9. Emily
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Emily
The adrenaline takes hours to drain out of me.
Richard walks me to a quiet spot away from the lodge, a little half-circle of grass tucked behind the cabins where the noise of the reunion can’t reach, and I more or less collapse onto the ground the second we get there.
My legs have been shaking since Henry peeled out of the lot, and now that I’ve stopped moving it all hits at once.
Richard folds down beside me, close but not crowding, his shoulder warm against mine.
“God.” I drop my face into my hands. “That was so embarrassing.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It really, really was. My husband got on his knees in front of half the reunion and cried. There are videos, Richard. By tonight everybody I went to high school with is going to have watched it.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” He bumps my shoulder with his.
“But for him. Not you. You just stood there and told him to get lost. He’s the one who drove four hours to cry in a parking lot.
Nobody’s gonna remember you. They’re gonna remember the guy on his knees screaming about how you’d come crawling back. ”
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh. “I can’t believe he actually came. Like, who does that? God.” I drag my hands down my face. “It had to be my mom. She must have called him the second I hung up on her. Who else even knew I was here? My life is a disaster.”
“So she heard all that and her first move was to call him?”
“My mom took Carmen’s side.” It comes out sharp, almost a laugh, because if I don’t laugh I’ll scream. “She always does. And she still wants me to smile and play happy families about it, like I’m the one being unreasonable here.”
“That’s insane.”
“Right?” Hearing someone say it out loud makes my eyes sting. “Thank you. God. I keep feeling like I’m the crazy one, you know? Like the guy who cheated and the woman he cheated with get to be the victims, and I’m the asshole for being upset about it. It’s insane. It’s actually insane.”
“You’re not the asshole.” He doesn’t hedge it.
“He cheated. He lied. That’s all on him, not you, not even a little.
” He picks up a pebble, turns it over in his fingers.
“And this morning you stood there and didn’t even flinch while he made an ass of himself in front of everyone.
That’s not a crazy person, Em. That’s somebody having a shit week and still holding it together better than anybody else would. ”
I glance sideways at him. He’s looking out at the trees, jaw still tight, and I want to lean into him so badly I have to make myself sit still.
“What is it with you and Carmen, anyway?” he asks. “I still can’t wrap my head around the two of you growing up together. You’re nothing alike.”
“Our families were friends. Her parents and mine.” I pull a blade of grass and start shredding it.
“Her dad’s fine, her mom Ciara is actually lovely, always was kinder to me than my own mother.
But my mom, for whatever reason, decided when we were about three years old that Carmen was the daughter she actually wanted.
And she never let either of us forget it. ”
“That’s a hell of a thing to do to a kid.”
“You get used to it.” I don’t, not really, but it’s the line I’ve always used.
“Birthday parties where my mom spent the whole time fussing over Carmen’s dress.
Report cards where my A-minus got a lecture about the missing points and Carmen’s C got a ‘well, she’s so creative, grades were never going to capture a girl like her.
’ Twenty-some years of being the runner-up in my own family.
” I flick the shredded grass away. “So when I found out it was Carmen, specifically Carmen, that Henry picked, it wasn’t even surprising.
It was almost funny. Of course it was her. It’s always going to be her.”
“It’s not, though.” He says it quietly. “It just feels that way because of where you grew up. It’s not actually true.”
“You don’t know my family.”
“I don’t have to. I’ve got eyes. I’ve spent two days watching you, and there is no universe where you come in second to Carmen Halter.” He says it so plainly, like it’s just obvious, that I don’t know what to do with my face.
My face goes hot. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” I tell the trees, because I can’t say it to his face.
“Why not? It’s true.” He’s grinning now, I can hear it without looking. “You’re going to have to get used to it. I’m a big fan of saying true things out loud.”
“Yeah? And how’s that worked out for you so far?”
“Honestly? Mixed results.” He leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out next to mine, close enough that his arm brushes mine and stays there. “But I’m an optimist. Give me a couple days.”
“A couple days.” I finally turn and look at him, which is a mistake, because he’s looking right back, easy and warm, not even pretending he wasn’t. “You’re awfully sure of yourself for a guy I met again two days ago.”
“I’m hopeful, not confident. Big gap between the two.” His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, then come back up like he didn’t do it. “Confident would be assuming. I’m just hoping. Loudly.”
I should look away. I don’t. “You’re a lot, Reed.”
“You have no idea.” He says it low, and it lands somewhere it has no business landing, and I’m the one who breaks first, turning back to the trees with my heart doing something stupid.
We go quiet for a bit. The afternoon light comes slanting gold through the pines. The panic finally lets go of my chest, and for a minute it’s just the two of us breathing in the same patch of grass, the most peaceful I’ve felt in weeks.
“So what are you going to do now?” he asks eventually. “After this.”
It’s the question I’ve been dodging since the bus. “I don’t know. I can’t go home. I obviously can’t go to my mom’s. Tara offered her couch, so I’ll probably crash there for a bit while I look for work. Figure it out from there, one foot in front of the other.”
Quiet again. Then, out of nowhere, “Wanna work for me?”
I turn to look at him, sure he’s joking. He’s not. His face is dead serious.
“What?”
“I might have an opening. I could get you in.”
“As what?”
“Personal assistant.”
I actually laugh. “Are you serious? I haven’t worked since college, Rick. The last two years I ran a house for a guy who critiqued how I loaded the dishwasher. What even is your company? Is it big?”
“It’s a real job, Em, not charity. And you’d be good at it.
I know you.” He turns to face me fully. “You were student council president. You ran that whole circus, the trips, the fundraisers, the thing with the senior trip nobody thought would come together. You organized half the school and made it look easy. I watched you do it. It was kind of incredible, actually.”
My face goes warm. “That was a hundred years ago.”
“And then you spent two years keeping a whole house running for a guy who lost his mind over the dishwasher. Trust me, after that, managing my calendar is going to feel like a damn vacation.” He shrugs like it’s already settled. “Also, you can stay with me.”
Now he’s definitely lost it. “Okay, now you’re messing with me.”
“I’m not. I’ve got plenty of spare rooms.” He says it completely straight.
“Spare rooms. Plural.” I stare at him. “What, do you live in a mansion?”
“No.” Something flickers across his face, there and gone.
“I just ended up with more house than one person needs. Long story, and it’s a boring one.
The point is the rooms are sitting there empty, you’d have your own space, your own privacy, a door that locks.
No reason you couldn’t stay as long as you needed while you got back on your feet. ”
“Richard, no. That’s, I mean, that’s too much. A job and a place to live? That’s way too much to take from someone.”
“You wouldn’t be taking anything. You’d earn the job, and the room’s just sitting there empty.
” He holds my eyes. “There’d be an interview, sure.
Nothing you can’t handle. And the room’s got no strings on it.
Your own space, your own paycheck, your own life.
I’m not trying to trap you, Em. I just don’t want you sleeping on a couch when I’ve got rooms nobody uses. ”
I look at him. He stepped between me and Henry without thinking twice.
He held me while I fell apart. And now he’s handing me a job and a place to live like it’s nothing, no conditions, no catch he’s named out loud.
And after two years with Henry, I can’t help it.
I go looking for the catch anyway, because in my experience there’s always a catch, and the ones who swear there isn’t are usually the worst of all.
Because there’s always a catch. That’s what I learned, married to Henry.
Help came with a ledger. Every nice thing he ever did got entered into a column and pulled back out later, with interest, the second I stepped out of line.
After everything I’ve given you. After the life I’ve provided.
I spent two years being grateful at gunpoint, and the reflex is so deep now I can’t hear an offer of help without bracing for the bill.
So I make myself say it out loud, the ugly question. “And what do you get out of this? Be honest. Nobody hands a near-stranger a job and a house out of the goodness of their heart. There’s always an angle.”
Something crosses his face, and it isn’t offense. It’s something closer to sad. “Is that what it was like? With him?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“There’s no angle,” he says, quieter now.
“I told you on the bus. I’ve been thinking about you since high school.
That’s not a line, it’s just true. If I can make things easier for you right now, I want to, that’s it.
You don’t owe me anything for it. Not even a thank you.
You could take the job, take the room, never look at me twice, and I’d still want you to have them. ”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does. You’re just used to people who wouldn’t.”