimming in her gorgeous greens. One single tear escapes and trails down her cheek. I let go of one of her hands and cup the side of her neck, my thumb sweeping her cheek to wipe the tear away.
“What if I can’t do this?” she whispers.
“I own a law firm. I never had younger siblings. I barely even babysat as a teenager. What made me think I could give a vulnerable foster kid what she needs?”
I take her free hand in mine again.
“You are the very best person to give this little girl what she needs. You know what it’s like to need a home, and because of your grandparents, you know how it feels when good people make one for you and help you feel safe again. You are the best person imaginable to give that to Maddy. Ems, look around the room. You’re already doing this. You made her a space of her own, with things she likes. A place she’ll see and know someone was thinking of her. I don’t know her story, but it’s possible she has never had that before, and now she will, because you’re giving it to her. Will it be hard sometimes? Probably. But lead with your big heart, Ems, and you’ll do great. And for what it’s worth, I know you won’t be doing this alone. Here is where she’ll sleep, but something tells me Maddy will have four women on her side and with all of you together, there’s no child on earth who will be better cared for.”
I pause, wondering if I should say the words currently pushing their way out of my chest. Then I decide, what the hell. I’ve come this far—might as well get it all out.
“And I’d like to help you, if you want.”
Emma smiles, her eyes clearing.
“I think I would really like that. And thank you. For what you said, I mean. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly, and I guess I need a minute. I appreciate you being here. I don’t know how I would have gotten this all together on my own. It’s…a lot.”
She holds eye contact with me, and there are so many things I want to say to her right now.
Thank you for letting me be a part of this.
I like being here with you.
I’m glad we can talk to each other like this.
I like the sound of your voice.
You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.
I want to kiss you.
I want to do a lot more than kiss you.
I don’t deserve you, but I want you anyway.
I want to be everything you need.
You’re already everything I need.
Be mine.
Please.
But this isn’t the time. I hope we’ll have our moment, but this is not it. Instead, I squeeze her hands and give her back the words she has given me twice now.
“Tell me something true, Ems.”
She smiles. “You stole my line.”
I shrug. “It’s a good line. Besides, you told me it was your grandma’s line. So really, you stole it too.”
“Fair point. You would have made a good lawyer.”
“Ugh, no. I’ll leave that to you guys. You’re all way smarter than I am. So anyway, go ahead Ems. Tell me something true.”
She doesn’t even think about it.
“I’m starving.”
I laugh and let go of her hands, tossing an arm around her shoulder and leading her out of the room and toward the stairs.
“Then let’s get you fed. Tacos are your favorite right?”
I don’t know why I’m asking; I know they are. Just like I know her favorite drink is a margarita with sugar on the rim instead of salt. I could say it’s literally my business to know because, bar owner, but that would be a weak excuse. I know because it’s her.
“They are, but we had a taco fest earlier today after our fashion show. Chinese maybe?”
“Fuck yes, I love Chinese.”
“And beer. There should be beer.”
“Ems, you are speaking my language.”
So that’s how we end up sprawled on Emma’s living room couch, the coffee table covered in twenty different Chinese food containers because we couldn’t decide what we wanted and an eclectic assortment of beer I was surprised to find in a separate built-in beverage fridge under the kitchen counter. We eat too much and open six different beers to share so we can try them all. We talk and laugh and sit side-by-side with our feet kicked up on the table to watch a couple episodes of The Office , which, it turns out, is our mutual favorite show.
And when Emma lays her head on my shoulder, her leg pressed up against mine, I think maybe this is the best day I have ever had.