24. LIAM
24
LIAM
Six Summers Ago
After arriving back in Lisbon from Lagos, the four of us parted ways to our respective hotels but with the promise that we would see each other later.
Emerson claimed she needed a nap after not sleeping much the night before. I couldn’t help the pang of guilt that sat with me. Did she not sleep because of me? I can’t say that I got much, either. The entire evening played back in my head.
After a cold shower, my hand, and the taste of her lips, the regret of walking away left me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It crossed my mind to go back downstairs.
Tell her I’m sorry I left her standing in the hallway.
Tell her why I walked away—even though she’d roll her eyes at the reason.
It wasn’t the alcohol consumption last night that influenced my decision. It wasn’t how she pretended to trip to force my hold on her to tighten or the taunt about getting George. It was the fact that in less than forty-eight hours, we would never see each other again.
That’s why it would never be just a kiss—or one night together.
It’s ironic how the time we have left is the same amount of time that it took for her to become someone to me. Someone that one night with wouldn’t be enough. A whole lifetime with her wouldn’t be enough.
Two days later, I want her as much as I did that night.
And that’s the problem. Forty-eight hours became days, and now I’m debating going to Paris with her .
Except that Emerson didn’t mention anything the morning after the kiss. She acted like nothing happened between us.
Today hasn’t been much different.
“States is effing cool, mate.” George draws my attention to him.
Emerson is sorting through painted tile coasters for her apartment in Chicago.
We visited Miradouro da Senhora do Monte, taking the trolley up to it earlier before walking through a market, hopping between food and souvenir stands. The guys and I have been tracking all over the city with her, making sure to cross everything off her Lisbon list.
“I know.”
“Had an interesting chat this morning.”
“Yeah? While I was running?” I raise an eyebrow toward him.
“Yeah. I might have asked her about you...”
“What do you mean about me?” My pulse picks up.
“Last night at dinner, the two of you had this weird tension-infested force field surrounding you.”
“Force field. . . ?” George waves off my comment.
“That’s not the point. I asked States about it this morning. When she met Cal and me in the hotel lobby for breakfast, I could sense she was nervous about being around us—turns out you, today.”
“What did she say about me?”
“If you’d shut up, you’d find out.”
I go to speak but close my mouth.
“She said you snogged her in Lagos, which we knew. She also said you left her standing there in the hallway when she went to invite you in, which we didn’t know. States went on to ask about your past. Curious about how you are with other women and one-night stands.”
I run my hands through my hair, tugging on the brown strands.
“I didn’t want her to be just another girl I’ve slept with. She’s not like that to me,” I admit .
“Why didn’t you tell her that?”
“I didn’t want her to feel rejected or explain emotions I’m still trying to navigate.”
“You’re an idiot. It was still rejection either way. I think she would have understood.”
“You do?”
“She seems reasonable. But when Cal and I glanced at each other, not knowing how to respond, she rolled her eyes and mumbled about this being another reason she doesn’t believe in love.”
Emerson doesn’t believe in love? “What?”
“I was confused, too. A tad shocked after how she’s been interacting with you. Cal tried to ask her about it, and she shut down.”
How can anyone not believe in love? I swear I remember her mentioning that she loved her best friend. Or taking a bite of a Pastel de Nata and outwardly claiming her love for her new favorite pastry.
Is that feeling not the same? How can one love but not believe in it?
I watch her and Cal move to the next merchant stand. George, standing next to me, watching me as I try to figure her out.
***
The next afternoon, Emerson asked me to go with her to Paris, her next stop, and I said yes. I had already told her I loved Paris and created a non-tourist list of places to see, eat, and do.
Paris was one of my mom’s favorite cities, and being back always feels like I’m visiting her. Business brings me here occasionally, but being in Paris with Emerson is like seeing it for the first time—and the best part, from her eyes.
I think I would be okay seeing everything from her perspective for the rest of my life .
We’ve checked everything off her Paris list, including a day trip to Versailles, an afternoon in the Louvre, and a visit to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore.
Being the Emerson Clarke I’ve learned her to be, she’s benevolent at her core. After every item we crossed off, she asked me what I wanted to do, see, or eat. Every time, I told her I didn’t care. As long as she’s right beside me, that’s what I want to do.
She’s still under the impression that tomorrow is my last day with her. But while she’s sleeping in, which is what I’m assuming she is doing because I have yet to have a knock on my door this morning, I finalize arrangements to finish her trip with her.
I plan to tell her tonight.
Cal: Anything else you need me to cover?
No. I’ll call if there is. Thanks again.
Stepping away from the office for the next month to be with Emerson wasn’t easy to coordinate, but it was an easy decision. I’ll stay ahead on emails or whatever work I can, but I’m thankful for Callum handling everything in person. He’s a tremendous friend-CFO hybrid. I return my phone to the bedside table, returning to my book. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes with another text from Callum and George.
Cal: Don’t fall too in love with her
George: I bet he already has.
I stretch out my arms. My mind slips to thinking about Emerson, as it has every other minute for the past ten days. I’m thinking about her sleeping. She’s the most peaceful sleeper I’ve ever seen, not that I watch people sleep often or that I’ve seen her sleep except for our first night together. Her soft, pink lips part slightly, and she breathes so softly that you almost think she isn’t breathing. It terrified me at first.
Like dominos, I fixate on her lips and kissing them again.
Everything about her draws me to her. I’m obsessed, and I’ve never been this obsessed with anyone or anything in my life. I consume as much as I can—time included. I know this trip will end, and our time together will expire. I’ll head back to London, and she’ll be back in the States, but until then, I want anything and everything I can get from her.
There’s a knock on my door. Light, three times. Emerson.
Our rooms are next door to each other. Based on her original accommodations, she has two beds in her room, but I, stupidly but respectfully , insisted on getting my own.
“Good morning,” her soft, sleepy female voice says as I open the door. Emerson is still in her pajamas.
“Good morning,” I reply, tucking loose hair behind her ear and running my fingers through its soft strands. “Wanna come in?”
“That’s why I’m standing here.” She brushes past me with a smirk. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Don’t ya have one in your room?”
“Yeah, but I got up and came right here. Didn’t have to go then.”
“What’s on our agenda for today?” I ask her as she exits the bathroom.
She walks over to the bed, joining me on it. Folding her knees beneath her, she gives me a gentle smile. “Well—” Emerson finds my eyes, locking her big green ones into my blue-gray. There’s an idea turning behind them. “I had this idea. . . but you might think it’s stupid.”
Emerson bites her lip.
Those daydreams of her mouth from earlier this morning? They’re back. I try to brush them aside instead of crawling to where she’s seated and kissing them, focusing on what she’s saying and not where the words are coming from.
“No stupid ideas, remember?” I remind her.
“We said no stupid questions between us, not ideas.”
“Semantics.”
“Not really—”
“Say your idea, but add a question inflection at the end. It’s a question then.”
She rolls her eyes at me, and her chest raises with a silent laugh.
“Okay then. What if we order room service, and then we flip a coin? Heads you pick, tails I pick? No set plans, we see where fate takes us?” Emerson tilts her head and gives me puppy dog eyes, working this whole question-thing. “My dad and I used to play this before my parent’s divorce. It became our thing. Each game was a new adventure, leading us to places we knew and had yet to discover, even in my hometown,” she tacks on.
I didn’t need the explanation; I would have said yes to whatever came out of her mouth. Spending time with Emerson is enough for me. Getting to know this about her? Getting to share in one of these good memories of her dad? That makes today that much better.
Emerson doesn’t talk about her parents. Whenever the topic comes up between us, she changes it. All I know is that they divorced when she was in middle school.
“Do you want to be heads or tails?” I ask her.
“Tails, always.” Emerson gleams at me. “I’m going to change. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, top. Can you order breakfast for us?” She jumps from her position on the bed and bounces out of the room.
“You got it, States.”