17. Emerson
EMERSON
My heart is heavy as Garrett drives us from Ironwood to Chicago. If we were going anywhere else, we would have brought a security detail.
And a driver.
But tonight isn’t about any of that and until my hand is forced, tonight will be solely for my mom.
I’m reminded of her every time I look in the mirror, my dark eyes and high cheekbones a tribute to someone who was taken from this world too soon.
I tried to keep busy today, knowing that I’d be taking Garrett with me to dinner—but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about the why for my solemn mood.
Instead, Garrett and I had coffee at the cute little shop in Ironwood, It’s the Grind, with the most delicious vanilla latte and every wood element artistically burned and charred to fit the vibe.
This same kind of coffee shop could be on any corner in Chicago, the difference here being that everyone walking inside is a neighbor.
Not a stranger.
And there were warm, heartfelt greetings for everyone who came in and small talk with those around us while we waited.
But my favorite part was that no one gawked at us. We just got to be normal because even though I’m not a celebrity by media standards, I’m under more scrutiny than most.
My phone buzzes in my purse as we navigate our way through the outskirts of Chicago to the restaurant that has been reserved just for us.
Like it has been every year on this date since I was a kid.
ISLA: Sending you so much love today and always.
EMERSON: I love you
ISLA: I hate that we couldn’t get out there today
EMERSON: It’s okay—it just gives us an excuse to get cherry tarts again when you do
ISLA: Hank has been trying to perfect his recipe
EMERSON: Even better
“Are you all right?” Garrett asks from the driver’s seat, his hand on my leg with his thumb stroking softly against my skin.
Tucking my phone away, I give him a tired smile. “Today is always hard. Dad and I are constantly in motion.” Swallowing hard, I add, “Except for today. We’ve always made it a point to stop and remember today.”
“Are you sure you want me here? I can drop you off and then—”
“Mom would have liked you,” I tell him honestly, cutting off his well-meaning protests and only feeling a little bad as he looks from me to the road and back again.
There was never another Mrs. Andrews for either of the Andrews brothers—at least not here in Chicago. My uncle is happily married now, but he’s so far removed from the boardroom I’d almost expect him to stroll in wearing a graphic T-shirt and jeans.
The thought makes me smile.
I like seeing him softer now—enjoying his life instead of living it at the office.
I ignore the little voice that insists I’d been doing the very same thing before I married Garrett.
What will life be like when our arrangement is over?
“Is this it?” Garrett asks as he pulls up to the curb, the little white building with the bright-red door and window trim making my breath catch in my lungs.
It was the last place we ever went out to eat, just the three of us, before she got sick. Sometimes I wish we picked somewhere new—somewhere that didn’t hurt as much—but then the guilt starts creeping in because this was our place.
“It is.”
“Emerson.”
“I just need a minute.”
I gave Garrett the overview of my mother before tonight—the things that you could find online in the articles from when she was alive.
But not the things that made Naomi Andrews her.
“She loved cherry tarts,” I admit without looking at him, my hands clasped together in my lap.
“She thought they were fun and decadent and way too much work to make at home. My dad used to bring her one as often as he could manage. A random Thursday. Because he thought of her. And she’d laugh and pretend like she was put out by him spoiling her like that. ”
“That sounds really nice,” he says quietly, his hand moving over mine, the pressure and warmth grounding me in this moment.
“It was. Dad and I only eat them here. Today.”
“What else?”
“They used to dance in the kitchen all the time. For all the hours he worked, he almost always made it home for dinner, even if he had to go back afterward. He wanted to talk about our days and enjoy that small bit of reprieve. He kept up with it after she died and then Isla and I made it a point to do it at least once a week when we got older.”
“I hate that you lost her.”
“People lose people all the time.”
“Yeah, but I chose my life over the quiet life my parents have. Your father built an empire and still made it home for dinner, and I barely see my parents a few times a year.”
“It doesn’t make you a bad person, Garrett, and it doesn’t make your parents bad either. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed if my mom had lived. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so terrified of what would’ve happened if I left.”
The admission slips out and hangs in the silence between us as my father appears in the doorway of the restaurant and waves, his smile wide as I try to force one to my lips.
I can feel Garrett shift in his seat as my father walks back inside. Every ounce of me dreads the inevitable sound of my name but it never comes. Instead, Garrett’s hand cups the side of my face as he presses a sweet kiss to my mouth.
The relief is immediate, but it’s nothing compared to the bone-deep gratitude at being seen.
Heard.
Because he did those things and still allowed me to keep my dignity in a moment of nostalgic oversharing.
A moment of vulnerability.
A moment that was never meant to be said aloud.
GARRETT
On any given day while on tour, I can stand on stage in front of tens of thousands of people and sing.
Rock.
Lose myself in the music.
And never feel as stripped raw as I do in this moment.
“It doesn’t make you a bad person, Garrett, and it doesn’t make your parents bad either. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed if my mom had lived. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so terrified of what would’ve happened if I left.”
The words are like a bass drum pounding in the back of my mind as I hold my hand out for Emerson and guide her to the sidewalk. There’s no security here tonight.
No cameras.
No official stop on the itinerary of our fake marriage.
It’s just us and her father and a memory of a time when things were simpler.
It’s a lot to live up to and even more knowing that she shared something unintentional with me in the car. There’d been a breath of time that had come to a standstill between us—when the gravity of what had been said lay like a weighted blanket in the front seat.
I don’t know how but I’d felt her panic.
Her need for me to let it go.
And I did with a silent promise to take her secret to the grave.
“Are you ready?” she asks, her fingers laced with mine as we cross the sidewalk to the door.
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” she says, her smile soft. “I’m just Emmy here. Mr. and Mrs. Dominic are the only ones that call me that—it’s another reason I can’t stay away.”
The words I fucking love you want to burst out of me because how could anyone look at this woman and think anything other than forever and mine and I will give you anything your heart desires.
But I don’t say that because now is not the time.
Following her lead, we step into the small, dimly lit restaurant with the red-and-white tiled floor and old paintings of Italy framed on the walls.
My stomach growls at the onslaught of garlic and bread and sauce I know is cooking in what’s most likely an equally small kitchen.
They’re probably going to have to roll me out of here because I’m going to have to try everything on the menu. Is this the kind of place that has a menu? Maybe they just give you what the special is and that’s it.
“Mr. Dominic, it’s so good to see you,” Emerson says, clasping the old man’s hands in hers and kissing both of his cheeks.
“You’re just as beautiful as ever.” He beams, his silver hair curled in the front, the way Elvis had worn it, and his eyes bright as he studies her. “And who did you bring me to feed tonight?”
“This is my husband, Garrett. He’s a musician.”
“Husband?” He scoffs as I extend my hand. “What, no invite to the wedding?” His accent is heavily Chicago Italian and it makes me smile as we shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. And as for the wedding, it was spontaneous while we were on vacation. I’m hoping she’ll let me plan something here.”
He harrumphs but winks at Emerson who I very intentionally do not look at because there’s no way she’d let me plan anything.
Not with the clock ticking on this arrangement.
But times like these make me want to fight for more because there was nothing fake about the chemistry that sparked and ignited in Vegas.
And there’s nothing fake about the way I’m feeling about her now.
Now is not the time.
Pushing every other thought from my mind, I turn toward Gene Andrews and extend my hand and smile. “It’s great to see you, sir.”
“We’re happy to have you, son.”