Chapter 45 Emily
EMILY
Lacey’s was a wall of noise. Twangy country music, clinking glass, and the roar of the Friday night crowd. Cam’s hand was a warm weight on my lower back, guiding me toward the corner where my favorite people in the world were already three rounds deep.
“There she is!” Hannah was on her feet before we’d even reached the table, beer raised high. “The artist extraordinaire!”
I barely had time to brace myself before I was swarmed. The next few minutes passed in a blur of hugs and congratulations, before Hannah intervened.
“Alright, everyone, sit down so we can properly toast!”
We did as we were told and I smiled gratefully at Samara when she pressed a glass of wine into my hand.
I did my best to ignore the flutter of anxiety already building underneath my sternum.
Hannah stood, her beer held high. “To Emily, who just submitted what is definitely going to be the winning application for that super fancy and very impressive art scholarship.”
Gulp.
“Hannah,” I started, but she talked over me.
“To Emily, who is insanely talented and needs to stop doubting herself for five seconds.”
“Hear, hear!” Maya clinked her glass against Hannah’s bottle.
“To Emily, who’s going to absolutely fucking crush it!”
Everyone cheered, bottles clinking against glasses, wine and beer sloshing everywhere. Once we’d all settled down, Annie leaned in, asking quietly, “How do you think you did?”
The question had acid churning in my gut.
How did I think I did? I thought I probably wasted months of my life on something I had no business attempting.
I thought the committee would take one look at my portfolio and wonder who I thought I was kidding.
No doubt they’d think I was fucking delusional.
“I think I did my best,” I said instead. “That’s all I can control, right?”
Under the table, Cam took my hand in his, threading his fingers through mine. The touch was grounding, steady, and I held on maybe a little too tight.
“When do you hear back?” Poppy asked.
I shot Jack a nervous look. “I’m not sure.”
“There are a large number of applicants. Apparently more than was anticipated, so the board advises that it will take at least a few weeks.”
Another gulp.
Cassidy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Hey, no point in spiraling until there’s something concrete to spiral about.”
“Yeah, okay.” I dragged in a breath. “Good point.”
The conversation shifted then, breaking into smaller pockets around the table. Voices overlapped, laughter erupted from one end while someone else was mid-story at the other.
On it went. All the while my inner voice was fucking torturing me.
What if you wasted your time? What if they laugh at your application? What if mom is right and you’re just playing pretend?
Cam’s thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, and I focused on that instead of the spiral.
“You okay?” he murmured, leaning in so only I could hear.
“Yeah, of course. Just tired from finishing everything.”
He studied my face for a beat too long, and I made myself hold his gaze, smile intact.
“Okay,” he said finally, but I could tell he didn’t fully believe me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out casually, not checking the sender before I flicked the message open.
Jackie tells me you submitted the application for that art scholarship today.
Should have fucking left her on unread.
That’s right.
Well, I suppose it’s good that you tried. At least now you can say you gave it your best effort and move on.
The air left the room.
I stared at the screen. The words sat there, each one a carefully placed knife.
My stomach dropped. That voice of doubt that had been whispering all night suddenly started screaming.
See? Even she knows you’re not good enough. You wasted your time. You embarrassed yourself. Everyone here is celebrating you for nothing.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and grabbed my drink, taking a long pull to buy myself time.
“Em?” Cam’s voice was quiet, concerned. His hand tightened on mine. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t look at him. If I looked at him, I’d shatter. And I couldn’t shatter here, under the neon lights, in front of everyone who thought I was a success story.
“I need to go,” I whispered, the words scraping my throat.
Cam didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He stood up, pulling me with him, and addressed the table. “Hey guys, sorry to cut it short, but Em’s crashing. Adrenaline drop.”
“Oh, no!” Mia started, but I was already turning away.
“Love you guys, sorry, bye!” I chirped, the fake cheerfulness sounding brittle even to my own ears. I practically sprinted for the door, needing the dark, needing the air, needing to outrun the text message burning a hole in my pocket.
The drive to Cam’s house was a blur of passing streetlights and suffocating silence. He tried to speak once, but I shut him down with a sharp shake of my head. I was holding myself together by a single, fraying thread.
The second the front door clicked shut behind us, that thread snapped.
I turned on him, kissing him hard, all teeth and desperation. My hands were already tearing at his shirt, needing to feel something, anything, other than the crushing doubt that was consuming me.
“Emily, wait.” He caught my face in his hands, pulling back. His eyes were dark, searching. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t.” I shoved at his chest, backing him toward the stairs. “I don’t want to talk. I just need…”
He read the frantic need in my eyes. The way I was trying to crawl out of my own skin.
“Okay,” he roughed out.
He didn’t make it soft. He swept me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me up the stairs with a purpose that made my brain finally, blessedly, go quiet.
We barely made it to his bedroom. I was already unbuttoning my jeans, kicking off my shoes. He watched me with dark eyes, his chest rising and falling fast.
Then his hands were everywhere, rough and demanding. My back hit the mattress and he followed me down, his weight pressing me into the bed.
“Tell me what you need,” he said against my mouth.
“This.” I arched into him. “Just this.”
He stripped off the rest of my clothes and his own in quick, efficient movements. Then he was kissing me again, his hands pinning my wrists above my head while his body covered mine completely.
The first thrust made me gasp.
Hard. Deep. Unrelenting. And so fucking perfect.
I lost myself in it. In the feeling of him pounding into me, the stretch and burn and fullness that pushed out every other thought. His grip on my wrists was firm, grounding, keeping me present when I wanted to disappear into my head.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and I opened my eyes without thinking.
His gaze was intense, focused entirely on me like he was trying to read every thought I wasn’t saying out loud. Like he could see straight through to the broken parts I was trying to outrun.
He shoved into me again, over and over.
I came hard, the orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that felt like breaking open. He followed right after, his forehead pressed to mine, our breathing ragged in the quiet room.
For a few seconds, everything was just sensation. Just our bodies and the aftermath and blessed silence in my head.
He pulled out carefully and rolled to the side, immediately reaching for me. I let him pull me close, tucking my face against his chest so I didn’t have to look at him.
His hand smoothed down my back in long, steady strokes. Not demanding anything. Not asking questions. Just there.
We lay there in silence. His heartbeat was steady under my ear, a rhythm I could focus on instead of the noise in my head.
I knew I should talk to him. That I should explain about the text, about the constant voice telling me I wasn’t good enough. About how seeing everyone celebrate me tonight had made it so much worse because what if they were all wrong?
But I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.
So instead I pressed closer, let his warmth surround me, and pretended everything was fine.