32. Emerson
EMERSON
Thank fuck this hotel had another available room.
Sending that video to Mateo was one thing—so was leaving him another pair of my underwear.
But being in the same hotel room when he got back?
Even I don’t have the balls for that right now.
My goal was to fluster him just enough—but the more I think about it, I hope he doesn’t get pissed.
After Talia picked up Crew, and I was left to my own devices, I finally put the plan I’d been working on all week into motion.
I had to get back at Mateo for stealing my underwear somehow—and this was the best way I could think of. Sending him a video of me riding his pillow mere minutes before he’s going on stage is a gamble, but if I know anything about Mateo, it’s that he’s a good sport.
I’ve been messing with him since I met him.
And now, the ball is in his court.
I just hope he does something with it.
Because if he doesn’t, that would ruin all the fun.
And I don’t want this little game of ours to end when it’s only just begun.
Getting Crew packed and ready for his few days with his mom on top of our normal, chaotic tour schedule, I missed my therapy session again this week, and, even though I’ve still been feeling okay, I’ve noticed the exhaustion hitting me harder than usual.
It’s a strange thing, how tired I can be without doing anything that should make me this tired, how some mornings I wake up already feeling like I’m behind—like I’ve spent the night carrying something heavy that I can’t remember picking up.
Even the little things—the smiles I need to make sure are in place, the meals I need to make, the conversations I need to have—seem to ask for more of me than I have available to give.
Maybe that was why I’d been putting so much effort into this stupid little game with Mateo.
Because it’s easy.
It’s easy to focus on his reaction, on whether I can make him blush, wondering what he might do next, seeing how far I can push him.
It’s easy to let myself get caught up in the anticipation of it all—the excitement, the possibility, the feeling of having something to look forward to.
And maybe that’s why I don’t want it to end.
Because lately, sleep is starting to feel less like rest again and more like a place to hide for a while.
Selecting one of the older Cross My Heart albums, I slide my phone under my pillow, the familiar songs enveloping me like a warm hug, keeping my mind at ease and my body settling into the mattress.
One song fades into another, and then another, and my eyelids grow heavy, slowly closing before they snap open.
I forgot this song was on this album—it’s been a while since I’ve listened to some of the older ones.
I haven’t heard this song since that first day at soundcheck and then again at the first show.
It’s the song I always skip, always avoid.
And after the Atlanta show, the guys added it to their encores instead of playing it so early in their set.
The lyrics hit me like a fist to the stomach, hard enough to steal my breath away, knock all the air out of me.
Living with your arms around a ghost.
Saying goodbye too soon.
Learning how to live in a world that kept turning when yours stopped.
The words that haunt me.
Because I know what it feels like to miss someone who isn’t here anymore. To still reach for them without thinking. To have things left unsaid and nowhere left to put them.
The song fills my headphones, but suddenly I’m not lying in my bed anymore. I’m back in every moment where I forgot, for just a second, that she was gone.
I let the song play until the last note fades, because turning it off won’t bring her back.
And maybe, for a few minutes, letting myself miss her is the closest thing I have.
The songs that follow sound like nothing more than static, and the darkness—the numbness—starts to feel dangerously calming.
And I’m tired enough to succumb to it.
Just for tonight.
“About time you answered.” Ava’s voice sounds in my ear the next morning, causing my head to pound like I’m hungover without even having a sip of alcohol last night.
I press my palm against my forehead as I sit up, the morning light coming through the cracks in the blinds stinging my eyes.
“You have to call me this early on my day off?”
“It’s like noon your time,” she argues, and all of a sudden the stark sunlight makes sense. “And you weren’t texting me back.”
“I was asleep.”
I can practically hear Ava’s eyes roll. “I was calling to see when you’d be home next? Georgie’s soccer season starts next month, and she’s been asking if you’ll be able to come to any of her games.”
I criss-cross my legs under me, tucking some hair behind my ears. “We’re pretty booked through February and March,” I answer. “So probably April.”
“April,” Ava echoes before asking a few more questions about the tour’s travel schedule. “And where is the final show?” she asks.
“Milwaukee, duh.”
Ava snorts. “I should’ve known.”
“And you call yourself a fan,” I tease.
“Oh, no one can call themselves a fan compared to you,” she teases back.
We each offer some other updates before she asks, “How has therapy been going?”
“Oh,” I say, the smile that was on my face dropping. “It’s been hard to keep up with.”
“Em,” Ava starts, and I know I’m seconds away from a scolding.
“I know, I know,” I rush out. “I’ll pick it back up next week. Traveling has just been a little crazy.” The excuse I’ve been giving Dr. Hannah—and myself—comes off the tongue as natural as breathing.
“You really need to keep up with it if you want it to actually help,” Ava says carefully, a knowing, motherly tone to her voice, and it instantly puts me on edge.
I nod my head, even though she can’t see me. “I’ll get back to it.”
Once we say goodbye, I convince myself to get out of bed—I don’t let myself dwell on the thought that it takes a lot more energy than it has in the last few weeks, or that I almost listen to the voice saying that it’s okay to sleep the day away.
Instead, I get myself ready, vowing to spend my day off doing things that are good for me. Getting an iced americano, bracing the cold for some Vitamin D, doing a solid walk through New York City, grabbing some breakfast.
Or maybe I can find a certain rockstar.
That always gets my mind off the things I don’t want to think about.
Once I’m dressed, I throw my trench coat on before grabbing my purse.
The anticipation of seeing Mateo’s face when I knock on his door and pretend like nothing happened last night is enough to have me forgetting all about the exhaustion or the therapy sessions I keep pushing off—or how hard it was to get out of bed this morning.
It actually even puts a pep in my step.
When I knock on Mateo’s hotel door, he answers much faster than I thought he would.
He looks surprised to see me before he schools his features. He crosses his arms, leaning on the door frame, but the movements look forced—like he’s trying too hard to look unaffected.
“Hey,” he greets, his eyes scanning over me.
I’m dressed in leopard print jeans and a cropped vintage T-shirt I thrifted years ago. I threw my hair up in a ponytail and slung my trench coat over my arm before heading to the elevator.
February in New York is snowy and cold, similar to what it is back home, and the sun is out today, making it the perfect day to explore the city.
“Hi,” I offer.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, and I raise a brow.
What can I do for you?
What is he, the concierge?
I didn’t know exactly what to expect with Mateo, but I didn’t expect him to be acting so…
Composed?
“Wanted to see what your plans were for the day?” I say, surprised at my own words.
With Crew with his mom and the next show not being until tomorrow night in New Jersey, there’s no need for me to be here, asking what he’s doing today.
It’s my day off. It’s his day off. There’s no obligation to spend it together.
Yet I find myself eager to hear his answer anyway.
“I don’t have any plans,” he answers, trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. It’s about the only hint that he isn't as calm, cool, and collected as he’s acting. “What about you?” he adds after a beat of silence.
“I was going to go find a coffee, maybe breakfast too, and then see where the day takes me.” I rock back and forth on my heels, contemplating asking if he wants to join but having a hard time gauging his interest.
“Sounds like fun,” he says, and from the corner of my eye, I catch the restless bounce of his leg.
“It will be.”
The silence that follows stretches a little too long, and I can’t remember the last time I struggled to find something to say. I’m not the kind of person who rushes to fill every quiet moment—I’m perfectly comfortable sitting in silence—but this feels different. Weird.
Awkward.
We're both waiting for the other to make the first move, both careful not to reveal too much too soon.
It's like a game of chess where neither player actually knows the rules because we're making them up as we go—each move a guess, a pause, a calculation.
“Well,” Mateo finally says, pushing himself off the door frame, “I’ll leave you to it.” He doesn’t sound disappointed.
Actually, the opposite.
The small curve to his lips tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It’s like he’s calling my bluff—he knows I came here with the intent to get a reaction out of him, especially after what I did last night.
He's betting I crack first.
And the annoying thing is, he might be right.
He moves to close the door, offering me a nod in goodbye.
"Mateo."
He glances back, entirely too pleased with himself. "Yeah?"
Right now, I hate that smile.
"Do you want to hang out or not?"
His grin is immediate. "I thought you’d never ask."