6. Emerson
Emerson
Trying to contain my laughter, I follow the stubborn woman in front of me.
I’ve been trailing Henley for the past five minutes as we maneuver our way through the crowded Sacramento airport.
I make sure to keep my distance, but not enough to lose her.
I had planned to carry the suitcase for her, but the sneer she gave me was clear enough warning that she couldn’t stand to be around me for a second longer.
We may have been apart for several years, but she’s still that same feisty, stubborn Henley that fought with her brother and I growing up. Still embodies the same spirit that eventually made me fall for her.
After she struggles down the escalator, we finally make it to baggage claim.
Immediately, she drops the carry-on, stripping off her sweatshirt and wrapping it around her waist. Hovering a few paces away, I try not to bring attention to myself until necessary.
Sliding her hand into her back pocket, she pulls out her phone and unlocks it.
There’s confusion written all over her face.
I’m sure she sees no text or call from her brother.
As she waits for her luggage, her fingers begin to frantically type out a message to who I can only assume is Ryleigh. I jolt forward to intercept her before she sends the text, which would only confuse the shit out of her brother.
Closing in behind her, I lean over her and swipe the phone from her hands, quickly deleting the text and sliding it back into her bag. Fury blazes over her skin, darkening it to a scarlet hue. She shoots me a look that could kill.
“What the hell, Emerson?” She growls, hands holding onto her hips as she taps her foot. “I was trying to text Ryleigh. He’s supposed to be here, but he’s n-not. He’s never late and I’m worried—”
“Breathe, Hen,” I whisper, reaching out for her shoulder and squeezing it gently.
Henley’s always been riddled with anxiety.
Only once did I see her break down in a panic attack like Ryleigh used to mention her having every once in a while. These less intense moments, I used to witness a lot.
Growing up, Hen was always incredibly hard on herself.
There were days after school she’d come home deflated.
Sometimes it was because of her classes, sometimes because of friendships or social interactions.
The frustration would build, and though she fought so hard to keep it in, it would manifest in different ways.
She’d stumble with her words or forget what she was saying halfway through a sentence. But the biggest sign of all was when she would get like this over something that others would deem a ‘small’ issue.
I could see all these signs, because I am just like Henley.
Her breathing still escalates.
“Everything’s alright, deep breaths.” I rest my palm on the side of her neck and stroke it lightly with my thumb. My words seem to calm the storm brewing in her head, and I notice she listens to me and takes a few steady pulls of air.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her eyes growing wide as her attention locks onto her gigantic floral suitcase inching its way toward us.
I pull it from the conveyor and slide the handle up.
Inquisitively, she watches as I swipe her carry-on and peel off my sweatshirt.
Wrapping it around the carry-on, I attach it to the larger suitcase handle and tie it into a knot to secure it.
Then I start to pull all our luggage toward the rental car pickup.
Frozen in shock, she doesn’t follow immediately.
“Em!” she shouts behind me as I just keep walking. “Emerson Alexander Lane!”
Not pausing, I chuckle to myself when I hear her footsteps trailing faster behind me.
When we were younger, she’d try to use Ryleigh’s and my full names to halt us from doing something without her.
More often than not, it caught my attention, and I’d convince her brother to let her tag along.
Nice to see that at least old habits haven’t changed.
Footsteps thunder closer as she catches up. She reaches out and grabs my arm with a surprisingly strong grip, enough to halt my steps.
“Wow, Hen. I’m impressed. That’s quite a grip you’ve got there.”
Hazel eyes sparkle with satisfaction as her hands whip to her hips. “I’m not as weak as I once was. I’m a lot different than the Henley you used to know,” she snaps while arching a brow.
The intended jab hits home.
I want to know all the ways Henley has changed over these years, but I decide it’s in my best interest to change the subject. “I’m taking you home.”
“Wait, w-what?” she stutters, her arms falling loose by her sides.
“After the suitcase hit you, I texted your brother. I assumed he’d be the one picking you up, so I explained I was on the same plane and that I’d take you home.
As the foreman of the ranch, I know he has his hands full, and we both know he doesn’t like to burden others with his duties.
Hell, he’s just as stubborn as you. We’re both going in the same direction, so I figured I’d save him the trip. ”
“Well, it would have been nice if both of you would have given me the choice. It seems like no one lately thinks I’m capable of making my own decisions,” she grumbles.
I realize my gesture didn’t exactly hit the way I’d intended it to. I’d hoped it would give us more time to catch up, but now I’m realizing this might be a huge mistake.
“You can’t just walk back into my life and assume that everything will just be like it used to be.”
The guilt twisting in my stomach deepens. “You're right, I’m sorry. Let’s get you another rental car.”
She stares at me for what feels like minutes, mouth parting slightly. Her face is still heated with anger, but I notice her shoulders relax. “No,” she sighs, “I’ll just ride with you. It makes the most sense, and we are going in the same direction.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.” She lets out a huff of air. “But I appreciate you thinking about Ryleigh and helping him out. He really has been under a lot of stress. I know he’d drop everything and come pick me up, so you offering to help him means a lot.”
“Of course, Hen. You know I’d always do anything for you both.”
She raises a brow. “Do I?”
I don’t know how to respond, so to not anger her more, I just keep my mouth shut and start walking.
A few grumbles erupt from the tiny volcano behind me as we make our way to the rental car booth.
We walk through the parking garage until we reach a sleek black BMW.
Pulling the key from my pocket, I click the unlock button and open the trunk.
“What, no Porsche?” she scoffs, satisfaction written all over her face at the dig she thinks she’s made.
“It’s pronounced ‘Porsh-uh’ by the way,” I reply with a smirk, jabbing a dig right back. Which only fires her up all over again. “Just because I drive one for a living doesn’t mean I don’t have an appreciation for other cars.”
I begin putting the luggage into the trunk, one grunt at a time, because Henley’s weigh a ton.
When I’m finished, I slide into the driver’s seat.
Glancing in the rearview mirror as I adjust it, I catch a glimpse of her pacing back and forth.
She shakes her head, then drags her body around the side and slips into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up,” I say, pressing the ignition then adjusting the steering wheel to accommodate my long legs. Glancing to my side, I watch her slowly click the buckle in and toss her bag onto the floor between her legs. Leaning back into my seat, I put the car in reverse and pull out of the garage.
We’re on the freeway for a while when I realize she’s going to continue to give me the silent treatment, so I turn up the music. I’ve never done well with silence.
I’m pretty sure her plan is to ignore me the entire hour drive home, until she rolls down the window and turns the entire cabin of the car into a whirlwind. Her hair flips wildly around her face. A few strands lash against my cheek and the rest fly over my eyes, partially blinding me.
“Henley, close the damn window! What are you thinking?” I yell, swatting away her hair from my face so I can see and we don’t crash.
“I can’t. I—need air.” Her words come jumbled and slow, making my hackles rise. I glance at her just in time to catch her olive skin blanch. She looks moments away from passing out.
“Oh shit!” I hiss, swiftly changing lanes and swerving to the side of the road. Before I even put the car in park, Henley leaps out of the car and heads straight for the bushes. Falling to her knees, I make it just in time to grab her hair before she expels the entire contents of her stomach.
Making a tentative decision that there’s nothing further left to be discarded in the bushes, I help her to her feet and safely back to the car.
In the back seat, I rummage around in my backpack to find what I need, then crouch beside her open door.
Wind whips her hair back and forth around her face.
Gently, I tuck the unruly tendrils behind her ears.
Unscrewing the cap of the water bottle, I place it in her hands.
“Small sips, you don’t want to anger your stomach again. ”
She peers behind me at the bushes and winces, then follows my advice, tentatively sipping the water. Using the napkins I gave her, she cleans off her face and hands. Meanwhile, I unwrap the gum and place it in her palm. “Thank you,” she breathes meekly before tossing it into her mouth.
“Cinnamon?” Her eyebrow arches, and I avert my eyes to the ground. Shit.
She knows I used to only chew on mint gum. Anytime she’d offer hers—which was always cinnamon flavored—I would always say no. When she’d ask why, I’d tell her it was too much spice, and I hated the way it burned my tongue.