18. Emerson
EMERSON
When I finally come to, it feels like I’m floating.
I slowly open my eyes, feeling a pain deep in my temples, and I’m immediately thankful for the dimmed lights.
Pushing up to my elbows, the living room of the tour bus comes into view, and it’s like I was hit by a truck.
“There you are.” A soft rasp draws my attention. I find Mateo kneeling at my side, his face just inches from mine.
“What the fuck happened to me?” I ask, but I say the words more to myself than him. I press my palm into my forehead, trying to relieve the pressure, but it feels like my head is being squeezed.
I try to sit up more, but my stomach cramps so hard, it steals my breath for a second. The ache radiates through me in slow, punishing waves.
“You texted me that you weren’t feeling well, so I headed up to your hotel room,” Mateo explains. He’s talking clearly and slowly, but it feels forced. Like he’s trying to sound calmer than he feels. “You opened the door before I could knock, and then you passed out.”
“What?” The events from earlier tonight come flooding back.
I start to remember it all.
I remember seeing Mateo at the door.
I remember wondering what he was doing there.
I remember falling into his arms before I could even register what was happening.
Careful, baby.
And then the panic.
Another wave of hunger passes through me, emanating throughout my entire body, making my head feel like it has a heartbeat of its own.
“Emerson,” Mateo says, enough concern in his voice to have me meeting his eyes. “When was the last time you ate?”
My brows furrow, confused as to why he’d be asking me that. “I–I told you, I’m n–not feeling well,” I stumble out, immediately embarrassed by the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ate more than a few bites of whatever meal I made Crew, or a tiny candy bar, or a handful of Cheetos.
But I don’t tell Mateo that.
His eyes bore into mine, like he can somehow find the truth hidden in my irises.
After a moment, he says, “You need to eat something.”
I sit up, running a hand over my hair before finger-combing through my bangs. “I’m not hungry. I just need rest.”
“Emerson,” Mateo starts, still kneeling beside me. “I know we don't know each other that well yet, so I'm not going to push if you don't want to talk about it. But people don't pass out because they need a nap.”
“You don't know that,” I argue. “Your kid has been keeping me busy,” I try to tease, but it comes out stilted.
Mateo’s expression softens, but he doesn't smile. “I know he does, and I also know that people who are taking care of themselves don't usually end up unconscious on a hotel room floor.”
I roll my eyes, but it makes my head pound even more. “I wasn’t on the floor.”
“Okay,” Mateo says with a dry laugh. “They don’t usually end up passing out into their employer’s arms.”
The image rips through my memories: the warm arms, the strong embrace, the soft voice…
Careful, baby.
Mateo pauses before adding quietly, “And I saw the untouched dinner in your room.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
“It isn’t my business, so I won’t push. But for right now, I don't care if it's the flu, exhaustion, or something else entirely,” he continues. “I'm not asking you to tell me anything you're not ready to tell me. I'm asking you to let me take care of you for five minutes and eat something.”
His hand comes to just below my mouth, lightly tapping my chin to close my mouth for me.
Did I pass out and wake up in an alternate universe?
Because who is this man, and do I even know him at all?
“Tell me again that you weren’t hungry.” He pushes the bottle of water on the table towards me—for the third time. I’m surprised he’s not holding me down and pouring it down my throat with how many times he told me to take a sip.
I cock my head to the side, finishing the last bite of my Italian beef before washing it down with a sip of his chocolate milkshake instead.
He watches my lips curl around his straw, and while I’m doing this more to piss him off, I’ve been eyeing the milkshake since our food got delivered.
“I know you’re a famous rockstar and all, but how the hell did you get this food so fast?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Ordered it when you texted me. It got here just as I got you settled on the couch and before the bus left the hotel.”
I take another sip of his milkshake, raising a brow.
The image of Mateo carrying my unconscious body through the hotel lobby has the food in my stomach feeling like rocks all of a sudden, cringing less at the thought of strangers seeing me and more at the thought of him seeing me like that.
Vulnerable. Helpless. Completely exposed.
I push the thoughts to the back of my mind, not letting myself think too much about it.
It was a moment of weakness—and it won’t happen again.
Grabbing my phone, I look back at my messages with Mateo. “I literally texted you that I didn’t need dinner.”
Mateo runs a hand through his hair before grabbing a straw wrapper sitting on the table, folding it between his fingers. “I was already getting food for myself,” he admits.
I contemplate teasing him, seeing how flustered I can get him. But I decide against it, for reasons I don’t let myself think too much about.
“Thank you,” I reply instead. “For the food.” Part of me wants to explain how I’ve just been so busy and forgot to eat, or was too tired. But the excuses die in my throat. I appreciate Mateo not pushing me, and maybe that’s what has me saying, “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
Mateo’s eyes go to mine as he unfolds the straw wrapper in his hand before restarting the pattern of folds. “Can I ask why?”
“You can ask,” I quip, leaving it at that.
Mateo chuckles, dropping the wrapper into the takeout bag with his other garbage.
“How was the show tonight?” I take another sip of his milkshake.
“Great,” Mateo answers, inching the bottle of water even closer to me, and I relent and take a few gulps.
There’s a slight curve to his lips as he continues, “The crowd was fun, and I really liked the venue. Theo, Silas, and I finally nailed the new harmonies.” He interlaces his hands before setting them down on the table.
He exhales. “It was a good last show before this little break.”
I notice the way he says it, almost like he’s disappointed, and it has reality settling in once again. Taking one more sip of water, I keep my features schooled, not wanting my own disappointment to show.
“What is it?” Mateo asks.
Or at least I thought I did.
“Nothing,” I say, waving my hand in indifference, when in reality, I’ve been trying like hell to avoid the thought of celebrating my first Christmas without my mom.
Jack and Rumi invited me to join their Christmas morning with Evee, and then there are plans for us all to go to Ava and Anderson’s for brunch.
And of course I should be there with my niece and for Eliana’s first Christmas—Ava’s first Christmas as a mother—but I want to want to.
And I just don’t.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Mateo says softly. “But just know that you can.”
The easy normalcy from moments ago disappears so quietly I almost miss it. In its place is something warm and heavy settling in my chest that I'm not ready to name.
I'm suddenly aware of how close he is, of the gentleness in his voice, and the way he's looking at me like I'm something worth handling carefully.
Vulnerable. Helpless. Exposed.
The feelings from before come rushing back, only they don’t feel as scary. Not with the way he gives me space to do it without being judged or taken advantage of.
It's a kind of intimacy I'm not sure I've ever learned how to let myself feel.
The air shifts, almost like it’s giving me room to say the words I don’t want to carry anymore.
So I do.
“This is my first Christmas without my mom.”