Chapter 6 Emma
Chapter six
Emma
When It Was All New
Nothing in life can prepared me for this. Dating a man that could be mistake for Blair Underwood is one thing. But dating at man that treats me like a woman? There should’ve be a warning label.
Warning: relationship can cause constant overheating, maybe some jitters, definitely recurring hysteria.
It’s been hard to maintain my composure, to play aloof to the pure magnetism he has over me.
He walks into a room, and every head turns, including mine.
And it’s hard to put these feelings to words when someone asks about us.
Being exclusive with a guy who wakes me up from my dreams is a wild experience.
A fever dream I never want to snap out of.
“Ugh, Em, it’s only been four weeks. Chill out,” my sister groans on the other end of the Skype call after I’ve spent the last hour dumping every minute detail of my relationship onto her.
“Four amazing weeks,” I say, and she gags dramatically. “Fine, I’m sorry. No more boy talk.”
She eyes me through the screen, incredulous and far from believing me. After a full minute of stubborn silence between us, she lets out an even louder groan and says, “Fine. You get five more minutes. Then not another word about Mr. Dreamboat for one week. Got it?”
“Got it!” I squeak, unable to hold in my excitement.
I know how ridiculous I sound, but I can’t help it.
I’ve never been this invested in a relationship this early on.
Normally, it takes me about three months to figure out if the guy is worth sticking around for, and by then they’ve usually broken it off anyway, which now I think is absolutely fine.
I must’ve said that part out loud because Ellie mutters, “Ugh, you’re disgusting.”
“Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me,” I sing, grinning as I hop into my jeans.
“Where’s he taking you tonight?” she asks, feigning indifference. But I know better. For someone who claims to be too buried in psych studies to date, she’s living for these conversations.
“No idea,” I hum, twisting in the mirror and tucking a curl behind my ear. “He said ‘something special,’ which could mean rooftop dinner, private jazz concert on a boat…”
Ellie snorts, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she ties her brown hair on the top of her head.
“Anyway,” I say, grabbing my purse and slipping into my shoes, “I’ve gotta go. Wish me luck.”
“With what? You’ve already won.”
And just like that, my heart does this fluttery, too-big-for-my-chest thing.
*****
Her words ping around in my head the entire car ride over to Steven’s house.
House is a stretch, seeing as it’s a mobile home nestled at the back of campus.
I trudge across the dirt, and before my knock even lands, the door swings open.
Steven whisks me inside and presses me against the door, planting a kiss against my mouth so firm, so confident, it makes my stomach bottom out.
“Hi,” he says on a breath, kissing me again. It’s slow and intentional, like everything he does. “I missed you.”
“You saw me this morning.” I smile against his lips.
“That was hours ago,” he grumbles between kisses. “How was your day?”
For some reason, that simple question sends a hot spiraling pain through my lungs. He asks me this every day, and there was nothing about this particular day to make the question bother me. His fingers press gently into my lower back, sending another jolt of pain through me. Take a breath, Emma.
“Are you alright?” He leans back, his hands still firmly in place.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.” Do not tell this perfect man about your weird brain. “Now where are we going?”
He studies me for a moment before accepting I’m not saying anything else. “Well, I was thinking about this rooftop grill. They have the best mozzarella sticks.”
“Fried cheese, you really know how to woo a girl.”
“Hot and sizzlin’,” he whispers, grinning proudly as he kisses me again.
The hot pain dies down as his lips linger against mine, the heat of his breath stealing my focus.
Something happens in Steven’s mind, because suddenly his lips are trembling against mine.
His entire body is now buzzing against me.
“Are you alright?” I volley the question back at him.
“Yeah,” he croaks out, then, on an unsteady breath, he diverts. “No, actually. I need to…” Closing his eyes, he takes another breath. “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” I look down at my nails, because apparently that’s how unbothered people look. I am the poster child for nonchalance right now. Nothing about the “needing to talk” terror spiral can be deciphered on my face right now. I am a steel trap. No emotions showing.
“Yes. It’s important.” He pulls me to his couch and sits me down. But he doesn’t sit. He stands there, facing me. Breathing at me. Like a wild animal.
The steel trap quickly collapses, and heat rumbles deep behind my chest bone. “Steven, what’s wrong?”
“I just have to get this out, okay?”
He shakes out his hands, pacing the floor now, but his eyes are still on me. Again, a wild animal, now stalking its prey.
“Steven, you’re kind of scaring me.” I gesture at his path across the shaggy carpet, and he stops himself.
“Emma…”
He drops to his knees in front of me, and heat pools in my center at the sight of it.
“Emma…” He’s whispering, almost reverently, as his hands slide up to my hips.
“Steven, please,” I practically whimper his name, and his body reacts with a shiver down his chest. “What is going on?”
“I’m in love with you.” He nearly shouts it, like containing it was near impossible.
I gape at him, his words lost in translation somewhere behind every anxious thought I’ve ever had about a boy, or dating, or falling in love. Because all those thoughts mean absolutely nothing now.
Now I know where the pain was coming from. My brain knew I was falling in love with this man too, and it couldn’t take it. Anxiety bubbles up in my throat, and I start coughing.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t…” My words choke against the fire climbing in my chest. “I… I can’t…”
My brain feels detached from my body, the things I’m thinking refuse to reach my lips.
I think I’m having a panic attack, and I don’t know why.
I think I should’ve told Steven weeks ago that I have anxiety.
I think it’ll probably pass if I can just push through.
I painstakingly reach for the words, the ability to verbalize these things in any possible way.
But none of it comes. Every thought is swallowed by the suffocating pressure now closing in on me. I clutch at my chest, my throat, my shoulders. My heartbeat thrashes against my sternum.
“Here,” Steven says, taking my hands and crossing them over my chest, then mirroring the movement on himself. “Follow my lead.”
He starts tapping rhythmically on his shoulders. Tap, tap, tap. I hesitate, not knowing how this could possibly help me. My head starts to ache as the pulse of panic starts to flood up my neck and into my temples. Still, Steven keeps tapping, steady, encouraging.
I give in. Anything to make this stop. I can’t let myself fall apart in front of this man.
I can’t let my uncontrollable emotions disrupt this—whatever this is.
I tap along, quickly pulled into the rhythm, focusing on matching each beat against my collarbone.
Determination rises. If I can keep perfect time, I can get control back.
“You’re doing amazing,” he whispers, drawing a slow breath in, still tapping. I don’t know how, but suddenly I’m copying him with an inhale, slow and steady. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Following his lead feels easy, natural.
His big hands slide from his chest to my hips, grounding me, exaggerating each breath for me to follow.
His nostrils flare, lips puffing out with every exhale, and the seriousness of his expression almost makes him look ridiculous.
A short, shaky laugh slips out of me, chased by another jagged breath.
“Am I doing it wrong?” he asks, his face serious.
I laugh slightly. “No.” The crack in my voice doesn’t reassure him. “You’re just so serious.”
“This is serious, Emma. You’re having a panic attack.” His eyes are wet when they flicker all around me, scanning me as though afraid to miss something. But he doesn’t lose focus. “Let’s breathe again.”
We do five more rounds together, and slowly, the tidal wave recedes. My chest stops heaving. My breathing evens out.
“What do you hear?” he asks.
This question throws me. “What?”
“Right now. Name something you hear right now.”
I blink at him, my chest still tight but manageable. “I hear… your stomach growling.”
He chuckles. “I hear yours. Now, what do you taste?”
I lick my lips, catching the faint trace of his mint Chapstick. “Mint.”
“Good, now what do you see?” His brown eyes, deep and usually alive with untamed emotion, are piercing as they hold steady on me.
“I see you.”
“And I see you.”
I’m rooted in place by the weight of his voice, the unspoken commitment that lingers there. There’s no space for doubt. He sees me, every messy part of me, and he’s still here.
We stay like that, locked in a quiet exchange, unspoken feelings and fragile I love yous drifting between us like dust in the air. My hands slip from my chest and settle onto his shoulders, needing the contact.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead into my chest.
“For what?”
“For what I said. It’s too soon, and I freaked you out.” He speaks into my chest, and his voice vibrates against my skin, deep and chastised.
“No, no.” I wrap my arms around his neck, desperate to keep him close. “It’s not that. They just happen at random sometimes.”
“The attacks?” His lips move up my body, his words muffled in the curve of my neck. I feel the wetness of his tears against my skin.
A shuddered breath escapes me at the tenderness he so freely gives me. After seeing me at my weakest, he’s letting himself be vulnerable. It feels undeserved, this gentleness. It’s unfiltered and raw, like he’s giving me more than he’s given anyone else. Parts of him that are precious.
“Yes. They come at random. I haven’t figured out what always sets them off.”
“Do you think therapy would help?” His voice dips, like he regrets even asking. Like the topic of therapy is taboo and maybe he shouldn’t mention it.
“It does. Or it did. I just…haven’t made time lately.”
He kisses my neck before pulling back and sliding beside me on the couch.
His arm wraps around my waist, lifting my legs over his knees.
The gesture is simple, but it leaves me reeling.
He doesn’t just want me here. He wants me with him.
It sends a flutter racing through me, a feeling I’ve never had before.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes soft as I aggressively rub my arms.
“I just have this weird feeling.”
“A bad feeling?”
“No.” I smile. His concern is endearing. “It’s a new feeling. But I don’t know what to do with it. As you can see, my emotions can get too big.” I eye him, and he smirks. “Sometimes I don’t want to feel them at all, scared they could be bad.”
“Describe it. Maybe it’s a good feeling.”
“It’s like a…” I flap my hands around, struggling to give it a name. “Like a flutter.”
“Like butterflies?” His boyish grin disarms me completely, the fluttering inside me only intensifying.
“Yes.” My voice drops to a whisper. “And it’s terrifying.”
“Then let’s chase them.”
I blink. “What?”
“Let’s chase the butterflies. You and me. Together.”