Chapter Eleven Jack
Chapter Eleven
Jack
After a while, when it seems the worst of Emily’s panic has died down, I guide her to the couch. She folds over and buries her face in her forearms. I know these emotions are amplified from the alcohol, but I have never seen her like this. Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Emily—the woman who seems to single-handedly carry the world on her shoulders better than Superman ever could dream—is an emotional (and physical) wreck. And for all my joking that she’s a humanoid, I guess maybe there was a part of me that believed she was too perfect for raw feelings like this. Too tough for puffy eyes. Too organized for a snotty cry. But here she is, breaking down in front of me. Or maybe the better way to phrase that is in spite of me.
“It’s over, Jack. My life is over,” she mumbles for the tenth time tonight.
“You’re a very dramatic drunk, did you know that?”
The sleeves of her robe are stained with wet mascara as she looks up at me. But her gaze snags on the stains and they make her sad all over again. She pushes the fabric up to her bicep and my stomach knots at the sight of the little cuts on her elbows—and knees too—from falling on her way to get me.
“Okay, let me see if I understand this,” I say, sitting on the floor in front of the couch with my back to Emily, whose face is now over my shoulder as I open her laptop. “You tried to email something to someone else, and you accidentally sent it to Bart instead? And now you want me to get it back before he opens it?”
“Yes.” She sniffs and pushes her golden bangs behind her ear. Her eyes are going to ache like crazy tomorrow from how swollen they are tonight. It’s killing me slowly to see her like this.
“Password?” I ask, looking down at the screen resting on my legs.
Her hand extends over my shoulder, her forearm brushing my neck from her sloppy motor skills as she plucks six numbers on her keyboard. Her hand loses life and drops onto my chest.
“You shouldn’t set your password as your birthday.” I look down at her limp hand. Red polish a little chipped on her thumbnail.
When she doesn’t say anything, I angle my face to her, only to find her heavy eyes watching me. “You know my birthday?”
“I’ve known you since college. Of course I know your birthday. I also know it’s your tradition to bring in two slices of pie for your birthday lunch and eat them both yourself.”
A little frown pinches between her brows. “I’m too tipsy to understand subtlety right now. Was that a dig at how much I eat?”
“Not at all,” I say with a genuine smile.
She shrugs but doesn’t move her arm. “I like pie.”
“I like that you like pie.” I click around her laptop. “I’ve still never had one from the Pie Shop thanks to your ban.”
I imagine bringing her a whole pie to school on her birthday this year so she can eat the entire thing. And on that thought, realizing I’ll be here this year and the next—that I won’t be in Nebraska, living a life away from Emily—it soothes a part of me I didn’t know was aching.
“February tenth,” Emily says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Yours is February tenth. Your last birthday I thought about making your favorite coffee beans in the break room in honor of it.”
I’m smiling. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because it would have been a breach in our unspoken rules.”
I nod and suddenly rethink every choice I’ve made with Emily over the last decade. The source of that initial tug that brought me back to Rome is growing into a new awareness. Maybe I’ve always picked fights with her because I enjoy it. Because I enjoy her. Because we’re friends. Maybe we’ve always been friends in a weird unconventional sort of way. But maybe I’m ready for it to evolve into something…conventional.
“I missed my chance to make you birthday coffee,” she begins in a sad, resigned tone that turns downright pouty. “Since I’ll probably be fired after Bart opens my email anyway.”
I can’t sit back and watch her shrink into despair anymore. “It’s time to tell me what was in the email, Goldie.”
She buries her face in the crook of her pink silken arm again. “I can’t tell you.”
“It’s a nude, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not a nude!” She groans.
“Fine. A partial nude?”
I can see the corner of her mouth curl up from behind her arm. It does something to me. “There’s definitely nudity in it, but it’s not mine.” The hell?
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There was not a single part of me expecting that answer.
“I wrote…” She pauses, looks at me, presses her lips together, and then I see the moment she decides to trust me. “I wrote a romance novel. A sexually explicit one that no one in the entire world knows I was writing. And after a terrible day and feeling sorry for myself that Madison didn’t come home when I really wanted her to, I had some wine and then thought it would be a great idea to send the book to an agent. But I accidentally sent it to Bart instead.”
I am floored. Speechless. Emily Walker…is a writer too? How is this possible? How are we always living parallel lives to each other?
She blinks at me expectantly and then shoots up from the couch. “See! I shouldn’t have told you! I feel so stupid.” She grips her hair, pacing a few steps back and forth, talking loudly and slurring a few words together. “How could I have done this? How? I never should have written that damn thing. And now Bart is going to open the email, read the title The Depraved Highlander and His Lady, and fire me on the spot.”
The Depraved Hi—
I can’t process this all quickly enough.
But when the shock wears off, I stand. “You wrote a book titled The Depraved Highlander and His Lady ?”
Emily levels a finger at me. “Don’t you dare make fun of me, Jackson.”
“I’m not.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t do that. I asked a question because I’m processing. I’m an auditory processor.” And this is an onslaught of information. “Wait…did you attach your full manuscript to a query email?”
“Yes.”
“You know you’re not supposed to—”
“ YES! I know! But I did it because I’m apparently a mistakes factory tonight.” She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You think I’m an idiot now.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth, I would never think that about you,” I say firmly, pulling Emily’s attention back to my face. “And stop pacing. Sit back down. You’re swaying like you could fall over any second.”
She sits but doesn’t look happy about it. “Once Bart opens it, the whole town will know by sunrise and then my life will really and truly be over. It was one thing for my sisters to know I like to read romance, but…I’m not ready for the whole town to be in my business about writing it. Not to mention the bigger consequences it could have. Do you think I could get fired over this?”
“I honestly don’t know. I guess it comes down to how Bart feels about it and if he decides to tell anyone else on the school board.”
Bart is a great guy, but…let’s just say he’s not the kind of guy you’d want stumbling over anything explicit. I once heard him telling the other teachers how disappointed he was in the Hallmark Channel for how inappropriate their kissing scenes have become. He also fired a substitute teacher last year for accidentally cursing in front of the class when she slammed her toe into the desk.
However, this is Emily we’re talking about. And she is undoubtedly the best teacher at the school. I’ve never seen anyone go above and beyond like her. She’s always studying new teaching techniques and adapting so that her lessons are more inclusive for different learning types. And yes, she’s definitely known as the no-nonsense teacher who gives more homework than the rest and does not tolerate rowdiness in her classroom, but she also goes to every kid’s birthday party she’s invited to and brings a gift. She organized our school’s annual talent show to take place at a nursing home so that the kids could learn the importance of community outreach while also having fun. And last year, when one of her students lost his granddad who he was very close to, Emily saw how he was struggling, and she put together an impromptu class project. She asked each of the kids to bring in a square of fabric, and using liquid stitches, she let all the kids help iron the pieces together to form a little grieving blanket that Frankie could take home and snuggle when he felt sad. She wanted him to know he had a class of kids who cared about him.
Parents don’t always like her because she tends to call them out with very little sugarcoating when she sees they’re not aiding their children like they should—like when they repeatedly bring their child to school late. And the other teachers think she’s a know-it-all who does too much. And I think she’s annoying because it’s so damn hard trying to keep up with how incredible she is.
Because the fact is, it takes so much emotional energy to be a teacher. And an outrageous amount to be a good one. I know it takes a toll on her, and still, somehow, she comes in every year sacrificing so much of herself that most parents and kids will never even know about or appreciate.
No, I’m not all that worried about her getting fired. I’ll start a town riot before I let that happen. I’m more interested in recovering her manuscript out of creative sympathy. I know how vulnerable it is to share your writing. Her news shouldn’t have to come out like this—where it could become a potential punch line with the town she loves so much.
She groans. “Do you think you can you get it back?”
I’ve been playing around with her email while we’ve been talking, and I have my answer. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“The bad.”
“You can’t retrieve the email. Some providers allow it, but not this one, it seems.”
She is one step away from complete devastation. “What’s the good news?”
“Bart—according to the automatic email response you got from him—is out of office for the next week on vacation and will not be checking his email.”
“How is that good news?”
“It’s good, because it gives me time to help you break into Bart’s laptop and delete the email, assuming he didn’t take it with him on vacation.”
Emily is frozen. “Jack…are you the drunk one?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” I say, and when she gives me a look like she’s about to unleash a million questions, I keep going. “But I am offering to help you.”
She stares at me a minute and then sniffs, wiping her face with her sleeve and says the most Emily thing I’ve ever heard. “I don’t need your help breaking into his laptop.”
“Ah—there she is.” I don’t bother to hide my smile. “And yes you do. Because in order to get to Bart’s office, we’re going to have to get past…”
She flinches. “Don’t say it.”
“Marissa.” Our school’s crotchety vice principal. She makes Scrooge look like Winnie-the-Pooh.
“And Marissa hates everyone…besides you.”
I nod. She really does love me for some reason. She’s approaching her sixties and has zero tolerance for anyone and everything. But when she sees me, instant smile. “I have full confidence that I can distract her long enough for you to get into Bart’s office and delete the email.”
“Why?” Emily’s green eyes narrow. “Why would you help me?”
“Because…” I know it would feel terrible to have my writing exposed before I was ready. Because I think we’re friends. Because I’d like to spend time with you. But I don’t say any of this because, like me, Emily does not like to accept free help. It makes her uncomfortable. I need a solid reason that will withstand her pride.
“Because I need your help too.” Her eyebrow lifts. “I am going to break and enter with you, and in return I need you to call your ole friend Darrell and get him to renovate my damn house.”
“I thought you said you were doing a great job?”
“I’ve been lying through my teeth. I’ve done a shit job on that house. Can’t believe it hasn’t caved in on me yet. I’m scared to sleep in it.”
She barks a laugh, and then like a superhero rising from the rubble after an excruciating fight scene, Emily sits up. I watch her confidence refill her body starting in her wiggling toes and moving upward. She stands, grabs the ties of her robe, and cinches them tight. Her tears are a thing of the past. “Okay. I’ll do it. But I have a few conditions.”
“Conditions?” I say to her retreating back. “You can’t throw conditions on a favor I’m offering you.”
Emily does an excellent impression of a sober woman as she walks to the kitchen—her only tell is the way her body sways a little too much to the right as she goes. Her little cat stirs from the back of the couch as Emily passes, stretches, and follows on the heels of that billowing robe. I go too and watch as Emily pulls a saucepan out of a cabinet. “I don’t just give out favors willy-nilly without a cost, Jackson Bennett.”
“That’s not how this works. I’m the one giving out the favor. In case you forgot, you’re in distress. Therefore I’m offering to help you— if you go through with your end of the deal.”
She leans her silk-clad hip against the counter as she fills the pot with water. “I only asked for technological aid while I’m impaired. What you’re proposing”—she really struggled over that word—“is a whole different scope of project. And that requires greater payment.” The water sloshes over the edge of the pan, reminding Tipsy Emily that she was in the middle of filling it with water. I lean over and turn the faucet off as she dumps out some of the excess liquid.
“What are you even doing right now?”
“Making buttered noodles. It’s my drunk food. Well—our drunk food. Normally I don’t drink alone, and Madison is always the one to whip up the noodles. But…” Her eyes go distant and sad again. And now I know that this is the root of all the drinking and crying tonight. Madison canceled on her, and it was killing her.
She shakes off her thoughts and carries the pot of water to the stove. Her cat jumps up on the counter just before she sets the pot down. Emily scoops her up in one arm, sets the pot on an electric burner with the other. She turns to me and hands the cat off. Emily turns the heat to high.
I go behind her and cut it down to medium. “You shouldn’t use the stove while drunk.”
She splits the difference and turns the knob to medium-high. “I do what I want.”
I look down helplessly at the kitten for backup and then set her at my feet. “Fine. Name your terms for the favor.”
“I want all rights to the corner table on Saturday mornings, plus the good parking spot at school for a month when we go back.”
“Fifty-fifty on both.”
“Seventy-thirty.”
I shake my head. Even drunk and cornered by life, she’s a firecracker. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
The cat jumps on the counter once more as Emily cracks open a box of pasta and dumps it into the water. The cat gets passed off to me for the second time, but before she fully turns away, Emily kisses Ducky on the head. It’s a swift peek into a side of Emily that most people don’t get to see.
“Listen, little fur ball, you’re not supposed to be on the counter. It’s not hygienic.” I carry Ducky into the living room and deposit her on the couch. “Stay,” I say with a firm finger in front of her little pink nose. Most cats would swat my hand away; Ducky rubs her face against it.
With Emily distracted in the kitchen, I squat down to Ducky’s level. My new spy. “Tell me a secret, what’s it like to be adored by Emily Walker?” She nuzzles under my chin this time and curls her tail around my face. “Thought so.”
I turn to avoid the slash of her tail in my eyes, and that’s when I notice Emily’s bookshelf again.
I went on my first roller coaster when I was eleven, and it had a massive drop followed by a corkscrew that took me upside down. Until the moment I saw her bookshelf the other day, I had never felt my stomach bottom out as sharply as it did during that drop. But when my eyes connected with the two sets of books side by side on her shelf, that roller coaster had nothing in comparison. Emily not only has my dad’s bestselling series, but she has mine …and they’re sharing the same shelf space.
I don’t even realize I’ve moved to stand in front of it until Emily says, “You’re very interested in that shelf.” She’s right behind me.
I tuck my hands in my pants pockets and attempt a casual tone of voice. “I’m just curious how you ended up with these two mystery series when your other shelves are all full of romance.” Which honestly delights me. I love knowing Emily is not only a romance reader but a romance writer.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she comes to stand directly beside me. I wonder if she’s leaning on me because she’s struggling to stand perfectly straight. “My brother gave them to me. He usually reads nonfiction but after he met his wife, she pulled him into the wonderful world of fiction. My sisters and I all started sharing our romance books last year and Noah felt left out. He lent me these and I really liked them, so I kept them. Don’t tell him I still have them.” She looks sidelong at me. “Have you read them? You can borrow them if you want.”
I nod, smiling privately. “I’ve read them. Which series is your favorite out of these two?”
Emily grins and I brace for the impact of an answer I might not want to hear. “I enjoy Fredrick’s twists, but I like Ranger’s storytelling the best. I think he’s the better writer.”
There is nothing that could have prepared me to hear those words come from her mouth. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to ask her since she doesn’t know I’m one of these writers, but also, knowing that Emily always tells me the one hundred percent honest blatant truth no matter what, it makes this compliment somehow sweeter. I know she means it. Emily Walker thinks I’m a good writer.
Does she even know I’m Fredrick Bennett’s son? I don’t try to hide the fact; I just don’t advertise it either. But eventually a fellow bookworm puts our last names together and figures it out. A few teachers at the elementary school have.
“Which one do you think is the better writer?” she asks.
“Fredrick,” I say without a hint of hesitation, also giving her the unfiltered truth. My dad is the better writer. He has twice as many accolades as me to prove it. And yet again, I am so glad I’ll never have to publicly sit in his shadow as “Fredrick’s son.” At least in this moment I’m having a debate with Emily over two writers who are sharing the same shelf. Not a father and son. “His pacing is unmatched. Ranger rushes his endings.” Something I’ve been trying to fix.
Emily steps up beside me now, fire lighting her eyes. “There is nothing wrong with Ranger’s endings. If anything, he knows when to cut off a book on the best cliffhanger, whereas Fredrick lets it go on and on. Like we get it—the unexpected widow was the murderer, and here’s a full recap of all the ways you misdirected me into suspecting someone else. It’s the same tired old story again and again. But Ranger is different.”
“How so?”
She looks right in my eyes and smiles. “He writes with heart. You know…that organ you don’t have?”
That organ in question is pounding mercilessly against my ribs. It’s taking everything in me not to tell her that I’m the man she’s defending right now. I’m the writer she thinks is good. Me. But I don’t because at the end of the day, whatever this new truce is between us, it might be tentative. We’ve never been able to stay civil for too long. As much as I want it to stick, it’s too new to risk with something this important to me.
But I can share at least part of the truth. “Emily…Fredrick is my dad.”
She doesn’t so much as flinch. “Oh, I know.” A soft smile. “I’ve known since college. I overheard you being asked about it by that English professor with the bad breath who always carried the Mary Poppins carpetbag and liked you better than me.”
“Yeah—I hated him. Why have you never brought it up?”
She shrugs, and I like the way her silk robe feels against my arm. “Because you haven’t. I saw you shut down that day after he asked, so I just got the impression that you didn’t like talking about it. It didn’t seem like something that should be included in our warfare.” She grins. “I don’t like taking cheap shots.”
Emily is the only person to ever perceive that I don’t like discussing my dad. I’ve always gone through great lengths to make sure no one ever does. But of course she sees it.
“So just now…when I was asking you about him?”
“I knew. And I told you the truth. I always tell you the truth.”
I absorb this news like water in dry sand. I like it. This entire night has been a revelation—a sudden, sharp turn in what’s always been a straight road.
“Emily…are we…friends now?”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” She pauses and a huge smile overtakes her face. “But don’t worry, I still hate you.”
Turns out, I’ve found another situation to rival that roller coaster drop. “I still hate you too.”