Chapter 14
Emmett
I
‘m not sure how long I was watching her ponder her frozen food choices, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I haven’t seen Drew since Friday morning, and I barely recognize the girl in front of me.
Rather than the flushed cheeks matching the color of her hair tied back leaving two pieces that frame her face perfectly, I see someone who has been through an unspeakable tragedy. Sadness in her eyes in the form of red rings that somehow accentuate the green in her hazel eyes.
She looks beautiful in a beautifully tragic way.
I take a few steps towards her, knowing that I’m probably the last thing on her mind, but I want to get a closer look.
I’ve seen her numerous times before, but there’s this unfamiliarity to her that is pulling me in. The way her clothes are hanging a little looser, her hair missing its shine, her dark lashes even darker from the tears.
I find myself on the other side of the freezer door she has open, and, as she closes it, she meets my gaze. We lock eyes for a moment until she breaks the hold she has on me.
I watch her tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, evading my eyes, and I bend down a little to try to meet her gaze again, wanting to hook into those eyes again. “Nice to see you, Drew.”
I see her shift on her feet, looking as if she’s ready to grab her cart and go, but, for some reason, I don’t want her to. I’m really not quite sure what else to say aside from telling her the truth.
It is nice to see her.
It always made me feel worse when people walked on eggshells around me after Lennon died, but, being on the other side, I understand how it feels to not know how to help someone who probably doesn’t even know what they need.
“Nice to see you, too.” Still avoiding my eyes, an uneasiness in her voice as if she doesn’t quite understand why I would be talking to her.
I take a step closer. “I heard what happened.” She freezes, and I can tell I struck the nerve. I pause, not knowing if I should say anymore or give her an out.
Instead of either of those, I ask, “How are you?”
“Why do you care?” Her voice has an edge, almost like the bark of a dog being cornered. “It’s none of your business.”
I should have expected this. I’ve never been anything but rude to the girl, and now I’m approaching her as if the past six months have been filled with pleasantries.
I assumed that she would say she is fine and maybe excuse herself from the interaction, but I didn’t think she would get defensive.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I take a few steps back, thinking I’ve crossed a line, not wanting to make her any more uncomfortable. Then, as I go to turn, I hear her say something.
“No.” She shakes her head and brings a hand to her forehead.
“I should apologize. That was out of line.” She brings her hand down lets out an exhale, one she has probably been holding onto for a while. “It’s just been a rough couple of days, and I’m not used to you of all people being so… Nice. I guess I didn’t know how to respond properly.”
Guilt hits me in my chest because I’m seeing the impact our interactions have had on her, making her feel on edge when she is around me, as if she doesn’t know what to expect.
I can’t really blame her for feeling that way, and I don’t want her thinking that anymore. And I don’t want her thinking she has to apologize to me either. “No, please don’t apologize. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” I take step forward as if I move too quickly I’ll scare her away. “How are you doing?”
I watch her look at the different boxes and containers in her cart as people walk next to us, up and down the aisle. People who are completely oblivious to what she is going through.
It takes her a few moments to respond, and this should feel awkward. This should feel weird, seeing each other outside the elevator, under these circumstances.
We barely ever have a conversation that doesn’t leave us both hot and bothered, me usually hot, her usually bothered.
But, it doesn’t.
It doesn’t feel awkward.
Drew glances up from her cart for the first time since she looked away from our initial glance and meets my eyes with a peculiar face.
Is that a surprised look? Shock?
“I’m… I’m sorry. No one’s asked me that since…” She pauses before letting herself say the word. Shooting. “Since before what happened.” She exhales then continues, “I’ve been told everything’s fine, that I’m okay, and I should take some time to recover… But, no one’s asked me that.”
I don’t know what to say because her words rang so true in my mind and took me back to the day we got the call that Lennon’s car was found wrapped around a tree filled with three friends she was driving home from a party.
I remember thinking how damn ironic it was that Lennon was the sober one, being responsible, driving her drunk friends home, and then she was hit by a drunk driver. All the girls were rushed to the hospital, Lennon being the only one who didn’t even make it out of the car.
The next week, being in a daze of disbelief and depression, everyone—my parents, the doctors, friends, teachers—told me that everything would be okay and to take time to recover.
They said I had to learn to live with the trauma.
“Honestly… I’m not great,” she says, eyes still glued to mine. An unmistakable sadness in her voice.
“Honestly,” I hold tightly on to her gaze, “I didn’t think you would be.” My eyes never leave hers as I take one more step closer, only the distance of her cart between us now, “And, that’s okay.”
I watch her react to my words, seeing her shoulders release tension and her jaw untighten. She opens her mouth to say something, but then her lips close before anything comes out.
I want her to know that it’s okay to not be okay because her reaction is telling me that no one has told her that before. By not saying anything, she’s telling me more than she could express with words.
“Did you have more shopping to do?” I ask.
She shakes her head. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth or not, but I decide to take her word for it.
“I was just about to check-out,” I reply, gesturing to my basket that is nowhere filled to where I need it to be, but that can wait for another day. “Do you want to head the check-out lines with me?”
She nods. And before she can change her mind, I pull her cart towards me and lead her down the aisle towards the self-checkout. As she walks next to me, she’s quiet, but again, it’s not awkward.
Being in her company feels… Right. I can’t explain it, but I like it and don’t think I’ve ever felt it before today. All the other times I’ve been in her vicinity, I was always just thinking of a different way to ruffle her feathers, to make her cheeks turn red, to see her stomp off, to make the air around us feel anything but right.
I scan my items as she rests up against the handles of her cart. When I finish scanning my few things, I go to grab her items.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she quickly intervenes.
“I know,” I respond. I give her a little smile and go to grab her plethora of frozen meals, Pop-Tarts, and coffee creamer. She quickly turns away, a familiar pink coming to her cheeks. It’s then I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever smiled at the girl.
Without another word, I throw all her stuff in the two reusable bags I find under the junk food. I quietly chuckle to myself seeing that even her grocery bags match her aesthetic: black.
I go to pay with my card before she can reach into the fanny pack across her chest for hers.
“No, no. Please, I can pay for my stuff.”
“Drew, don’t worry. You chose the same things as a ten-year old with a $20 allowance. I got it.”
Before she could protest anymore, I swipe my card, feeling a flutter in my stomach at the thought of being able to do this for her, and I’m not sure why. Do I like doing something nice for her? Providing for her? Spoiling her?
I get a little embarrassed I’m even having these thoughts, so I ignore the dip my stomach does and grab our bags.
Relax, it’s just junk food,I think to myself.
We walk our way through the piles of people checking out their supplies for their holiday dinners and gatherings, bagging their groceries, making small talk with those around them, spreading their holiday spirit that seems to halt before getting to Drew and me.
We make our way to the exit, Drew walking next to me as I hold our bags with one hand and push her empty cart with another.
Again, pleasantly surprised with how I feel when she’s around me, not worrying about how to push her buttons, just making our way towards the parking lot.
When I approached her in the freezer aisle, I wasn’t quite sure what I had in mind. I didn’t have the intention of talking to her, but I also didn’t hate the idea of her catching me staring. When I saw her perusing the frozen waffles, it was like I was seeing her for the first time because in front of me was a shell of a person I’ve seen so many times before.
All the other times, her cheeks were pink with fluster, her voice high and agitated when she managed to get her words out, her eyes bright and enticing.
Today, her skin shows barely a hint of its normal color; her voice is small and shaky; and her eyes are full of sorrow and things that can never be forgotten.
Walking out of the store, side-by-side, this feels like the first time the presence of each other is more than accidental or bad timing, and Drew seems more comfortable as the minutes tick by, not all seeming like she is in a rush to get away from me.
As we walk out the automatic doors, I push the cart back to the line of unused ones at the grocery store’s entrance, and Drew reaches for her groceries hooked around my arm.
“Thanks,” she says as she gives me a soft smile. A smile as pure as the fresh snow around us, warming me up despite the winter air.
The corners of her lips then droop, her lack of understanding showing in the way her eyebrows slightly come together when I don’t reciprocate her action by letting her take the bags. “Where’s your car?” I ask.
Now she gets it, she rolls her eyes, giving me a small smirk, even though it doesn’t yet reach her eyes. The upturns of her lips give me hope that she will make it through this mess she’s in.
This time, as she speaks to me, there’s a playfulness to her voice I don’t recall hearing before.
“I can carry my own groceries, Emmett.”
“Where is your car?” I ask again, pausing just a touch between each word, and adding a playfulness of my own. She shakes her head letting out a small chuckle I would’ve missed if I wasn’t watching her every move so closely.
“Seriously. You’ve done more than enough.”
“Drew.”
“What?” Her eyes find mine again.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
And with that, I’m reminded why I give this girl a hard time. Her cheeks heat up, making my heart stop, telling me she’s not a shell. She is the same girl that wakes me up before my alarm or in the middle of the night with her inability to move around her apartment without making noise. The same girl who catches me in my dullest moments where I walk away after pestering her about things that seem so miniscule now.
“Over there.” She turns her head away from me, but I can see her smile is spreading up to the corners of her eyes. I spot her car, the one I subconsciously check for in the parking garage whenever I leave or get home from our complex.
We step out from the awning covering us from the snow that must have started to fall during the time we were in the store.
I walk a few steps behind her, thankful for her choice of black skinny jeans today. I feel heat spread across my chest at the sight, thankful my thoughts and emotions don’t show on my face. Then I instantly want to slap myself for even letting that cross my mind right now, so I politely divert my eyes as we walk to her car, admiring how her red hair contrasts against the snowflakes falling instead.
When we get to her car, she opens the back seat behind the driver’s side for me to set her bags of groceries down. I bend in to put them on the floor behind her driver’s seat for her and then stand back up and move out of the way so she can close the door.
We meet face-to-face, and I’m stuck as if petrified just by looking at her directly in the eyes. Something about being in her close proximity, the natural light of the winter day allowing me to see freckles on her cheeks and nose I never noticed before, captivates me to the point I feel my feet have rooted into the concrete.
I’m not sure how to end the interaction. I have to tear my feet from out below me and take a few steps back. I find myself so gravitated towards her, wanting to count each freckle powdered on her face, but I don’t want to do something that will freak her out.
We barely know each other after all.
She stays put, hand on the driver’s side door handle, maybe trying to predict what I’m going to say. I leave her with the words I would’ve wanted to hear when I was in her shoes. The words I would’ve wanted my friends to say instead of, “It’s going to be okay.” Or, “I know what you’re going through.”
The words that would’ve shown me that what I felt was valid enough to be expressed. The words that would’ve saved me from trying to heal in isolation. The words that would’ve shown me someone wanted to listen.
“If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”