Chapter Twenty-Three Emily
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emily
It was a hell of a night. And Jackson stayed with me the whole time until the last tab was closed out. Even Hank himself didn’t stay that long. He just told us thanks in his gruff way, said we’d get to keep all the tips, and an extra envelope of cash would show up in our mailboxes soon. I would have turned him down, but…I’m living on a teacher’s salary, so I think I’ll take that money with a grateful heart.
Now it’s just me and Jack closing the place up.
“You really don’t have to stay and help anymore,” I tell him, as I run a wet soapy rag across the bar top. “You don’t work here, so cleanup is not expected.”
He’s across the room flipping chairs onto tables looking incredibly out of place in his mint short-sleeve button-up, playful tattoos, and navy corduroy trousers—surrounded by a neon glow and dirty floors.
He gives me that smirk. “You don’t work here either.”
“Yeah, but I used to, so I know the routine. You’d never stepped foot in here before tonight.”
“I don’t mind.” His forearms flex as he lifts another chair, flips it upside down, and rests the seat on the table.
“But there’s no construction at your house right now. You sure you don’t want to be home enjoying the quiet instead of here wiping down an old bar?”
He gives a turned-down smile and makes his way over. “Now, Emily, you wouldn’t be trying to get rid of me, would you?”
“I’ve been trying to get rid of you since the day I met you,” I say, a return to an old jab that now feels like a caress. But maybe I am trying to get rid of him, because I feel nervous around him right now, and I don’t know how to navigate that. If he stays, I have to ask him the question that’s going to put my feelings in front of him on a silver platter.
He rounds the bar. “I could have sworn that we are now…” He stops close to me and dips his head to whisper in my ear, “ Friends. ” He pulls back, eyes widening like he just said the dirtiest word known to humankind.
It is dirty. Because friendship implies a certain vulnerability I don’t give many people. Jack has become someone I like to be around. Look forward to seeing. Can’t get enough of. And tonight when he looked out at the crowd that was overrunning me and told them to shape up, god help me, it swept me off my feet to where I could barely function. Jack would never crack shells into his eggs. It’s only gotten worse as the night has gone on. He hasn’t once asked me what he should do while closing tonight.
Most men jumping into a situation like this would be floundering. Especially when they see me in charge and running the show. They’d be full of “What can I do? Where should I put this? What needs to be done?” Not Jack. Jack immediately got to work busing tables and carrying dishes into the kitchen. He wiped down surfaces. Swept the floor. He saw what needed to be done and did it.
“Friends, huh? Weird—I don’t think friends try to get into other friends’ pants while trapped in a closet.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He playfully tugs my belt loop. “I’ve gotten into plenty of my friends’ pants. But only while trapped in closets.”
“Ahh—so that’s why you haven’t tried it again. Because we haven’t been in a closet?”
His expression shifts from playful to searching. “Have you been hoping I would try it again? I’m sure there’s a closet in here somewhere.”
My heart races. Now is my chance to say yes. To confirm it and launch us into a new realm. But I get cold feet.
“You wish,” I say, walking past him and into the kitchen, where I flick off the lights. He follows. “But that was a good line. Maybe I’ll add it into my next book…for the villain to say.”
This answer delights him even more somehow. “The villain is always the true hero in a romance.”
I open the men’s bathroom and cut the light next. Jack is still right behind me, following step for step. “And just how many romances have you read other than mine, Jack?”
“I’ve actually read a lot of romance. Was that not evident in the notes I left on your manuscript?”
I pause at the sink after wiping away the water splotches from the faucet and meet his eye in the mirror. “Do you really?”
“Why does that shock you? I’m a write—” He stops quickly and then continues. “I’m a writer’s son. I grew up in a home that was very pro literacy. My dad was of course primarily a mystery writer, but my mom was an avid romance reader. I started picking her books up in high school and got hooked.”
“Because of all the sex?”
His smile is delicious. “I definitely enjoyed those parts. But… it was more than that too. There was an emotional connection in them that I didn’t see a lot of in other genres. Found family. Strong friendships.” He shrugs easily like his words are no big deal. “I’ve always struggled with connection. So it was nice to get it in books if not anywhere else.”
There’s so much I want to ask him. He’s talked about his upbringing in little bits and pieces, but I want to know it all. Every small detail. “Have you ever thought about writing?”
His face is unreadable now. Frozen and blank and whispering secrets all at the same time. “ Yes, ” he says slowly as if he has to choose that word very carefully. “My dad wouldn’t like it, though.”
“I’m sorry he’s like that. Having your child share your passion should be a joy.”
His smile turns bitter. “I think it’s supposed to work that way. But when your parent is a narcissist, nothing goes as planned.”
I’ve met a few dads in my time as a teacher who showed narcissistic tendencies, and each and every one of their kids comes into class carrying the weight of everyone else’s moods on their shoulders. The only time they get in trouble is when they’re caught helping their friends cheat on a spelling test because they don’t want to see them fail. Most of them have straight As on all their report cards and bottle up every feeling they’ve ever had. These are the kids that I catch staring at my All feelings are important poster with longing in their eyes. In their homes, their feelings are never important. Instead, they’re used against them.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly, reading me like always.
I give him part of the truth. “The kids at school with parents like your dad.”
He nods. “The kids I became a teacher for.”
I should have considered that Jack’s heart is full of empathy. I find that teachers are often the most compassionate people on the planet. Yes, we may enjoy leading or organizing or imparting knowledge, but at the heart of it, many teachers get into the career because of our own brokenness. We become the kind of teachers we needed.
“Who have you been teaching for?” he asks, and pushes a strand of hair back from my temple.
I reach back into my own memories. “I’m there for the kids who have their worlds ripped out from under them. Who are hurting so bad they feel like they might not survive another day, but still walk their younger siblings to class to make sure they get there safely.” Emotions clog my throat, so I snatch a roll of toilet paper and carry it with me into the women’s bathroom, remembering that the last stall was empty earlier. Jack follows me in but stays behind at the sink while I go into the stall.
His voice carries to me. “I should have known from the start that we were both traumatized. It checks out.”
I can’t help it—a laugh jumps out of me. It was such a wonderfully unexpected thing to say. To cut pain with humor is my bread and butter. Jack would love my “dead parents” quip.
Before I get the chance to respond, there’s a sudden clap of thunder, so loud it shakes the bar. One second later, the lights go out. I freeze, my hand on the toilet paper roll I just finished placing into the dispenser, and blink into the dark.
No, no, no.
I don’t like this. I don’t like storms—none of us Walkers do—and I definitely don’t like being in a pitch-black bathroom stall all by myself during one.
“Jack?” I say, trying to keep my panic from my tone.
“I’m here.” His voice is getting closer, and I hear his footsteps. “Lightning must have hit a power line. Which stall are you in?”
“This one. Do you have your phone on you for a flashlight?”
“No, it’s out on the bar. You?”
“On the bar too.” I run my hand against the plastic wall until I find the opening. And then I extend my hand out in front of me and come in contact with Jack’s abs.
“Whoa, Ms. Walker. Buy me dinner first,” he says, torso flexing against my hand.
I pull my hand back immediately. “Sorry! I can’t see anything.”
“I’m kidding,” he says with the tremor of amusement in his voice. “Touch me anytime you want.”
Oh.
There’s a beat of nothing until suddenly I feel his hand on the outside of my shoulder and his fingers slide down my arm to my fingers, folding ours together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it doesn’t feel at all natural. It feels electric. New and thrilling. Like something I don’t have the vocabulary for—and it’s just his damn hand.
“Why…are we holding hands?” I ask him, and I could swear I hear his smile curl his lips.
“Buddy system. If we’re holding hands while we walk through this dark creepy bar, the bogeyman can’t get us.”
“This feels like an excuse to make a pass at me.”
We’re on the move now. He’s leading us cautiously through the bathroom. The door squeaks and he shifts to hold it open with his back while I walk through, hands still linked together like we are two people who need each other.
“Emily, you should know by now that if I was making a pass at you, you wouldn’t have to ask to confirm that’s what I’m doing.”
“Charming asshole.”
“Oh—I’ve been upgraded to charming. ”
He walks beside me for a beat until he’s taking the lead again. And for some reason, I easily let him. In fact, I enjoy being able to focus all my attention on where our hands are joined. And I could probably blame this heightened attraction on the fact that it’s been awhile since I’ve slept with anyone. But I’m almost certain it has more to do with the fact that I’m falling head over heels for Jack Bennett.
“All right, we’re at the bar,” he says into the dark. “I’m going to let go of your hand to feel for our phones.”
“I don’t need the play-by-play. I’m not scared,” I say in a snippy tone because if there’s anything I dislike more than needing someone, it’s someone thinking I need them.
“I forgot you’re never scared. Just like you never throw tantrums.”
I would pinch him if I could see him.
We’re side by side blindly feeling around the counter for anything that feels like a phone. “I can’t find mine. You?”
“Nothing.” Another crack of thunder hits the room, followed by an empty silence I don’t like. Maybe that’s what leads me to say, “I’m not scared of storms…but my brother is.”
“Noah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m having trouble picturing it for some reason. Did he have a bad experience in a storm or something?”
“You could say that. Our parents were killed by a storm when we were kids.”
I feel his body go still. It’s easier to say it in the dark—when I don’t have to see the pity on his face. It’s the look every single person gets when I say those words. And I understand why; it’s only natural. It’s a painful, difficult thing to imagine happening to anyone, let alone a child. But I still don’t like to see it. Because every damn time, it rips open the wound. The wound that won’t heal. The wound that sits dormant under my skin until I twist uncomfortably from time to time and it’s raw again.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that happened.”
“And here I thought you read minds all this time.” Jokes, jokes, jokes. They’re what keep my Treasure Chest of Doom locked.
“How old were you?” Jack says, facing me now.
“Eight—second grade.” I’ve memorized the script. I recite it now with a monotone delivery, zero pauses and emotionless accuracy. “They were adventurous, my parents. They went hiking and camping in Colorado like they’d done countless times before, but a storm came that time, and they didn’t have enough warning to get off the mountain. Doctors suspect it was lightning that struck their tent.”
“Shit, Emily. I’m so sorry.”
I shrug like he can see it. “Me too.”
“But you’re not scared of storms?”
I laugh once. “I’m the oldest daughter, I’m not scared of anything.” I pause as memories hit me wave after wave. And for the first time in my life, I say them out loud. “Someone has to hold it together. Someone had to lift the blanket on her bed and let her sisters climb in when the thunder would shake the house. Someone had to assure them that her bed was the safest place in the world.” Even when my own hands were trembling. “I was always promising them that I would never go anywhere, and my door would always be open for them.”
Jack’s hand finds mine again. He squeezes lightly, and I squeeze it back.
“And even though Noah is three years older than me, he’d always find his way into my room too, nervous, shaking and pacing the room, unsure of what to do when the panic would grip him. So I would give him tasks to keep his mind busy. Get the flashlight in case we lose power. Wake Grandma up and ask her to check the Weather Channel. ” I can still picture his efficient nod before he’d dart out of the room. “Maddie…she needed hugs. Big, tight ones. She needed me to stroke her hair and whisper over and over that everything was going to be fine. And Annie…” I squint in the dark. “It was always a bit of a mystery to me as to what she needed. She would go silent and still. When I’d hug her, she’d just say she was okay, and I could help Noah and Maddie.”
“And what did you need?” he asks.
How have I never asked myself that question? No one else has either.
Tears sting my eyes. “To go back to a time when my biggest worry was which cereal I’d eat for breakfast. To the Christmas when my mom and dad bought us a four-wheeler and we all spent the entire day in the freezing cold riding around the Huxleys’ farm.” I press my lips together as a wave of emotions washes over me. “I needed stability and reassurance that everything was going to be okay—but both of those things died with my parents, and I’ve never gotten them back.”
“And what about now?” he asks softly.
“Now…I need to be okay with being alone. Because everyone moves on eventually. But not me…I’ll always be right here where they left me.”
He’s quiet for so long. I could be standing completely naked on a stage under a spotlight, and I’d feel less vulnerable than I do now. The worst part is, I didn’t even realize until just now that I’ve been chasing and protecting a safety that I outgrew a long time ago.
But then he steps so close I can feel his body heat. “I haven’t been in a bar since I was nineteen. My dad used to be a functioning alcoholic most days and then occasionally he’d disappear for days at a time and drink himself into oblivion.”
“Oh, Jack. I’ve never heard that about him.”
I could swear he’s sneering in the dark. “No one has. It was his best-kept secret that the man who could charm millions during his television interviews would get blackout drunk at night. And that when he was drunk, he would yell at his wife and rage at his son and somehow manage to twist it every time to where it was our fault for not understanding what he was going through.” This time, I squeeze his hand. “And one day, my mom was a wreck and asked me to go get my dad from a bar near our house for her. I did. And when I got there, I tried to get him to get up from the bar, but he wouldn’t budge. There were a few people watching and I was so pissed and humiliated and hurt that this was who I had for a father…so I told him for the first time that I hated him. I told him he was worthless and the biggest fucking fraud I’d ever seen in my life. And then he finally stood up, only to smack me in the face while everyone was watching. I brought it up to him once, several years later, and he just denied it and told me I was being dramatic and making stuff up to embellish the story. He didn’t give me an apology and I quit hoping for one.”
“Jack…” I grip his shirt and he rests his hands gently over my white knuckles.
“I’m telling you this because I haven’t stepped foot in a bar since that day. I’ve tried to go with friends before and failed because I could never fully face that memory. Didn’t want to. But knowing you were inside tonight and needed me, it got me through the doors.” He pauses. “You are not alone, Emily. I would walk through my worst memories to get to you every single time.”
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. “Jack. Can I…Can you…Can we…”
He slips his hand around my lower back and pulls me up close. “Can we what, Goldie?”
“I don’t know exactly because it’s complicated being neighbors and colleagues and now a friend that I really don’t want to lose…but…I can’t ignore this anymore either. I want more with you. I need to go slow, but…I can’t just be friends anymore.”
His response is a kiss that nearly knocks me over. We collide in a desperate tangle. He cradles the back of my neck as his mouth slants over mine again and again. I grip his back and sides and shoulders until I ultimately settle my hands into the back of his hair. His perfect color-changing hair. It’s brown tonight.
Jack’s hands glide down my body, grip my hips, and lift me onto the counter. We never stop kissing, though. It’s the kind of desperation I assumed only existed in the movies. In books. Now it lives under my skin. Rushing through my veins.
But then all too abruptly, Jackson pulls away. Not just pulls away, he takes a full two steps backward. Opening up a cavern between us. “Shit. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
The lights turn on like the universe is forcing us to take a good long look at what we just did.
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassment swallowing me up. I press my palms to my overheated face. “I thought we were on the same page, but…this is why you haven’t kissed me again? You didn’t want to? God—I’m sorry—”
“No! That’s…so far from the truth.” He huffs a laugh, and his smile is so fragile and uncertain. I’ve never seen him look like this. “Believe me, I have wanted to kiss you again, Emily. Every second of every damn day. But I promised myself I wouldn’t until I was ready to be honest with you about something. And I haven’t been able to find the right time because…” He rubs the back of his neck and meets my eye with resignation. “I’m scared to death it’s going to change everything.”
I swallow thickly. “You have a secret family, don’t you?”