20. Chapter TwentyEmma
Chapter Twenty
Emma
“ I ce cream first or wine?” Sophie asks, already heading for her kitchen. She’s still in her gala dress, emerald silk rustling as she moves through the apartment. The dress probably cost more than my monthly rent, but Sophie has never been afraid to risk designer clothing in the pursuit of emotional support.
“Both?” I’m curled on her couch, heels discarded beneath the coffee table, Elizabeth’s sapphire earrings carefully placed on the polished surface. My toes flex with relief after hours of confinement. “Though maybe not in the same bowl this time.”
“That was one time! And you have to admit, cabernet over chocolate chip was unexpectedly good.” She returns with two wine glasses, a pint of mint chocolate chip, and spoons. The ice cream is slightly softened—perfect scooping consistency. “So. Want to talk about my idiot brother trying to protect you from the big, bad board?”
I accept the wine gratefully, the cool glass a welcome sensation against my palm. “He apologized. We danced. Everything’s fine, and stop calling my boyfriend an idiot!”
“Uh-huh.” She settles beside me, tucking her feet under her designer gown with practiced ease. “That’s why you’re on my couch at midnight instead of making out with said idiot brother.”
“Sophie!” Heat floods my cheeks, which is ridiculous considering how long we’ve been friends.
“What? Like you weren’t thinking it.” She hands me a spoon, metal cool against my fingers. “Seriously though, you okay?”
I take a bite of ice cream, considering the question as mint and chocolate melt on my tongue. How could I explain the complex swirl of emotions that tonight had created? The professional pride at impressing the Johnsons, the hurt at Lucas’s attempted protection, the relief at our resolution, and the lingering uncertainty about what comes next?
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I trace patterns in the condensation on my glass. “It’s just... for a moment there, when he started talking about protection and restructuring, all I could think was, ‘Here we go again.’ He is making decisions about what’s best for me without asking me.”
“Like two years ago?” Sophie’s voice softens with understanding.
“Yeah.” I poke at the ice cream, creating little valleys and mountains on the green surface. “Is it stupid that part of me fears he’ll do it again? Just decide one day that leaving is the best way to protect me?” The fear feels small and irrational in the warm safety of Sophie’s apartment but no less real.
Sophie is quiet for a moment, swirling her wine thoughtfully. The light from her tasteful floor lamp catches the ruby liquid, casting small crimson reflections on her hand. When she speaks, her usual teasing tone is absent.
“You know what I remember about that time? The week after he left, you came over every day. Not to cry or talk about him. Just to help Mom with her garden or watch bad reality TV with me. Like you were making sure we knew you weren’t going anywhere.”
The memory catches in my chest—how desperately I’d clung to the Walker family when Lucas walked away. How terrified I’d been that I might lose them, too.
“Your family was my family, too.” My voice catches. “Still is.”
“Always will be.” She bumps my shoulder gently, her smile soft. “And Lucas knows that now. He’s not the same guy who ran away to prove himself. Though he’s still an overprotective idiot sometimes.”
“He gets that from your dad.”
“My goodness, remember when your car broke down senior year? Dad insisted on having his mechanic completely rebuild the engine ‘just to be safe.’” She adopts James Walker’s deeper tone. “‘Young women need reliable transportation, Sophie. It’s not just about convenience; it’s about safety.’”
The memory makes me smile, easing some of the tension in my shoulders. “He called it a graduation present.”
“More like a ‘my son’s best friend needs a reliable car’ present.” Sophie tops off our wine, the bottle making a gentle glug as it pours. “You know what else I remember about that time?”
“Hmm?”
“How you stood up to the board when they wanted to shut down the solar division. Everyone expected you to back down because you were just an analyst, but you walked in there with color-coded sustainability metrics and proved them all wrong.”
I remember that day with perfect clarity—the way my hands shook as I arranged my presentation materials, how Garrett watched with barely concealed disdain, and the moment I realized my data was strong enough to change minds regardless of my junior status.
“That was different.”
“Was it? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve always been the one person in this company who isn’t afraid to fight for what’s right. Even when that means standing up to your boyfriend about treating you like you need protection instead of support.” Sophie tilts her head, studying me with unexpected insight.
I lean my head on her shoulder, the familiar scent of her perfume—something expensive with notes of jasmine—comforting me. “Where is all this wisdom coming from?”
“Please, I’ve been wise since birth. You two are just finally catching up.” She steals a bite of ice cream off my spoon, causing me to swat at her hand. “Though I have to say, watching Lucas realize he was being an idiot was pretty entertaining. Mom really let him have it.”
“Elizabeth did?”
“Oh yeah. Full ‘you’re acting just like your father speech’ and everything. It was glorious.” Sophie’s expression turns wickedly gleeful. “She had this look—you know, the one where she seems completely pleasant but is actually filleting you alive? Lucas got the full treatment.”
“I love your mom.”
“She loves you too. She has since you started coming over to ‘study.’” Sophie makes air quotes with her free hand, nearly spilling wine in the process. “Though I noticed there wasn’t much focus tonight while you and Lucas were dancing on the terrace.”
Heat creeps up my neck, remembering the intimacy of that moment—his arms steady around me, moonlight painting everything in silver. “We were resolving conflict like mature adults.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?”
I throw a decorative pillow at her head. She dodges, laughing, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge of her glass.
“Seriously though,” she says after a moment, her expression sobering. “I’m glad you two figured it out. And not just because I’ve been planning your wedding since junior year.”
“Sophie!”
“What? Like you haven’t thought about it.” She grins at my blush. “Besides, Mom’s already picked out china patterns. Something about sapphire accents that would perfectly complement her earrings.”
“You’re impossible.” But I’m smiling now, too. The tension of the evening finally dissolving completely.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
“I do.” I rest my head on her shoulder again, grateful for this friendship that has weathered every storm. “Thanks for bringing me home with you tonight.”
“Always.” She squeezes my hand, her grip warm and familiar. “Though next time you and Lucas have relationship drama, can we do it somewhere I’m not wearing a designer gown? This fabric was not made for comfort eating.”
“Deal.” I reach for the ice cream again, scraping the sides for the melting goodness.
We spend the next hour critiquing gala fashion choices (“Did you see Mrs. Bradshaw’s fascinator? It looked like a peacock mated with a chandelier!”) and planning Sophie’s next “accidental” setup for Natalie and Mike from R I bring implementation strategies and efficiency metrics. He might not understand all the technical details, but he’s never missed an opportunity to celebrate my professional accomplishments.
The drive to my parent’s house is familiar, colored by memories of weekend visits home during college and late-night emergency ice cream runs with Sophie. Now, the route includes mental notes about potential solar panel installations and green energy solutions for the neighborhoods I pass—you can take the girl out of sustainable analysis, but you can’t take the sustainable analysis out of the girl.
Sunday lunch at my parents’ always feels like stepping back in time. Mom’s garden still explodes with color even in early fall, Dad’s vintage car collection still gleams in the driveway, and the kitchen smells like home—a mixture of Mom’s herb garden and Dad’s slow-cooked specialties.
“There’s my corporate revolutionary!” Dad engulfs me in a hug as soon as I arrive, his familiar aftershave mingling with the scent of rosemary and thyme. Donald Hastings may be retired from teaching engineering, but he’s never lost his enthusiasm for innovation. “Your mother’s been practically bouncing since you called about the gala.”
“Darling, let her breathe.” Mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Margaret Hastings—former environmental science teacher turned community garden coordinator—has always been my first role model in sustainability. Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Now, tell us everything. The presentation, the board’s reaction, and most importantly, did Lucas finally stop being noble about his feelings?”
I settle at the counter, accepting the coffee Dad hands me—perfectly prepared with just a hint of cinnamon, the way he’s made it since my high school days. “You know about that?”
“Sweetheart,” Dad chuckles, taking his usual spot at the breakfast nook, newspaper folded beside him, “we’ve watched that boy look at you like you hung the moon since you were teenagers. Elizabeth and your mom have been comparing notes for years.”
“You’ve been talking to Lucas’s mom about us?” The idea of our mothers conspiring about our relationship makes me both mortified and oddly touched.
“Of course!” Mom starts chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, her hands moving with the precision that first inspired my love of organized systems. “We had to do something while you two figured things out. Though I have to say, this innovative approach to the Johnson contract? That’s all you, honey. Your father’s been reading your proposals to anyone who’ll listen.”
“Dad!”
“What? My daughter’s redefining corporate environmental practices. I’m allowed to brag.” He sets down his coffee, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Though I’ll leave out the board’s opposition details when I tell my golf buddies. Arnold’s blood pressure isn’t what it used to be.”
He’s been like this since I brought home my first science fair project on renewable energy—fiercely proud, unabashedly enthusiastic about my work in a way that sometimes embarrasses me but always makes me feel valued.
The afternoon flows with easy conversation and familiar comfort. Dad pulls out the latest sustainability journals he’s subscribed to “for research,” though we all know it’s so he can understand my work better. Mom insists on showing me her newest garden innovations—a rainwater collection system she’s implemented for the community plots she oversees.
I tell them about the gala, Lucas supporting my unconventional ideas, and how right everything feels despite the challenges. I leave out Brighton’s offer for now—that’s something I need to process myself before discussing—but I share the triumphant moment when the Johnsons recognized the value of our approach.
“You seem happy,” Mom observes softly as we clear the dishes together. The late afternoon sun streams through the kitchen windows, casting everything in warm golden light. “Not just professionally successful—though we’re incredibly proud of that too—but genuinely happy.”
“I am.” I stack plates in the dishwasher, a task that somehow feels soothing in its familiarity. “Lucas... he makes me better. Braver. More myself.”
“That’s what love should do,” Dad says, moving from his spot in the breakfast nook to join us in the kitchen. He slides an arm around Mom’s waist, the gesture so natural after thirty-five years together. “Though if he ever pulls that noble protection act again...”
“Darling.” Mom’s tone holds warning, but she’s smiling. “Our daughter can handle herself. She always has.”
“Ever since she was seven and reorganized my entire tool shed by ‘project efficiency potential,’” Dad agrees with a laugh. “Still, a father reserves the right to be concerned.”
“And a little protective,” Mom adds, her smile knowing. “Even when we pretend otherwise.”
Dad wraps me in another hug, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I know. But I’m still allowed to worry. Even if my little girl is now a corporate innovator revolutionizing sustainable technology.”
His pride is palpable, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It’s always been this way—both my parents celebrating my professional passions while still treating me like their daughter. Never force me to choose between those identities.
As we finish cleaning, Dad pulls me into his study to show me an article about new solar innovations. Mom joins us with fresh coffee, and we spend another hour discussing sustainable practices and corporate responsibility. It’s a conversation we’ve been having in various forms since I was old enough to understand what “environmental impact” meant.
“Speaking of responsibility,” Mom says casually as she refills our cups, “Elizabeth mentioned the board’s... concerns... about your relationship affecting business decisions.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “You and Elizabeth do talk about everything.”
“Not everything,” Dad says with a wink. “Just the important things. Like how our children are navigating this new chapter.”
“We’re figuring it out,” I say, touched by their concern. “Together.”
Mom’s smile is knowing. “That’s all that matters. The rest will fall into place.”
Driving home later, I feel centered in a way only family can provide. These Sunday visits always remind me of where I come from—a home where my color-coding system started with reorganizing Dad’s car magazines, where Mom’s garden taught me my first lessons about environmental impact, and where my crazy ideas were always encouraged.
The apartment feels quiet when I return, but not in a lonely way. More like a peaceful interim—a space between the warmth of my parents’ home and whatever comes next.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lucas as I settle on my couch: Dinner tonight? I miss you.
I reply: Can’t tonight. Still processing Mom’s pot roast. But tomorrow?
Lucas: It’s a date. Love you.
Love you too. Even when you’re being magnificently magnificent.
I smile at the screen, warmth spreading through me at our private joke.
Two years ago, I would have stared at that message for hours, analyzing every word and punctuation mark for hidden meaning. Now it just feels right—like we’ve finally found our rhythm.
I set my phone aside and reach for the sustainability reports I need to review for tomorrow’s meeting. The complex data spreads before me, but instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel centered. Ready.
Just a few months ago, I would have worked through the night, trying to prove something—to the board, to myself, to a Lucas who was still keeping his distance. Now I know when to push and when to rest. When to fight for my ideas and when to let others shine.
Brighton’s offer still hovers at the edges of my thoughts—head of global sustainable technology, creative control, my name on the patents. Everything I’ve worked for professionally offered on a silver platter. It’s tempting, but not in the way Theodore Brighton expected. Not because I doubt my place at Walker Enterprises, but because I want to be certain of my worth beyond Lucas’s connection. I need to process this decision carefully, evaluating what it means for my career and our relationship.
Some things change. We grow, adapt, and learn to balance the professional and personal.
But having someone who values both your brilliance and your chaos? Who sees you completely and loves you, anyway?
That’s the constant I never expected but somehow always hoped for.
I close the report, smiling at the thought of tomorrow’s dinner. Whatever challenges work brings, I know we’ll face them together.