CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Emery
I go out with people from the team because I tell myself I should.
Because normal looks like laughing too loud over a carafe of wine and pretending I’m not watching the door every time it opens.
Because this is what starting over is supposed to look like—new city, new job, new people who don’t know the version of me that Jared knew.
I sit at the high-top with two trainers and one of the marketing girls, nodding along to stories about travel delays and equipment mishaps, and learning snippets of gossip about co-workers that I never asked to know but now won’t be able to forget.
Is it weird that I keep glancing at the door like I expect Lucas to walk in and join us?
And that is why I’m here right now. Because I’m relying too much on wanting to see one person when there’s a whole world of new people for me to meet and want to hang out with.
Yet when the door opens again, I look toward it and deflate a little when my ridiculous brain realizes he’s not there.
Or maybe it’s just because I feel bad after the other day . . . when Nixon was on my table and how hard-headed I was.
We haven’t talked since then, which is my doing. He’s clearly respecting the boundaries I set.
Like how he didn’t show up for our run this morning.
You asked for it, Em. He respected it. Can’t get mad at him for that.
“Right?” Mona asks, pulling me from my thoughts. She’s chuckling so I do the same.
“Right. Of course,” I say.
“Coach is cool but just wait until we lose a game and then we ‘clear the halls’ when he walks through,” Jerry says.
“No shit,” Kelly adds. “But it’s more an internal temper rather than a thundering one.”
“Noted,” I say. “I’ll steer clear.”
“Excuse me,” a voice to my right says.
I startle and scoot my chair over. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to crowd your seat,” I say.
“No, that’s not it. You’re fine,” he says, a little flustered as I look over to him. “I wanted to know if I could buy you a drink.”
Suddenly fear washes over me. He’s too close. Too there. Too male.
Fuck.
“Never thought you couldn’t, but my momma taught me to always treat the lady.”
I feel his large hand on the small of my back trying to playfully pull me toward him.
I taste the bitterness in my wine that wasn’t there with the last glass.
Because he put something in it when the woman passed me my purse.
Why can’t I form the words I want to say? Why does my head feel so heavy . . . so confused?
“Miss?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
The gentle voice of the man before me yanks me out of the memory.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I shake my head and offer an apologetic smile despite my racing pulse.
“Thank you, but I’m good.” His face falls and for a second I see how much courage it took for him to come up and ask me.
“Any other time, the answer would be yes,” I say as to not discourage him from asking someone else. “Just out with friends tonight.”
His smile brightens. “Okay. Thank you.” He nods and then melts back into the crowd without pushing me again.
But my heart is still pounding, and my head is completely messed up. What if Lucas hadn’t gone in that bar on that night?
“Emery? You okay?” Mona asks. “You jumped like you’d seen a ghost when he asked if he could buy you a drink.”
“I’m fine. I didn’t see him there is all,” I say as an excuse and swallow down the unease the situation brought with it.
But as I take a sip of my wine, something clicks into place.
I have never felt that unease with Lucas. Not once.
Not when he stands too close. Not when he teases me. Not when his hand is on my lower back or when he looks at me too long.
With him, there’s a space even when there isn’t a distance, which feels like a protection that simply slipped into our friendship. A safety he gives me that he’s never demanded credit for.
Isn’t that why I keep looking at the door? Because what I felt just now—that panic, that unease—I’ve never felt that with Lucas.
And that matters more than I want it to. It matters just as much as the funny feeling that flips in my gut when he smiles at me.
I finish my drink and make my excuses that I need to finish some work at home but how appreciative I am for the invite. “We’ll definitely have to do it again,” I say before I leave.
But I welcome the quiet of home so much more. And when I walk down the hall to my place, I stop outside his door, and before I can talk myself out of it, I knock.
He opens the door, a surprised look on his face. “Hey,” falling from his lips when he sees me there.
And my heart does the thing it always does when I see him—stumbles a little before righting itself.
It’s just being ridiculous, but so is my smile, soft and unguarded. “Hi.” I scrunch my nose and suddenly feel like an idiot for what I had planned to say. I improvise. “I—uh—just wanted to say congrats on being cleared for full contact.”
“It’s all because of my great doctor who’s a physical therapist who’s a friend who has no problem calling me on my shit when needed and pushing me harder when that’s also needed.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I smile. This is even ground for me. It’s so much easier to talk about this than what I’d planned on saying when I knocked. “You’ve put in a lot of hard work, and it’s paid off. Now we just need to keep it strong and protected.”
“I trust you,” he says without hesitation and the words strike me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Thank you.” That’s all I say, all I can think to say, as I shift my feet and the silence stretches.
“Was there something else?”
“Yes. No. Never mind.” I take a step back. “It’s stupid.”
“No. What is it?” he asks. “I want to know.”
Ugh. Why did I say yes? “It’s nothing really.”
“But it is. C’mon. Tell me.”
“I guess I just wanted to thank you again. For that first night.”
His brows narrow slightly. “Em? Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I just realized something tonight.” I fiddle with the strap of my purse. “You saved this whole experience for me. The living part. You did that from the start, and I guess it just hit me tonight how grateful I am for that.”
He studies me like he’s listening to more than just my words. “Do you want to come in?”
I bite my bottom lip. Every instinct wars inside me—stay, go, don’t blur the line, don’t build something you’re afraid to hold.
I breathe in.
“No, I’m trying to keep things where they need to be kept,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
His mouth curves. “So am I, but the offer still stands.” He steps back and motions that I’m still welcome.
It’d be so damn easy to just walk inside.
“No,” I say. “I’m tired. But . . . thank you.”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t reach for me or try to change my mind. Rather, he just watches as I step back and head toward my door.
And I feel it then—how much harder it is to walk away from someone who never tries to restrict you. Who respects you and your lines and the parameters, even if they’re starting to feel more like a punishment than a protection.
Inside my apartment, I lean against the door and close my eyes.
Safe doesn’t mean simple.
But it means something.
And that scares me more than anything else.