Chapter 7
The color of Emmy’s bruise when she woke the next morning landed somewhere between the Exxon Valdez oil spill and a strawberry. On close inspection, it looked pixilated. As if the blood vessels had burst and frozen in place.
And Pedro was right: she could in fact see the ball’s stitching imprinted on her leg. It was nearly a tattoo. Needless to
say, it was hideous. At least the pain pounding her muscle and bone like a jackhammer with every movement took her focus off
the fact that her head was full of cotton and screaming with a hangover.
She usually spent at least part of Saturdays working from her couch, but her throbbing body quickly informed her there was
no chance of that happening today.
Showering was herculean but helpful. By the time Emmy hobbled to the couch, hair wrapped in a towel and coffee mug in hand,
she wanted to drop a bomb on whoever was daring to buzz at her door.
The building’s security system synced with her phone. She pulled open the app to see a black-and-white video of the entrance.
She frowned at the sight of none other than Gabe Olson. He held a take-out bag in one hand and chewed his bottom lip, looking
nervous. He knew where she lived thanks to them sharing a ride last night, but she couldn’t fathom why he’d shown up at her
door on a Saturday morning. Making him sweat out the wait for her response gave her a small bit of satisfaction.
Simply curious, she pressed the button to answer his call. She could see him, but not the other way around. “Olson? What are
you doing here?”
He visibly jumped at the sound of her voice.
He eagerly leaned into the wall, drawing his face closer to the video screen and, consequently, the camera.
At least he looked puffy and haggard with a hangover too.
She would have been even more annoyed if he’d shown up with his standard magazine model glow.
“Hey! Hi. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by with breakfast. You know, in case you were having trouble getting around this morning. ”
Emmy’s frown deepened, wondering if this was some kind of trick.
“I’m not trying to trick you, Jameson,” he said, like he’d read her mind. “This is a sincere gesture.” He held up the bag
with a crooked smile. It softened Emmy into a more pliable form. Or perhaps it was her growling stomach that did the trick.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Best chilaquiles in Old Town.”
Her mouth watered. She was not going to turn down her favorite breakfast food. Even if it was being hand-delivered by her
archnemesis.
“Fine. Bring it up.”
She caught the flash of his grin as she hit the button to unlock the building’s front door. While she waited, she sat back
and gazed out her living room window, a little dazed Gabe Olson was on his way up to her apartment. She’d slept until nearly
10a.m. The morning sun was well on its way to brightening another perfect SoCal day. If she hadn’t been hobbled by a co-worker,
she might have taken a stroll to the farmers’ market before getting to work.
And then it hit her all at once that Gabe Olson was on his way up to her apartment .
She jolted upright, nearly spilling her coffee. “Oh shit!” she hissed. She pushed up off the couch and untangled the towel
from her hair. With the most accuracy she could muster for a shapeless, wet object, she hurled it down the hall toward her
bedroom. She looked down at her outfit: pajama shorts and a Fall Out Boy T-shirt, standard Saturday morning garb, and considered
changing. But then she realized she didn’t really care what Gabe Olson thought about her appearance when he was the one showing up unannounced on a weekend morning after a night out getting smashed.
And besides, her shorts put her spectacular bruise on full display, and she didn’t mind the idea of giving him a reminder
of why she was laid up on the couch to begin with.
She kept her apartment tidy, but she hadn’t yet put away signs of her 1a.m. arrival. Her Chucks sat by the couch, laces tangled
like noodles. Her purse spilled over on the coffee table from when she’d upended it in desperate need of lip balm while icing
her leg. The kitchen island still held a plate and knife smeared with peanut butter from when she’d made toast before bed
in an attempt to sop up the liquor still floating her brain.
As quickly as she could, she scooped the contents of her purse back inside and set it on her island, wiped crumbs from the
granite and put the plate and knife in the sink, kicked away the towels mopping up Tom’s still-leaking sink from the floor
above, and twirled her damp hair up into a sloppy bun. She tossed her shoes by the front door right in time to hear her doorbell
ring.
She limped over and took a breath, bracing herself for the oddity of seeing a co-worker outside of business hours. It was
like seeing a teacher at the grocery store or a dog walk on two legs.
When Emmy opened the door and saw Gabe Olson standing there in the flesh—gelled hair, tight tee, boat shoes, and a pair of
shorts—a funny feeling fluttered in her chest. He stared back at her for an oddly gentle moment. And then his eyes dropped
to her leg.
“Oh, damn . Look at that thing!” he said in greeting.
Emmy frowned. “Good morning to you too.”
He responded with a half grin. “Sorry. It’s just impressive, that’s all.”
“Again, why do I feel like you’re complimenting yourself?”
“I’m not. I promise. Token of my penance?” He held out the bag with a guilty grimace.
The smell of chilaquiles hit Emmy like a truck. She almost started to drool. She took the bag and noted the weight of multiple to-go containers inside it. “I accept. Also, if this is from Old Town, you weren’t in the area; that’s miles away. Also also, why are there two servings in here?”
The guilt on his face only multiplied. “I may have gotten something for myself too.”
“Ah, well. You shouldn’t have handed it over then. Mine now.”
He scoffed. “Jameson, come on. Give it back or invite me in.”
She suspiciously narrowed her eyes at him. “You really want to come in and eat breakfast with me?”
Gabe squeezed the back of his neck with a shrug.
“Wow, you must feel really guilty,” she said, and dropped her hand from where she’d been holding the door. “Going all the way to Old Town for food then
volunteering to hang out? Fine. Come in, I guess.”
He followed her inside and let out a low whistle. “Wow, nice place.”
Once they passed her office / guest room, the entryway of her corner apartment gave way to an open living room / kitchen area
with floor-to-ceiling windows on each wall. The view was half the reason she lived there.
“Thanks,” Emmy said, and placed the bag on the island. She had no room for a dining table, so all her meals took place seated
at the barstools lining her island. Well, there, or on the couch in her pj’s.
“How’s the leg?” Gabe asked as she gingerly sat on a stool with a wince.
“Not great but better than last night.”
“I’m still really sorry.”
She untied the take-out bag and lifted out the top carton. “Yeah, I can tell.” The smell wafted out in a mouthwatering tease:
eggs, tortillas, salsa, onions—chorizo if they were lucky. She noted when she opened the box with a smile they were, indeed,
lucky. “For the record, I will take this form of apology any day.”
Gabe pulled his own box out of the bag and fished out plastic forks for each of them. “Noted, though I don’t plan on smashing any more line drives into your legs.”
“Appreciated,” Emmy said around a luscious bite. “Good thing my maid of honor dress for my sister’s wedding is long, otherwise
she’d hunt you down herself for ruining the aesthetic she’s had planned since she was twelve.”
Perhaps it was the food distracting her or her still thriving hangover or the fact Gabe Olson was sitting at her island sharing
breakfast with her, but she didn’t realize she’d breached her no personal stuff rule until the words were out of her mouth.
“Your sister is getting married?” he asked with an interested tilt of his head.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“Huh. I don’t think I even knew you have a sister.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t talk about my personal life much at work.”
“No, you don’t. I didn’t even know you were left-handed until last night.”
“Only in the batter’s box,” she reminded him. “And I’m not the only one who keeps personal things to themselves. Did you know
Ishida has a girlfriend?”
A muffled laugh pushed out around the bite he was chewing. “No. Not until last night. Did you?”
“No idea. She was nice.”
“She was.”
They chewed in silence for a few beats. She wasn’t about to give him the pleasure of knowing, but these were quite possibly
the best chilaquiles she’d ever had.
“What about you, Jameson?” he asked. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Emmy almost choked at his question. Not only were they sharing breakfast in her apartment, now he was asking her about her relationship status.
As with many things with Gabe Olson, the question felt like a challenge.
He was going to somehow one-up her by saying he was dating Miss Universe or something.
So, in a reflexive move of self-preservation, she told him a half truth.
“Yes. Kind of. It’s still very early, so nothing official yet.” Her face burned at the mention of Axe Murderer.
He turned to her and finished his bite. A tiny spec of salsa clung to his lip.
“What?” she asked. “What’s that look?”
He shook himself like he was snapping out of a haze. “Oh, nothing. It’s just, well, I’m at that stage too.”
“Oh?” she asked, ignoring the confusing twinge in her chest. It was probably heartburn again. She was eating spicy food after all.
“Yeah,” he said. “Still very early. But, like, kind of awesome.”
A rare glimpse of vulnerability flashed over his face. Emmy saw it come and go like a wave scurrying onshore only to recede
back into the tide. Something about it felt familiar though she couldn’t say why. The most vulnerable she’d ever seen Gabe