7. Emerson
EMERSON
I don’t know how long I’ve been in bed.
Could be hours. Could be days.
Not only do I not know, but I don’t really care.
My stomach cramps, but I don’t even register the hunger—just the idea of it, muted and irrelevant, like background noise coming from a different room.
Nothing lands the way it’s supposed to.
Nothing matters.
Not the slivers of light coming in through the closed blinds, not the weight of the blanket pulled over me, not the low hum of Cross My Heart’s latest album that’s been playing on a loop over the speaker on my nightstand since I woke up the first time and the silence was too loud.
Not even the sound of my phone buzzing somewhere in the bed.
I’m surprised it still has a charge.
There’s a list somewhere in the back of my mind—things to do, messages to answer, aspects of my daily life that should matter enough to feel urgent.
A task as simple as drinking a sip of water or brushing my teeth.
Those tasks should matter.
But this version of myself, the one expected to participate in the day, is buried underneath the numbness—like novocaine shooting right through my veins, completely paralyzing me beneath this hopeless fog.
I should get up. That thought arrives, complete and correct, but it dissolves. As quickly as it does every time it’s crossed my mind.
There’s no resistance. Just a complete absence of motivation.
My phone keeps buzzing, more than it has since I first got into bed after Rumi sent me home, but it’s like it belongs to someone else.
Not my problem.
There’s a strange comfort in how little anything asks of me when I don’t respond to it.
The world keeps its distance if I do. It doesn’t punish the absence immediately. That delay feels almost like mercy, even though I know it won’t stay delayed forever.
I could probably try harder. Do something small just to get out of bed, but when I sit with the thought for more than a few seconds, I realize that it truly feels like I’m stuck. Like I’m tied to the bed.
So I stay here, in the in-between, where nothing hurts sharply enough to force movement.
Just the low hum of existing without participation.
The moment my phone stops buzzing, it starts again.
Someone’s calling me, and they aren’t going to stop until I answer.
And there’s only one person who is stubborn enough to do that. More stubborn than me.
I sweep my hand over the bed, one arm wandering blindly across the mattress, refusing to move more than I have to. There’s a soreness to my bones, like when you sit still for too long, and it’s almost like your limbs forgot how to move.
My phone keeps buzzing as I half-heartedly pat through the rumpled sheets until I finally feel something hard, grabbing it and bringing it to my face.
The light is blinding, my eyes squinting at the light as I see Ava’s contact name and picture fade, only for them to pop back up moments later with her calling again.
My forearm falls over my face as my phone continues to buzz in my hand, and I let out a groan that hurts my throat, the sound deafening in the quiet room.
If I don’t answer, she’ll keep calling.
Or worse, come over here and find me.
Which is the last thing she needs to do while still recovering from her C-section earlier this month.
“Hello?” My voice cracks.
“About goddamn time,” Ava greets, and I huff out a breath, the closest thing I have to laughter at the moment.
My mom used to be as stubborn as Ava—calling me or Jack until we answered, no matter the day or time.
It used to freak us out, worrying us that something was wrong, but she always explained that she did it because she was the one who was worried.
Her mind would catastrophize the craziest scenarios as to why we weren’t answering—from being abducted by aliens to dropping our phone in the toilet and getting our hands stuck when trying to grab it.
As if anyone would use two hands.
The thought is sobering in a way that makes me wish I was drunk. Drunk enough to forget all the little anecdotes and memories—they cut through the numbness too easily.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as possible—as if I missed all of her calls because I was busy answering emails or working on one of the dozen character illustrations or book cover commissions in my inbox right now.
“Just checking in,” she says sweetly, like we both don’t know why she’s calling.
“All good here,” I announce, dropping my forearm onto my bed, opening my eyes to try and adjust to the darkness.
“Rumi mentioned you’re taking some time off work?” she says, posing it as a question even though she obviously knows the answer.
“Yep,” I reply.
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither do I. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it’s loaded. Because we both know we can’t pretend this is just a normal phone call for too long.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, her voice softening. “I wish we could’ve been at the funeral on Friday.” She says the last part a little quieter, and I can hear movement on her end and a muffled whisper—probably her husband, Anderson, grabbing the baby from her.
“I’m fine,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even enough that I believe the words too.
“I’m sure you are,” Ava says in that motherly way she does.
Our friendship has always been interesting—she’s an eldest daughter while I’m a youngest, both of us having to take on caretaking roles early in life.
For me, it was my mom and her cancer.
For Ava, it was her sisters and alcoholic mother.
It’s something that bonded us, an unspoken connection between us.
And it’s why it’s so hard to convince her that everything is fine. She has the ability to see right through the mask I wear—the same one that others often fail to even notice.
Because she’s worn the same one.
The thought is what has me sitting up, swinging my legs off the bed, and feeling my feet press against the hardwood of my bedroom. Ava sensing something is wrong brings everything to a clear, uncomfortable focus. Pulling my phone from my ear, I check the date and time—Sunday night.
I’ve been in bed for almost 36 hours, the realization instantly cutting through the numbness in the form of hunger pains, a relentless thirst, and a pain in my bladder.
“I am,” I sniffle for effect. Maybe she’ll think I’ve been crying. Feeling. Like I promised Rumi I’d do. “I mean, I’ve been better,” I add, throwing in a self-deprecating laugh. “This all really sucks.”
“I know, Em. I’m sorry,” Ava says, and guilt coats my throat.
What does it say about me that I’d rather convince my best friend I’m grieving rather than just grieve?
“I’ll be okay.” I tuck some hair behind my ear before feeling my bangs sticking up, down, and sideways around my forehead before noticing the fuzzy feeling in my mouth.
I need to brush my teeth.
“Don’t rush it,” Ava says as I slowly stand from my bed.
Goosebumps form over my exposed skin, and the cool air on my legs and arms instantly makes me feel more human than a second ago.
Walking over to the bathroom, I open my cabinet above the sink to grab my toothbrush and toothpaste, only half-listening as Ava tells me all the same things that the voice in the back of my head tells me.
You can’t run from the feelings.
They’ll follow you.
They’ll be here waiting when you inevitably come back.
Mom wouldn’t want this for you.
I don’t know if it’s Ava or my own mind that says that last one, but it has me slamming the bathroom cabinet a little too hard.
“Em, what was that?” Ava asks.
“Nothing,” I quickly reply, ready to change the subject—ask about how she’s doing, about her family, about the baby. Anything.
But before I can, my phone buzzes in my hand. Bringing it down to check the text, I’m surprised to see Liam’s contact displayed on the screen.
Liam is a friend from high school, one I’ve stayed in contact with over the years. He’s currently on tour with none other than Cross My Heart, his band being their opener.
We haven’t talked since he called me a few days after my mom died, apologizing that he couldn't be at the funeral because he was going to be in Nashville.
He’s always been a good distraction.
Our friendship has always been strongest when one of us needs an escape. Sex, drugs, alcohol—it never really mattered. We were each other's judgment-free detour from reality.
There's love there too—platonic on both sides. The kind that doesn't ask questions or expect more than either of us is willing to give.
I think we both know we aren't built for romance. Or maybe we just don't have the energy to let someone close enough to expect anything from us. With each other, there are no expectations. Just a familiar place to disappear for a while.
Seeing Liam's name light up my phone feels like a lifeline.
Not because he'll ask if I'm okay.
Because he won't.
He'll tell me about his latest show, complain about the road, ask when I'm finally coming to see him again.
He'll talk until I forget there's anything in the world worth talking about.
And that's exactly what I need.
“Ava, I got another call coming in, but I promise, I’m okay. As okay as I can be. And I promise I’ll reach out if I need anything.”
Ava lets out a chuckle before she says anything, like she knows I’m full of shit but will let me pretend I’m putting on a convincing act. “I really hope you do, Em. Love you tons.”
“Me too,” I answer quickly, holding my phone between my ear and shoulder to squeeze some toothpaste onto my toothbrush before switching the call over to Liam. “Hey, loser,” I greet him before popping my toothbrush into my mouth.
“Hey, hot stuff,” Liam replies, and I can hear the smile on his face.
Even almost six hundred miles away, the thought of his bright smile, his blonde hair twisted in my tattooed fingers, his ocean-blue eyes promising an escape, has me distracted enough to actually smile as I brush my teeth.
It causes a twinge of pain in my cheeks, like I’m trying to use muscles that I haven’t moved in a while.
“What’s up? How was your show?” I spit into the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse out my mouth, feeling more like myself as I splash some water into my face—or at least a version of myself.
“Good, good,” Liam answers, going on to give me a play-by-play of how he, Kai, Asher, and Casey were almost late to soundcheck because they were upgraded to a new tour bus for the rest of tour and lost track of time playing with all the different features they didn’t have on their old one.
“No more waking up to find Asher standing over my bunk,” Liam says as if he’s won the lottery. “I swear, I’ve known the guy my whole life and never knew he sleepwalks.”
“Premium lounging, Wi-Fi, and private sleeping quarters? Sounds like you’ve made it,” I laugh, putting the call on speaker and throwing my phone on my bed.
“Right?” Liam replies as I throw on a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a hoodie before sitting down on my bed to put some socks on. “I always wondered how the Cross My Heart guys woke up looking so refreshed after sleeping on their buses overnight.”
I feel a weird lurch in my chest at the mention of Cross My Heart. It catches me completely off-guard; I haven’t had that sort of reaction to anything—to anyone—in years.
Fucking weird.
“I didn’t realize it was because they were basically sleeping in their own personal bedrooms, not twin-sized bunks stacked on top of each other,” Liam’s voice sounds in my ears, like a slap to the face. “I think my college dorm bed was comfier than the one in our old tour bus.”
“Probably,” I mutter, too taken aback by what just happened to say anything else.
Luckily, Liam doesn’t notice and continues his play-by-play of last night’s show, and I find myself focusing solely on his voice as I tidy up my bedroom—making the bed and opening the blinds to find the autumn evening sky.
“Then after the show, we met up with Cross My Heart in their greenroom, and we told them how the show went,” Liam explains as I head into my kitchen, keeping Liam on speaker as I open my Notes app to make a grocery list, my hunger almost distracting now that the fog I was living in the last thirty-six hours has settled.
“And you’ll never guess what Mateo told us. ”
My fingers freeze at the mention of Mateo Lane.
A warm presence, a melodic voice, tattooed knuckles.
Memories of flustering the rockstar in the back corner of a bar have me almost seeing stars. I grab the corner of my kitchen counter to steady myself, clearing my throat before answering Liam. “What did he tell you?”
“I guess his ex-wife is working in Paris for a year, so he’s bringing his son on tour while she’s gone,” Liam answers. “Can you believe that? Touring with one of the greatest rock bands on their farewell tour? The kid is four and already cooler than me.”
“Damn, talk about a childhood.” I press my elbows against the counter, leaning down on the granite. “How’s that going to work?”
In addition to caring for my mom for most of my life, I babysat and nannied for tons of kids throughout high school and college. It was one of the only jobs flexible enough to fill the odd hours between my mom’s schedule and still make money.
It also taught me that kids are not for me.
I liked that my time with them had an end.
Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate kids.
I respect them and people’s decisions to have them.
My brother and my best friends all have kids, and the three of them are my most favorite people in the world.
But between my borderline-irrational fear of getting pregnant and my definite-irrational fear of being a mom, having a time limit with kids is a must for me.
“I don’t really know,” Liam answers, and I picture the way he’s probably shrugging his shoulders and pursing his lips. “I asked if he was going to get a babysitter or something, but then it was time for them to go on, so I never heard his answer.”
It’s like all the pieces fall into place, the dots connect, a lightbulb clicks on.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
The words pour from my mouth before I even think twice.
“I’ll do it.”