19. Mateo
MATEO
My breath catches.
Emerson’s admission lays heavily in the air around us, and it’s the first time I realize how quiet the tour bus is as it drives through the night.
So many realizations click into place, but they just create more questions.
“And you don’t have to say that you’re sorry or try to validate my feelings. I know that’s always what people feel like they need to do,” she rushes out, almost as if she says the words fast enough, it’ll have me forget what she said just before.
I cross my arms over my chest, knowing how she’s feeling all too well. “And it usually just makes them feel better about it all.”
Emerson’s gaze finds mine, her eyebrows drawing together. The glint of the ring in her left eyebrow catches my eye, and I feel her watching me, waiting to ask a question she might not think she should.
I think about telling her about my parents, but I don’t want the focus on me. She has a way of always turning a conversation away from herself, a habit of hers I’ve learned over this last month of existing in these close quarters with her. “But I am sorry, Emerson. So sorry for your loss.”
She nods her head, her eyes going to the water bottle she’s almost finished—every sip she takes lifting a weight off my chest.
I’ve noticed how little Emerson eats, but I didn’t think it was any of my business—still don’t. Unless she wants to talk to me about it.
But last week, when she wore those same overalls she had on that first day she met Crew, I noticed how differently they hung on her body. They slipped from one shoulder easier than before, the fabric no longer fitting her the way it did just three weeks ago.
And I hated that I noticed at all.
The changes are probably subtle enough that I could convince myself that I imagined them, but I've spent the last month watching Emerson from afar, and I've learned the small things about her without ever meaning to—how she always gives Crew the last bite of whatever she's eating, how she always opts for an iced Americano rather than a proper breakfast, or prefers a bottle of beer instead of a real dinner.
And when she fainted tonight, it just confirmed the fear that she wasn’t properly fueling her body—and whether she’s doing it on purpose or not, it scares me.
I haven’t felt fear—real, guttural fear—in a very long time.
But when she passed out in my arms, I was fucking terrified.
“How did you lose your mom?” I ask quietly.
Emerson sighs. “Cancer.”
“Damn.”
“Right?” Emerson lets out a dry chuckle, but I think she only does it to hide the crack in her voice. Her eyes look cloudy, and she avoids my gaze. The leftover wrapping and crumpled napkins on the table from our dinner suddenly are very distracting to her.
“How long ago?” I ask.
She inhales, holding her breath for a moment. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, exhaling fully before she opens them again. And it’s like she brought a mask down over her face; all the emotion I thought I saw before is completely gone. “She died a month ago.” Her voice is firm, robotic almost.
She’s shutting down.
And I know the feeling all too well.
I don’t want to push her. That will just have her cutting this conversation off.
And I really don’t want this to end.
“I lost both my parents in a car accident.”
“Should we start a club?” she deadpans, taking a few more sips of water, and I feel an odd sense of pride as she swallows.
Lifting a brow, I ask, “A dead parents club?”
She nods, a small smirk on her face. But it’s as sincere as if she drew it on. “We could make fliers. Plan monthly meetings. It could be fun.”
I shrug, pretending like I’m contemplating the idea. “Borderline-unhealthy coping habits are the best team-building exercises.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she dares. “Drugs? Alcohol?” She pauses before adding, “sex?”
A small, startled laugh catches in my throat, and I have to cough into my fist to clear it.
“No, none of that,” I answer.
“Bummer,” she says, but I can tell by the way she sits up a little taller that I got her attention.
“Well, losing my parents meant gaining guardianship over my sister, so I couldn’t really go those routes.”
“Double bummer.”
I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”
“How old were you and your sister?” Emerson asks, her interest piqued.
“I was eighteen, and Mia was eight.”
“Damn,” she says, echoing my response from before.
I nod. “My self-sabotage came in the form of packing lunches for a third grader and diving headfirst into carpool lanes and Girl Scout meetings.”
Emerson leans back, her hands going to her face, but I see the smile before she can hide it. “Don’t go domestic on me, rockstar. It’s too much.”
I bark out a laugh, my cheeks pinching at the sudden grin on my lips despite the heat blooming in my chest. I like when she calls me rockstar.
Even if she does it to tease me—pretending to flirt with me probably just so she can see me squirm.
“What can I say,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders, “practiced avoidance is easy when you throw yourself into caring about someone else.”
Emerson’s hands fall to her lap, her smile fading into something I can’t quite place. “Right,” she softly says, her usual edge nowhere to be found. There’s a slight shake of her head just before she adds, “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Her tone is a little too sarcastic.
“No,” I offer. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
It’s like we’re talking in code, forced to read between the lines.
We’re sitting here making light of our parents dying and how we chose—and are choosing—to cope, joking as if we both don’t know that Emerson knows exactly what I’m talking about.
But maybe that’s the thing about grief. It teaches you a language no one else wants to learn. A language made up of words you don’t say because saying them out loud makes them real.
I know what she’s doing because I did it too.
Found something—or someone—to pour every leftover piece of myself into so I wouldn’t have to admit there was a hole there in the first place.
It’s easier to be needed than it is to be hurting.
Easier to focus on someone else’s broken pieces than acknowledge your own.
And the worst part is, sometimes it works. Sometimes you can convince yourself you’re healing when really you’re just distracted.
My lips part, ready to pop the bubble and tell her that I understand now why she took this job—why she insisted on me giving her a chance. That I know it was never just about the opportunity. It was about finding something to hold onto when everything else had fallen away.
“So,” she starts, and I close my mouth—more out of surprise than anything else. I thought maybe I pushed her as far as she’d go. “When does it get easier?”
“Which part?” I ask. “The acceptance? Or everything that comes after?”
Emerson’s expression fractures, the easy amusement draining from her face and leaving behind something softer. It’s like the mask of being okay slips away, leaving behind the raw, wounded parts of her she works so hard to keep hidden. “All of it?” she offers.
I lean forward onto the table between us, interlacing my fingers. “It takes a while,” I answer honestly.
“Do you ever stop missing them?" she asks so quietly I almost miss it.
The question hits somewhere deep in my chest.
"No," I admit, "but I don't think you're supposed to."
She frowns at that. "That's depressing.”
I smile softly, sadly. “But one day you'll laugh at something and won't immediately think about calling her afterward. You'll make it through an entire Tuesday without crying. Then you'll feel guilty about it.”
Emerson watches me, her eyes never leaving mine. She doesn’t say anything, just listens.
“Sounds and smells will never be the same, and places you go will feel like they’re missing something.
And sometimes, memories will feel like a burden, catching you off-guard and taking your breath away.
Other days, the memories will be exactly what you need,” I continue.
I look down at my hands, circling my thumbs around each other as I say words that have taken years to fully understand.
“And eventually you'll realize missing someone isn't something you get over.
It's just something you get better at carrying. "
“I already feel like I’m starting to forget her.” She puts her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands.
I have the intense urge to reach for her, hold her, feel her skin against mine. But I fist my hands, settling them in my lap before I give into it. “You need to surround yourself with people who will help you remember her.”
Our words sit between us heavier than anything else we’ve said tonight.
Because I know that feeling.
The fear that the person you lost is slowly becoming a collection of memories instead of someone who was here—someone who laughed, who touched your hand, who had a favorite song and a favorite coffee and a way of saying your name that no one else could replicate.
I want to tell her that forgetting isn’t the same as letting go. That the details you’re terrified of losing don’t disappear all at once. They settle into you. They become part of the way you love, the way you move through the world.
But instead, I offer her something simpler. Something she can do tonight. Something that doesn’t require her to face something she isn’t ready for yet. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” I tap the bottle of water in front of her.
She rolls her eyes, and the tension in her body releases. She takes the last couple of sips before handing me the empty bottle. “Happy?”
I nod my head, that feeling of pride back with vengeance as she saunters towards the back of the bus, letting her door shut behind her.
All because she listened to me. Because she let me help, even for a moment. And for someone who I think has spent a lot of time convincing the world she doesn’t need anyone, that feels like something I don’t deserve to take lightly.
Someone like Emerson, as bold and stubborn and fierce as she is, trusting me?
Even if she fights me the entire time, it’s like the world’s best prize.