13. Emerson
EMERSON
Thank fuck Crew is a cool kid.
I’ve worked for dozens of families over the years, and I can only count on one hand how many of the kids were going to grow up to be humans who didn’t suck.
He’s smart and cute, and he’s used to adults with piercings and tattoos, enough not to ask me a billion questions about them. He’s good with change, taking it in stride, and I already feel like I’ve known him for weeks, not just a few hours.
Mateo and his ex-wife did a good job.
“Your turn,” Crew beams, completely content and entertained with building a stack of blocks as tall as we can until it falls over.
“You got pretty high for only your first time,” I tell him, holding my palms out for him to give me a few of the blocks he still had in his hands.
Crew smiles. “I want to build a tower as tall as Daddy!” He holds his arms up as high as he can from where he sits criss-crossed in front of me. “And then I can show him when he’s done with sing check.”
I roll my lips together to hide my smile as I look towards the stage where Cross My Heart talks in a huddle. We’re sitting on a blanket in the grass, the outdoor stage with the four guys and their stage crew only about twenty feet away from where we’re sitting.
After breakfast, I offered to get Crew ready for the day so Mateo had some time for himself before he had to be at the venue for sound check.
Since this is a bigger venue, they had an earlier time to account for lighting and staging tests.
I had time this morning to read through the tour schedule Mateo had forwarded to me when I finally got myself out of bed.
And it’s safe to say the three of us will be busy these next eight months.
Which is exactly what I need.
The quicker I dive into this new job, the easier the days will start to feel.
Because it was a feat to even just get up and get dressed this morning.
I had silenced the alarm I had set for when Mateo said Crew usually wakes up, wanting to stay in the darkness just a little bit longer.
But when I heard Crew and Mateo moving around in the kitchen, I knew I had to get up.
And I tried. Hard. But it was like there were weights pushing down on my body, burying me into the mattress, causing me to sink deeper and deeper every time I tried to move.
Under the covers, I can pretend that I’m in this in-between, where nothing matters.
And there’s safety in that nothingness.
My mom’s not dead.
My friends aren’t wasting their time worrying about me.
I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel angry.
I don’t feel anything.
But I know I can’t do that anymore. No matter how much I want to. People will begin to notice, and when I’m not drowning in the numbness, I can think more logically. If I don’t want people to worry about me—Jack, Rumi, Ava, Anderson—then I need this distraction.
And this distraction is a cute kid who likes Halloween better than Christmas and says I remind him of his black cat.
“Ems!” Crew’s voice chirps in my ears. I blink a few times, my surroundings coming back into focus.
And calls me Ems.
“It’s your turn,” he repeats, moving onto his knees as he comes to sit a little closer to me.
“Sorry, champ,” I apologize, stacking my blocks one by one as Crew hands them to me. He says the color of each one before placing it in my hand and asks some sort of question every few blocks.
Why is the sun yellow?
Why is the sun so far away?
Why does the sun go away at nighttime?
I answer each question as best I can, trying to find the pattern and path of thinking his little brain takes with each one he asks.
Why is grass green?
Why do cows eat grass?
Why do cows live on farms?
“Pink,” he announces, handing me the silicone block, and my heart squeezes.
It’s stupid, really. It’s just a stupid kids’ toy, one of many in the set scattered around us. But it has stupid emotion clogging my throat, taking my breath away for a moment.
My mom loved the color pink. She always said my eyes looked the greenest when I wore it.
She would smile wide, her tired eyes and the oxygen mask the only tell that she was struggling as much as she was.
Pink is your color, Emmy, she’d tell me, so I always made sure to wear it when I was with her, especially near the end.
The memory of her voice steals the air from my lungs, and suddenly it feels like I can't get a full breath.
Am I going to forget what her voice sounded like?
It’s only been four days since her funeral, only just over a week since she died, and already her voice sounds softer, like it’s beginning to fade—my mind slowly sanding down the edges of the memories until eventually there will be nothing left to remember.
Is this how it's always going to be?
Every little reminder of my mother threatening the coffin I've buried my grief inside. Every thought of her striking like a match, daring to catch on the gasoline that's been soaking the wood all these years.
One spark, and everything I’ve buried will be able to claw its way back out.
“Why are you staring at the block?” Crew asks, but I barely hear it. It takes me a second to remember where I am, what I’m doing. I look down at the pink block in my hand as the world around me comes back into focus, the loud thumping of my heartbeat in my ears fading.
I clear my throat. “I like pink,” I tell him as I place the block on the growing tower between us.
“Why?” Crew asks, and I should’ve known it was coming.
I exhale, slowly letting the air fall from my lips, trying to get a hold of myself. “Because my mom liked it.” I’m not sure why I say it, not sure why the admission comes out so easily. I haven’t been able to talk about my mom in days—could barely talk about her in the last few weeks she was alive.
Crew opens his mouth, no doubt to ask “why”, but I don’t know if I can answer that question, even as simple as it is. I’m already trying to recover from thinking about her—let alone talking about her. Even if it is just with a four-year-old.
I reach for another block on the blanket and purposely bump the tower, causing it to fall. Crew lets out a little scream that quickly transforms into a fit of giggles as the silicone blocks fall into his lap, his mind quickly changing course.
With it now being his turn, his attention is fully on his tower, insisting again that we can get it to be as tall as his dad, and I sink into the act of handing him blocks and answering his questions that thankfully went in the direction of why the ocean is blue and why cows can’t breathe underwater like fish.
“Do humans have gilds?” he asks as he pushes up to his feet, needing to now stand to keep stacking his blocks.
“Gills,” I say clearly, wanting him to hear the word again without it feeling like I’m correcting him, “are not something humans have, but it would be pretty cool if we did, huh?”
Crew nods as he bends to pick up another block, concentrating so hard his brows furrow under the few loose hairs framing his forehead.
A few minutes later, we’re both standing as Crew hands me blocks to keep stacking, the tower now twice as tall as him.
He’s just about to hand me another when I hear my name echo across the grass, my attention going to where my friend, Liam, hops off stage and jogs over to us.
“There’s my girl,” Liam yells to me just before he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug that lifts me from the ground.
“Liam,” I say with a smile, my arms looping around his shoulders, his familiar scent of coconut from his fancy shampoo he insists keeps his blonde hair “nice and golden.”
Liam sets me down, his megawatt smile on full display. “It’s so awesome that you’re here. I’m glad Mateo took you up on your offer.”
“Me too,” I reply. “It’s honestly exactly what I need.”
Liam reads between my words, a knowing look in his eyes at the words I don’t say.
He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, always finding an excuse to touch me. Usually, it’s like breathing warm air into frozen hands, but today his touch feels cold.
“And I see you’ve met Crew,” Liam says, bringing his hand back to his side as he crouches to Crew’s height. He holds up his hand to give him a high-five as the sound of drumsticks click together three times.
“Yeah, I—” I’m about to tell him that I didn’t really give the rockstar a chance to say no when the feedback of a microphone screeches, the sound so loud I instantly press my palms against Crew’s ears, his hands coming over mine with wide eyes.
“What the fuck?” Liam shouts, his own hands over his ears.
We both look toward the stage.
Mateo winces as the feedback finally stops, one hand still on the microphone stand he'd apparently knocked into the monitor.
"Fuck," he snaps before he drops his gaze, adjusting the mic stand before barking out, “Again!”
The three other Cross My Heart guys look between each other, but we’re just far enough from the stage that I can’t make out their expressions. Then, the drummer shrugs his shoulders before clicking his drumsticks together three more times.
The guitarist starts the opening riff, but my eyes go to Mateo, landing on the lead singer just as he looks at me.
For the briefest second, he freezes. Like I caught him.
His features are hard as he holds my gaze, and it’s like I’m frozen, held hostage in his stare. But before I can really register what’s happening, he looks away, walking to center stage.
“Ems?” Crew shakes his hand, his head still between my hands.
“Oh, sorry.” I let him step out of my hold, his attention now on the stage where his dad places the mic stand down just before grabbing the microphone in both hands, the opening chords of the song finally settling over me, immediately familiar.
It’s one of my favorites.
The one I used to listen to on repeat. Over and over again. And never get sick of it.
But ever since my mom died, it hits too close to home.
It’s the only Cross My Heart song I always have to skip.
Just like before with the stupid pink block, my heart rate rockets.