10. EMERSON
10
EMERSON
Six Summers Ago
Natalie is unusually awake before me. Prior to waking up, I had heard her phone go off but assumed it was social media notifications, and she forgot to turn her volume off.
Her loud footsteps rushing around the hotel room woke me.
“Natalie, is everything okay?” I ask.
She’s grabbing her suitcase out from under the bed when there’s a loud thud.
“Hit my head on the bed. I’m fine!” She’s rubbing the back of her head, hand tangled in her curls. “That was Mom. My grandma died.”
I shoot up into a sitting position. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I see that I have missed calls from my mom and hers.
“I’m sorry, Nat.”
“I’m booked on the noon flight out of Lisbon to Chicago. My mom is going to pick me up there this afternoon,” she tells me.
“Do you want me to come with you? Do you need anything?”
“I would have booked two flights if I did.” Her tone is snippy, catching me slightly off guard. “You are staying. Please finish out our trip for me.”
Climbing out of bed, I walk over to where she is opening the wardrobe, wrapping my arms around her in a tight embrace.
We spend the next hour packing her bags together.
Throughout the morning, at breakfast and in the Uber on the way to the airport, I kept asking Natalie if she was positive that I should stay. Despite only meeting her grandma once, Natalie is my best friend, and I’ll always be there for her. Natalie, annoyed, assured me that I was capable of staying without her and I shouldn’t worry about being alone—I wasn’t worried about that. She only requested that I send a postcard from the remaining destinations and live as she would.
With a final reassurance and a sad smile on her face, she closes the Uber trunk at the airport.
“Give your mom and dad a hug for me,” I tell her, giving her another hug.
“I will.” She squeezes me back. “Don’t miss me too much.”
***
I’m lying on a ledge in Miradouro das Portas do Sol. A park in Lisbon that is sandwiched by the city. If you look one way, you can see out over the city and into the ocean. The other direction is restaurants and shops. Beyond that is more of the city rolling up across the hills.
The sun is beating down on me, crisping my skin more than it already is. My hair is flowing out from under my head, slightly damp from sweating, nestled on my tote bag as a pillow. A book in my hands, the smell of the salty water and paper fills my nose as I read. Slowly, and some sentences twice because I’m distracted by the sounds around me. I can’t help it. The tram bells ringing, coming to its next stop. Birds flying in the sky. People, lots of them, talking and laughing. I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping when I tune into what they are saying because it’s in a different language. I can see people passing by in my peripherals, some stopping to pull out their phones for pictures or sitting on the benches.
All of it slowly becomes white noise.
I read for, I don’t know how long, easily two or three hours. It was long enough that the sun was dipping in the sky and no longer directly above me .
Sitting up enough to reach into my bag to check for news on Natalie’s flight, my body tingles as if someone is watching me.
Turning my head to the right, there on a bench about ten feet away from me sits—no, is that the guy from yesterday? I squint my eyes, trying to get a better look. He has a book in his hands, but based on the orientation of his head, I suspect it’s unread. Straightforward toward me, not down at the book.
I can’t confirm if it’s him, but the smile he swiftly flashes eerily resembles the one from the coffee shop.
Before I have a chance to stare any longer, he gets up. Tucking the book under his armpit, he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head through a mess of dense brown hair.
It’s him.
“Take a picture next time. It’ll last longer.” His voice is husky, a mellifluous ruggedness to the British accent.
“I could say the same to you,” I retort.
He laughs. It’s deep and involves his entire upper body. “Okay, States.” Turning on the balls of his feet, he walks away.
Annoyed, I slam my book shut.
His gaze leaves a buzzing sensation that I can’t shake.
I take off after him.
He’s quick; after a few blocks, I’ve lost him in the crowd. I should turn around and leave, return to the hotel, and forget about him.
He didn’t sound like he was from here, so what are the odds I’d ever see him again? None. Then why is it that after seeing him twice, I’m becoming obsessed with the way that he looks at me?
He has the type of eyes that should come with trigger warnings such as 'Don’t get yourself involved, or you’ll end up hurt’.
But when he stared at me yesterday and today—I determined that was what he was doing on the bench. It was in a way that no one had looked at me before.
Lost in the depths of the remnants of his stare, I run directly into a barrier separating the sidewalk and the street for cars to drive on .
That's going to leave a mark.
A hand reaches out to catch me before I slam into the bricks. It wraps around my forearm, and another comes to my back.
My eyes catch on the tan skin stretched across muscular hands. Can hands be muscular? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually noticed or paid attention to hands before. The palm is soft and warm except for the area right below the fingers, which is rough. Small calluses scratch my skin, sending goosebumps up my arm.
“Do you work out your hands?” I ask aloud, with no filter on my brain or mouth and no care about who the hands belong to. Shit, Emerson, that’s embarrassing.
“Flattered, but no,” a husky voice says.
It’s him .
I lift my head to meet his. “They’re rather muscly.”
“Some would say they’re large.”
“And hard.”
My response sits there between us.
Realization of what I just said hits me. My cheeks heat, and I know they are turning an unfortunate shade of magenta, bypassing a flirtatious blush.
“That is how I am often described.” He doesn’t falter in his tone.
Oh my gosh, he is not helping here. I burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s because I’m embarrassed at the interaction or that, from where I’m still positioned, my eyes easily find that part of him.
I don’t mean to, but I can’t help myself.
Why did I think it was an intelligent decision to chase after him?
“Are you okay?” He checks me out from head to toe.
“I am perfectly well.” My tone is sharp and sour as I stand up.
“Sure about that?”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Positive.” I try to take a step forward out of his touch, but it’s impossible because of how many people are bustling past us. “Do they also describe you as a stalker? ”
“Pretty sure you are the one who followed me.”
“After I caught you staring at me for the second day in a row?” He tilts his head, raising his shoulders nonchalantly. “Is something wrong with the way I look?”
“That’s a roundabout way of asking if I find you attractive.”
“I don’t care what you think about me.”
“The answer would be yes.”
I jolt backward. “Yes, something is wrong, or yes, you think I’m attractive?”
“Get dinner with me, and you can find out.”
“I have plans,” I lie.
“With me?” He grins. Damnit. I’ve been thinking about his. . . eyes, that I completely forgot about his smile.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Why not?” He appears disappointed.
“I don’t know you.”
That’s not exactly a good excuse, Emerson. Many people go out without knowing each other. That’s the whole point of first dates. . . but this isn’t a date, right?
“And I don’t know you, States. But we could.” I can't escape the fact that this is the second time he's called me that, but I can bury it.
I shift on my feet. Left to right.
“If you change your mind and decide you want to know me. Garbinus.” He checks his watch. “Eight. I’ll be there.”
“I won’t,” I say and leave for my hotel, letting him watch me again.