22. Emerson
EMERSON
“This last one is from Santa,” Rumi says from where she sits next to the Christmas tree in her and Jack's living room. She sets the present down in front of Evee, her little eyes going wide at the candy-cane wrapping paper.
I love my niece, but watching a toddler open presents for the last twenty minutes has me wanting to jump out the window—my patience thinning with every piece she painstakingly tears off, bit by bit.
Crew is right.
Halloween is so much better than Christmas.
My lips tug into a small smile as I think about the kid.
I wonder if his mom managed to talk him into wearing pajamas with snowflakes and reindeer instead of potion bottles and cauldrons this morning.
Or if Mateo ended up going to see him in Chicago today, or if he's celebrating Christmas alone.
If he's already awake and starting his day or if he's still lying in bed, his brown waves messy against the pillow, his bare back peeking out from beneath the sheets, his arm slung lazily over my waist.
The image is as clear as it was the morning I woke up next to him in the tour bus, memorizing every softened edge of his face until he began to stir—the equivalent of popping the bubble we'd been existing in all night.
I had a car called and my bags packed within minutes, sneaking off the bus and finishing the drive from Chicago to Milwaukee in the back of an Uber rather than surrounded by reminders of what happened between me and Mateo.
And how much I liked it.
Not just the sex—though it was easily the best orgasm of my entire life. It's everything else that's had me wishing that night wasn't the one-time thing we'd agreed to.
Opening up to him about my mom. Listening as he told me about his parents and his divorce and his fucking vasectomy. Watching him light up whenever he talked about Crew. Having him there with me when I fell asleep instead of the sound of his music.
The entire night was a rollercoaster of emotions in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
I've spent so long living in this state of numbness, letting it fade only long enough to trade it for pain, that I forgot how to feel.
I forgot how emotions all come tangled together—the hurt and the comfort, the happiness and the sadness, the grief and the joy—asking to be felt all at once.
They’re messy and frustrating and beautiful.
And it had to be fucking Mateo Lane who reminded me.
The man who was supposed to be a job. A distraction. The rockstar who was supposed to stay in his lane so I could stay in mine.
Not the flustered, self-conscious man with the coolest kid who makes sure I drink water and calls me “baby” without even really realizing it.
The man who told me how important it was to surround myself with people who will help me not forget my mom.
So really, it’s his fault I’m here watching Evee be more interested in the goddamn wrapping paper than the actual present inside of it.
“Emerson, does that work?” Jack’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I push the thoughts of Mateo to the back of my mind—where they should be.
“Does what work?” I ask, not having heard whatever he and Rumi must have been talking about.
“Stop by Mom’s grave on the way to Ava and Anderson’s?” he answers, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
Mateo’s words echo in my head.
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,
Yeah, well today is not that fucking day.
“I’m good,” I answer curtly as I stand from the couch, ignoring the way both Jack and Rumi look at me like they’re trying to find the words to change my mind.
“I’ll meet you guys at Ava and Anderson’s,” I add, even though the thought of going suddenly feels like a form of torture, but knowing if I don’t show up, Ava will come find me and drag me to her dining table by the hair.
I haven’t been back to the cemetery where we buried my mom since the day of her funeral, and I don’t plan on it.
But I can go through the motions of Christmas Day. Smile for the pictures. Speak when spoken to. Tighten the mask so it won’t fall off.
Convince everyone else—and maybe even myself—that everything is fine.
All while pretending it isn't the hardest thing I've ever done.
“I need to know more about your ‘I’m with the band’ era,” Ava says over her glass of sparkling apple juice.
“Me too,” Rumi echoes, running a hand through Evee’s hair. She crashed about ten minutes ago, laying her head on her mom’s lap after a full morning of presents and Hey Honey’s cinnamon rolls.
“It’s never boring, I can tell you that,” I offer. Anderson is putting the baby down while Jack is helping Georgie—Ava’s youngest sister—put together her new shelf for her vinyl collection, the three of us settling on the couch to “supervise.”
“Do you get to see all their shows?” Rumi asks eagerly.
She likes a few Cross My Heart songs, but she’s not as big a fan as I am.
Her excitement for me instantly brings the guilt, and it’s why I end up giving both of them all the details of our routine on days Mateo is performing.
I show pictures of Crew backstage, posing with the crew, and singing along with the band.
“Have you spent any time with Liam?” Ava asks, a brow raised in either suspicion or interest; I can’t tell.
“Not really,” I answer honestly. I see Liam if Crew and I ever tag along to soundchecks, and sometimes he’ll hang out with me backstage when his band is finished with their set. Aside from that, we’re both busy with our jobs.
“Really?” Ava asks. “I figured he was part of the reason you were so adamant about the nannying gig.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I mean, he is the one who told me about the job, but I would’ve wanted to do it whether or not he was there.
” I contemplate explaining that Liam and I are just friends who used to occasionally fool around—but that’s exactly what Ava and Anderson started out as before they got married, adopted Georgie, and had Eliana.
So, it’s safe to say, my best friend probably wouldn’t believe me when I say nothing is going on between Liam and me.
“How is it working for Mateo Lane?” Rumi asks.
It takes me a second to figure out how I want to answer her question, ultimately going with, “He’s different than I thought he’d be.” I reach behind me on the couch to grab a blanket and hand it to Rumi.
Rumi takes it, gently laying it over Evee. “Different how?”
I sigh, feeling my lips curve at the thought of Mateo and how he is nothing like I pictured.
I started listening to Cross My Heart when they first started gaining traction, and I became an instant fan of not only their music but their lead singer.
Mateo Lane has been a voice inside my head for years.
And when I would see Cross My Heart perform around Milwaukee, there was this ease to him that had the whole crowd enamored by him. He looked like he belonged on stage.
He still does.
And that’s why it’s no surprise he’s as big as he is today.
But that’s not the thing about him that draws me in—not anymore.
It’s the way his ears turn red when he’s embarrassed or how he stumbles over his words when he’s nervous.
How he makes sure my favorite snacks are in my hotel room or how he knows what grief looks like without me having to strip down to my most vulnerable state to show it to him.
How there’s nothing he loves more than his music—except for Crew.
Even though I don’t say a word of this out loud, my silence is its own admission, and it has Rumi and Ava turning to look at each other, something passing between the two of them before they both look back at me.
I look back and forth between the two of them. “What?”
“Nothing,” they both answer at the same time.
I roll my eyes. “Just say it.”
“It’s nothing,” Rumi says again at the same time Ava sing-songs quietly, “Emerson and Mateo sitting in a tree.”
“Ava Dolores Montgomery!” Rumi scolds, reaching over my lap to slap Ava in the arm.
“Emerson is the one crushing on her boss,” Ava laughs, swatting Rumi back.
For as much as I didn’t want to come this morning, watching the two of them playfully go at each other like the sisters I know they’ve found in each other has the chains around my heart rattling just enough to feel something.
“Emerson, “ I interrupt, holding a hand up at each of them, stifling my laughter at their antics, “is not crushing on anyone.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ava scoffs as she takes a sip from her glass. “If you weren’t crushing on him when he was lead singer of your favorite band, you’re for sure crushing on him now.”
“It’s okay to admit it,” Rumi laughs, leaning her shoulder into mine.
I scoff. “I am not crushing on Mateo.”
But even as I say the words, they don’t feel as solid as I thought they would.
I look back and forth between my two best friends, and they smile at me like they can see right through me.
And maybe it’s because they can.