21. Pearl #2
Her words cut me open like a knife. I knew it was true, but to hear her say it like that…
And yes, she was right. I had known who she was all along. I was probably the one person on the planet who knew just how awful Emerson could be.
What made it all worse was that I also knew how wonderful she could be. Just this morning, we’d been so happy together.
And now it’s all about to go up in flames.
I felt useless. Worthless. I went right back to my default mode of wanting to hide because when people didn’t notice you, you couldn’t mess up. If people didn’t see you, you’d be okay.
And I’d just realized Emerson really saw me, but she didn’t really like what she saw.
I didn’t want to cry in front of her, especially when she was glaring at me the way she was, and while I didn’t want to fight with her, that was the only other way to go.
“Long ago, huh? How many times did I mess up and you didn’t tell me? Am I only good for you to fuck? Why didn’t you fire me? You couldn’t bear to be separated from your sex slave?” I asked, my voice low and my tone bitter, words coming out of my mouth that I never thought I’d say.
She stalked forward, pushing me back until I was against the closed door.
“A slave? Do you feel like a slave when you're begging for me to fuck you like the dirty whore you are? Begging for my tongue on your cunt? That doesn't sound like a slave to me. I would say, “Correct me if I'm wrong,” but I know I'm not.”
Each word felt like a punch to the gut. The words might still be making my body react, but my mind hated them. My mind knew better.
Before this, when she called me names, there was an erotic undertone. I was her whore. Her slut. She liked it. I liked it. It was a role I played for her and no one else.
But now the words felt… real. She was using them to hurt me, and as much as I tried not to let it get to me, she was succeeding.
I couldn’t keep it in anymore. Tears were running down my face.
I wanted to reach out to her. To have her hold me like she did after our sessions. But this wasn’t a session. This was real life.
Her face twisted when she looked at me, like the tears were fueling her anger somehow.
“Did you know that the entire time you've been working for me I've had to clean up your messes?”
Wait, what?
“You said I'd been doing better.”
She leaned forward, almost as if she was going to kiss me, and then whispered the two words that broke me completely.
“I lied.”
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. My brain was telling my lungs to expand, but it felt like an elephant was on my chest. Heat licked at my spine. Painful humiliation hit me like a slap to the face. But she wasn’t done yet.
“I've been lying. You're a shit assistant, but I can't bring myself to fire you. It’s not because of your pussy. It's because, just like in high school, I can't stop fucking thinking about you. Worrying about you. You're constantly on my mind, and I can't get you out. I can’t fucking escape you.”
Has she truly been this miserable this entire time? Did I misunderstand this whole thing between us? Did she lead me on so I’d get comfortable so she could absolutely wreck me when I least expected it?
Part of me couldn’t believe it. The other part remembered our high school days.
“You can escape me anytime. Fire me. Right now.”
She grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“I fucking can’t, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
The contract…
“Did you ever see this as more than a contract? Ever see me as more?”
“What? It’s not the fucking… You know I did,” she grumbled. “If not, then why would I take you out? Why would I keep you around when the best solution was to fire you?”
But she can’t say it. Not like I did.
“Then why can’t you say it?”
She jerked back but stayed quiet.
“I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore.
I told you I liked you, and fuck, that sounded stupid because I love you, Emerson.
I have for a long time. Maybe a part of me always will.
But I want you to say it. I want you to assure me of what we have.
Fire me, I don't care. I just want to know that all of this wasn’t… Wasn’t…”
My voice trailed off when I caught the look in her eyes. Her lips were pushed into a thin line. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides.
But still, she didn’t fight me or what I was saying. She didn’t even try.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do.
“I think… I should go,” I said in a whisper, and it hurt.
I’d become comfortable in Emerson's home, thinking of it as ours. I didn't want to leave. I liked waking up here, going to work with her, and on the odd nights that I was able to sleep in her bed, I found myself enjoying the warmth of her.
I could easily find a place to go, but every other place would feel cold after being with her.
There was so much more I could say. So much more I wanted to say. I didn't want to let her run me out like this when I knew neither of us wanted it.
I could tell her that I understood. That I watched her father beat her up, that I knew why she didn’t come to school sometimes, that it was clear to me that all of it had made it hard for her to talk about her feelings.
I knew she'd always been that way, and I went ahead and loved her anyway.
But, for whatever reason, none of it came out of my mouth. I just couldn’t bring myself to say any of it.
She was looking at me like she was begging me to stay, but she said nothing either.
It’s over. It’s time to go.
I reached into my bag, took out the key to her house, and placed it on the closest table. My hand found the door handle behind me, and I started to pull open the door as her gaze shifted from pleading to regret.
Say something, Emerson. Tell me to stay. Tell me how you feel.
When she didn't try to stop me, I took my first step out into the hallway before looking at her over my shoulder, maybe for the last time.
“Please send me my stuff. I’ll text you the address.”