CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
She looks up and meets my gaze. Relief floods her eyes just as easily as her smile.
She exhales and leans back, copying my posture.
“His name is Jared. We met in undergrad, fell in love when he knew what my career path was. We married when I was in med school, and after I graduated, it became painfully obvious to him that I’d become more successful than him, and to me, by the constant insults and criticism he lobbed my way, that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. ”
I blow out a long, low whistle.
She simply nods. “A year ago, I went to a conference where I was the keynote speaker and when I came home, there was nothing left from the life I thought we were living, save for the shitty apartment, a torn couch, and some mismatched dishes.”
“Jesus, Em.”
“That about sums it up.” She laughs. “I threw myself into my job and, I’m ashamed to say it, have merely been existing outside of it. This job opportunity came up and when I got it, I decided it was time to pack up what I wanted and start over with everything else.”
I can hear the resolve in her voice and see the defiance in her eyes. It’s impressive. Admirable. But something tells me she doesn’t want to hear that.
No wonder she said this was her time to focus on her career when I asked her last week about a boyfriend. Shit. I had no idea.
“Only weak men don’t want their partner to be successful,” I say and exhale loudly. Fucking prick. “Definitely his loss.”
“Turns out if no one’s paying attention, you learn to push yourself,” she says, repeating my line back to me.
If I was enamored by who I thought Emery Porter was before, I’m even more impressed now by her. Smart, beautiful, and incredibly resilient.
We don’t stay much longer because music and loud voices float in the open windows, and curiosity pulls us outside to check it out.
“Perfect timing,” the hostess says as we approach the entrance. “The street party will pass by here in a few seconds.”
“Street party?” Emery asks.
The hostess smiles. “An evening event. A band leads the march and stops every block or so to play. You can either follow behind it when it moves or just get lost in the crowd and music while it’s here. It’s . . . our little nightly party around here.”
“How cool,” Emery says as she walks out into the street.
The music starts immediately. A new song. A different beat. People shout in appreciation of the selection. Most dance to it. The street becomes a living, moving dance club complete with lights strung overhead in the darkening night and the people clearly enjoying themselves.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
“This is . . . crazy,” she laughs out, hand against her chest, eyes alive, and mouth a mixture of open and smiling as she takes it in.
And I find myself looking at her instead of the chaos around us.
“We can head back if you want,” I say. Although, I’m loving her like this.
She considers it for a half second—lips twisted and head rocking from side to side—before smiling. “The old me would have said yes. The new me . . .” Her grin widens. “Let’s go.”
She’s off the curb and pushing through the crowd before I can think. I jog after her, but she’s already disappeared, so I follow suit, using the glimpses of her ponytail ahead as a guide.
The air is thicker, and the music feels louder, live and pulsing. There’s a sense that everything feels more insistent as more people push into the street.
A hand clamps over mine—Emery’s—and holds tight so I don’t lose her as she pushes her way through. I’m jostled from every direction. Someone steps aside and all of a sudden, I’m propelled forward so that I land solidly against Emery.
My hands find her waist to steady us.
Our bodies are flush against each other’s, the fingers of one of our hands is still linked. Her body is warm, familiar in a way that surprises me, making every part of me pay attention.
She looks up at me, lips parted slightly and breath uneven.
Christ.
The crowd presses closer, and my free hand moves to her back. The fingers of her free hand curl lightly into the front of my shirt.
For a split second the world narrows, and my brain shuts off.
My body wants.
Fuck, all of me wants.
Her lips are right there. Soft. Pink. Tempting.
The music swells, bass vibrating the through the pavement and straight up my legs. Lights flicker overhead, painting her face in color—gold, then blue, then something darker. Someone laughs nearby. Another pushes me tighter against her. We sway—more like dancing—slowly.
I want to kiss her.
The thought hits hard and unwelcome. I lean in and her breath feathers over my mouth. I can feel the heat of her. The hum under her skin that matches the music pounding around us.
This was not supposed to happen. To feel like this.
This was supposed to be tacos and laughter and a stupid cactus pinata.
Not this.
I pull back first, barely enough to break whatever hold she has on me. Her eyes flicker—confusion, despair, relief. Maybe a bit of all three.
“Hey.” I swallow. “You good?”
She nods. “Yeah. Just . . . crowded.”
With perfect timing the music breaks, and so does the crowd as they move on to the next block to play.
I’m left standing in a steadily emptying street, fingers slowly unlinking from my doctor’s. My friend’s.
The woman I still want to kiss.
She’s my doctor. My neighbor. She’s the one line I can’t afford to blur.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
She nods without speaking, like we both know we were about to make a huge mistake but still wanted to.
At least I did anyway.
I guide her through the bodies, my hand never leaving her back until the music and people fade behind us. The lights grow dimmer. The street clears.
Only then do I let go.
The walk to the truck is quiet but not awkward.
When she climbs into the passenger seat, she chuckles at the heap of stuff piled in the back seat that we’ve accumulated this afternoon.
Neither of us speaks on the drive back to the apartment complex. I’d like to say it’s because we’re both tired from the long day, but it might be more than that. It might be questioning what happened in the street.
Once home, I carry the lamp, the ridiculous cactus, and other bags inside her place. Undeniable proof when she wakes up tomorrow that the day happened.
She lingers by the door with a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
“Today was . . . perfect,” she says. “Just what I needed.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” I say, my eyes flickering back to her lips again.
“Thank you for all of it.”
We stand there a beat too long again.
I smile. “Good night, Doc.”
“Night.”
I wait until her door closes before heading across the hall to mine. My chest is tight and my mind is louder than the music at the street party ever was.
This was supposed to be a spontaneous, fun day out with a newfound friend.
Instead, I’m staring after a woman I learned so much more about tonight. A dick of an ex. A dedication to her craft few have but that I understand. A need to do things on her own terms.
A woman I now want to know way more about.
This was supposed to be simple.
Uncomplicated.
It’s already not.