Chapter Ten Emily
Chapter Ten
Emily
I’m on the floor and a little drunk.
I didn’t mean to get drunk. I was perfectly sober before I started drinking.
But Madison didn’t come home. I got all her favorite things, and I cleaned her room and I felt hopeful and excited for the first time in a while and…she canceled. At the last minute she was offered an opportunity to shadow a big-time chef in a famous kitchen. She couldn’t pass it up. I don’t want her to pass it up. But I also want her to come home. I need her to come home—but she doesn’t need me. No one needs me. And when they don’t need me, they don’t come around anymore either because I am a utility sponge. I am useful. And if I’m no use to someone anymore, they throw me under the sink.
Ugh. I press the bottle of wine straight to my lips but there’s not a single drop left. But before anyone is too concerned about me, the bottle wasn’t full when I started.
I tried everything to distract myself from the ache. I cleaned my fridge and completely rearranged my closet and then scrubbed my floors with a toothbrush because usually that makes me feel better when nothing else does, but none of those things worked this time. As a last-ditch effort I turned on an audiobook for a little background noise and the next thing I knew, I was sobbing on the floor and clutching a bottle of wine in my pajamas because the hero loved the heroine and I’m never going to be loved! No one wants me! I’m all alone in this life!
Oh, this cat bed is on sale.
I set my empty wine bottle aside so I can click Buy Now on the cat bed. Ducky purrs on the floor beside me, curled up against my legs. “You love me right, Ducky? As long as I feed you and snuggle you and shower you with gifts, you’re not going to leave me behind for a better life somewhere?” A hiccup jumps out of me. “And it’d be great if you could not die. I hate when people die.” I lean my head back against the wall. “Dying sucks because it hurts so bad in here…” I slap my hand against my chest. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.” I close my eyes and then get struck with another thought. “You can’t get married either. That’s against the girl code. If we’re going to live out our lives as thriving spinsters, you can’t ditch me for a hot alley cat you meet in the city. And listen…I like to crack the eggs, okay? Because I don’t like eating shells, so you’re going to have to be okay with that.”
Ducky is sound asleep. Not listening to a word I say.
“Fine. Get your beauty sleep. I’ll just make myself busy until you wake up.”
I click around on my laptop some more and then find myself staring at my manuscript. I aimlessly scroll through all eighty thousand words of it and wonder for the millionth time what I should do with it. Is it any good? I have no idea. And that really, really scares me. The idea of sending this out for submission and epically failing scares the shit out of me. What if this little mustard seed dream has sprouted into a giant beanstalk-size dream, but I’ll never catch it? Beanstalk, of course, has me thinking of Jack, which has me imagining his taunting smile and telling me I’m braver than this.
And then I think of Madison facing a huge city by herself and going after her dreams. I think of Annie opening a flower shop all on her own. I think of Noah taking a chance on love and getting freaking married. To a pop star. And then I zoom out and find me, on the floor, drunk and with no plans for my future. Suddenly this thought is unbearable. The darkness I keep running from opens up in front of me and offers to keep me warm for the next few days.
Instead, I fight.
I don’t want to be consumed with loneliness. I don’t want that to be my secret defining characteristic. I want to look forward to something. I want to chase my dreams. I wrote a book! I wrote a book that I love and enjoyed every second of creating. I found a balm for my soul, and I want to keep pursuing it. So here we go…I’m going to submit it to an agent for representation!
Yes, this is suuuuuch a good idea.
And because I’m me, I don’t even have to worry about being too drunk to write something coherent. I’ve been toying around with the idea for a few days now and so in true Emily style, I have crafted a query letter based on advice from many different online articles and tinkered with this book until I’ve felt like it’s maybe not complete junk. So you know what? Armed with liquid courage, now seems like the perfect time to send it off. If my siblings are going after their dreams, I can too.
I’ve researched hundreds of literary agents and narrowed down my list to the ten that I felt would most like my story. One at the very top of my list: Barbara Morgan. She isn’t the biggest agent in the business, but the books she’s sold so far are incredible, and I like how in her bio she says she loves stories and getting lost in them but loves the humans behind them more and enjoys getting to bring their dreams to life. My gut says we’d be a good fit.
The Internet told me to write one query letter and to just change the name for each agent before sending, but that feels lazy and half-assed to me. So I’ve written ten unique emails spelling out why I am reaching out to each individual and the exact reasons I think my book would be a good fit for them.
I open the first one now— get ready, Barbara —and attach the query letter. The Internet says not to include the full manuscript unless asked to do so, but this just feels like a silly oversight to me, so I include it anyway. Save Barbara a step. What a good decision.
Before I have time to second-guess, I click the little white arrow and listen to my email whoosh through the interwebs. I bask in the glow of a monumental moment and turn my eyes to Ducky. “Well, I hope you’re happy. You missed my potentially life-changing event.” She squints her eyes tighter trying to block me out. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.”
Just for kicks and giggles, I open the email I just sent and reread it. It all looks great. Flawless, even if my slightly drunk brain does say so itself. Yep, everything is in order. Except… wait. Something feels off. I keep reading it over and over again trying to figure out what the prodding sensation is in the back of my head. Like I’m seeing something wrong but can’t register it. I get closer to the screen and mumble as I read. “Hello, Barbara, I am seeking representation for…blah blah blah…from Emily Walker…to…” I gasp. “ No. ”
No, no, no.
This can’t be right. It has to be a trick of the alcohol in my system. (Although even I don’t think I’m that drunk.)
Oh. My. God.
It seems I’ve mixed up the emails and somehow just sent my very explicit romance novel that no one in the world knows I’ve written directly to the inbox of my school’s very, very conservative principal, Bart Killick. This simply can’t be true.
But it is true. It’s there on the screen staring back at me as proof.
I have to fix this! I have to get it back. But how? I can’t even think straight through my tipsy brain. Is there a way to grab something from the Internet after it’s already shot through time and space? How does the Internet work and why don’t I know more about it?
I can barely breathe. What if I get fired for this? How could I have gone from triumphant to my life might be over in a matter of sixty seconds?
The only thought that crosses my mind is: Help. And there’s only one person that I really trust to fix it. For our feuds and faults through the years, there’s one thing I know without a doubt about Jackson—he is the most competent person I’ve ever met. That’s why he’s my greatest rival. If anyone can find a way to get my email back into my computer, it’s him.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I slap my laptop shut and shoot up from the floor. The hollow wine bottle clanks against the hardwood, scaring Ducky in an unforgivable way. But there’s no time. I shove my feet down into my red cowboy boots and then hightail it outside. While sprinting across the lawn, I trip on a lump of dirt, and drop to my knees for one embarrassing moment. Every second counts, though, so I haul myself back to my feet and jog to Jack’s front door, ignoring my stinging knees.
“Jack! Open up!” I yell while pounding on the door.
Almost immediately I hear Jack’s thundering footsteps approach. The door swings open and there’s Jackson in his athletic shorts, tugging a navy T-shirt into place. “What the he—” His eyes drop over me and he frowns, taking a hasty step closer to touch my elbow. “ Emily. What’s wrong? What happened?” He’s lifting my arm to assess the mud clump I didn’t know was sticking to my elbow.
I pull my arm from his grasp and can only swim through the alcohol’s haze fast enough to blurt, “At my house! I need your help.”
He’s little more than a streak as he dashes from his porch, plowing across the yard. I follow after him, barely able to keep up.
Jack barrels into my house so aggressively I’m surprised the door is still on its hinges.
“Where is he?” Jack growls, looking around like a man possessed.
“ What? Who?”
When he doesn’t immediately see anyone, he turns back to me. The room sways a little. “The intruder.”
“There’s no intruder. Why do you think there’s an intruder ?” That word was difficult to get out the second time. I hold my wobbly head.
“Because you said…” Now he looks confounded. “Emily. You ran over to my house in whatever you call what you’re wearing—”
“PJs.”
“—frantic, with your knees and elbows caked in mud.”
“Because I tripped on the way over.”
“You said help. I thought for sure someone was in your house.”
“I’m a little bit drunk.” I say this, and it sounds too close to tears for my taste.
Jack’s voice softens. “Which only adds to my panic. So tell me now—are you okay? Are you hurt in any way?”
I’m staring at him. Trying to get my hazy brain to make sense of his expression. The fear in his eyes and his racing breath. “You’re worried about me?”
A heavy breath drops from his mouth. “Yes! Of course. I mean, shit, what kind of monster do you think I am that I wouldn’t see you like this and immediately worry?” He gets closer to me. Tentatively. “Tell me you’re okay. I need to hear you say it.” His eyes run over me one more time but it’s more like the look a triage nurse would give you to see if you need to be admitted to the hospital or if you’re overreacting.
I cover my face with my hands. The shame of running across the yard, drunk and caked in dirt, has had a delayed response. It’s here now and brought all its baggage to stay a while. How could I be so irresponsible? How could I have made so many mistakes in one day? I want to crawl in a hole. I want to hide and never come out.
“Emily?”
“No one hurt me. I’m okay. But I’m just…tipsy.” I point to the empty wine bottle as evidence. “And I need you to hack into the Internet and bring my email back.”
He’s frozen, wide-eyed. “Other than the part about you being drunk, nothing you just said makes sense.”
“I sent an email! To Bart! And I need it back. Immediately. Please, Jack. ”
He looks toward my empty, turned-over wine bottle on the floor next to my laptop, and then back to me. “So this is not an emergency?”
“ It is, ” I slur, and get close to him so I can press the heels of my fists against his chest. “Why don’t you understand me?” I’ve never been so frustrated to be drunk in all my life. I need my brain to work right now, and it won’t. I need to be Emily Walker, oldest sister who can handle any problem, but I can’t find her tonight. All I see is this sad, pathetic woman who hurts and hurts and hurts.
Jack softly wraps his hands around my wrists, cradling them. “I’m listening, Emily. What do you need?”
“I need you to fix it.”
“Name it. I’ll do it for you.” He sounds like he means it.
“Roll back time,” I say, and I can’t tell anymore if I’m talking about this or about the man holding my wrists.
His eyes drop to my wobbling lips. He stares—his chest expanding with a deep breath while he holds me with the lightest touch. This alcohol has turned me transparent. He sees all the truth swimming in my veins. Regret. Pain. Loneliness. Helplessness. “Whatever it is, you’re going to be okay. I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”
Tears I haven’t let myself shed in years stream down my cheeks. They burn.
“Which way is your closet?” he asks softly, almost like he’s scared to startle me. What I must look like to him to warrant this coddling. I’m broken glass in his hands, and it’s going to be unbearable to remember tomorrow.
I point down the hall. “I don’t think we’re the same size.”
He lets go of me with a five-star smile. I watch his retreating back slip down the hallway and into my room. A second later he emerges, my light pink silk robe clutched in his hand.
“Here, will you put this on? I don’t care what you say, these are not pajamas and I can see your nipples perfectly through your camisole.”
I snort against rock bottom. There’s a nice little pity party down here. “Who cares if you can see my nipples?” No one. My body isn’t that interesting anyway. It certainly hasn’t been enough to make anyone fall in love with me yet. Or to make up for the jagged edges of my personality that men seem to hate.
“I care.” He drapes the silk robe around my shoulders, and I punch my arms through the sleeves, aggravated we’re wasting valuable time because of modesty that I don’t even need.
“You’ve seen a woman’s body. Mine is no different.”
He pauses, a thick crease forming between his brows. “Emily, you are the difference. I’m realizing that.” What does that even mean? I’m not sober enough for riddles.
Reading my mind, Jack adds, “And you’re drunk. If Sober Emily wants to wear this in front of me, great. But she’s not in the room right now, so I’m looking out for her.” He steers me into the kitchen. “You’re also covered in dirt. And a little blood. Let’s get you cleaned up and then we’ll tackle the problem.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The wine I drank pours itself out of my eyes. “My life is over. O.E.V.E.R.”
“I’m glad you also know the super-secret way to spell ‘over,’?” he says, but no attempts at humor will pull me out of my misery.
“I fucked up, Jack. And now it’s only a matter of time until everyone knows.”
He spins me around and leans my hips back against the counter to anchor me before wetting a dishrag. He raises the loose silk sleeve of my robe and, with the warm rag, begins cleaning the dirt from my elbow. “Good. It’s about time you messed up,” he says, before moving to the other side and cleaning me off there too. “It’s been excruciating trying to keep pace with you all these years.”
His touch is tender and attentive and for a second, I forget all about my manuscript and my impending doom. All I can think about is Jackson, in my kitchen, wetting the rag once again with warm water and lowering himself in front of me. His hand wraps around my calf and gently tugs it forward so my leg emerges from the opening of my robe. So much of my skin is on display right now, but he doesn’t look anywhere besides my knee and shin where he’s gently, gently cleaning the dirt and blood away.
Chills cover my body. Does Jack see them? Does he know what the sight of him like this is doing to me? Can he feel me reaching back in time to cover my own damn mouth before I lash out at him over the coffee spill? What would life have been like if I had never initiated our war that day? Would we have become friends? Or was fighting always meant to be our destiny?
He moves to the other leg and it’s all I can do not to slip my hand into his thick brownish-blondish hair. Such nice hair. Such nonconfrontational hair. Jack is so kind that he doesn’t even have a true hair color lest he disappoint anyone’s preferences.
Does he ever think about me? Probably not unless it’s to imagine I’m roadkill. And besides he was with Zoe, and she was beyond beautiful. And soft too. She was like Annie and Maddie. I am nothing like any of them.
I’m crying again, unable to find the surface of my emotions and taking on water.
Jack sees me and stands, cups my face to wipe my tears from my cheeks, and then pulls me in tightly to his chest. “Say it out loud, Emily. Let me inside that brain of yours.”
I’m afraid to. He’ll see how messy it is. How dark in some corners. Sometimes it even scares me in here. When I’m not moving, when I’m not busy, when I’m not needed, it’s so, so lonely.
“Do you know part of the reason I didn’t want you to be my neighbor?” My thoughts and emotions are all tie-dyed—bleeding together into one big shape. “Because everyone loves you as soon as they meet you, but most people only tolerate me. This town, though…they love me and my spikes. It’s my sanctuary. My safe place. Maybe it’s because they loved my parents, and they love my siblings—” My voice breaks. “I don’t know, and I don’t always feel like I deserve it. But they do—and I was afraid that if you moved into my town that I love so, so much, I’d have to watch them fall in love with you over me. Because there’s never been room enough for both of us. We are two sides of the same coin—but everyone always chooses you.” Sadly, I don’t even think I’m that drunk right now. I’m just hysterical. Jack’s chest is absorbing all of my salty tears. “And I wouldn’t even blame them because you’re so damn likable. Even when I’ve hated you, I’ve always liked you.”
He holds me closer, my cheek smashing against his chest. “People may like me, but they don’t know me. I don’t think anyone has ever known me quite like you have. And that’s part of why I wanted to move back to Rome. Because of you. Because through our strange, twisted relationship, you’ve made me feel less alone. I wanted to be part of this town because I know that for you to love it, it has to be pretty spectacular. And I swear to you, I would never try to steal their love away from you. Couldn’t even if I wanted to. They love you more than you know. Believe me, I’ve seen firsthand how much this town worships you and your spikes.”
A broken sob tears me in half as Jack shields me from a little bit of the darkness. We stand here like this for a while—Jack holding me. His body is warm like sheets fresh out of the dryer. This is the first time anyone has ever held me like this…or that I’ve allowed myself to be held. Of course it would be with Jack.
“What else?” says Jack softly. “I want to know.”
I sniff and savor the feel of him holding me tight. “I’m intense sometimes…but…at least I have good nipples, right, Jack? Tell me I do.”
I could swear I feel him smile against the top of my head where his chin is resting. “The best I’ve ever seen, Emily.”