11. EMERSON
11
EMERSON
Six Summers Ago
Following the directions on my phone, I’m walking to a bar that the waitress recommended. She said it was her favorite place in Lisbon to go at night. The walk is short, only about eleven minutes.
There’s a short line outside the place. It’s barely even ten, and the bar is packed. I’m barely able to walk through the door and to the bar without being pushed or having a drink spilled on me.
“What can I get for you, amorzinho?” the bartender asks me as I approach the bar after pushing through several people.
“Posso tomar uma taca de vinho,” I reply in my best try at Portuguese. I give him a soft smile, hoping that helps.
He shoots me a surprising grin. “Que tipo você gostaria?” What type would I like? Huh, maybe I am better at this than I thought. Go me!
“Surprise me?” I reply in English this time. “Sorry, I don’t speak much Portuguese.”
“Aproveitar,” he says. Reaching forward, I take the glass he returns with.
Taking a small sip, I’m surprised by the freshness of it. “It’s good.”
I set the glass on the bar, digging into my purse for euros. I hand over my money to the waiter, but he swats it away and winks.
Catching the confusion on my face, he flicks his head over his right shoulder, gesturing to my left.
I’m still confused. The bathrooms are in that direction. “Oh no. No, thank you!” In front of my chest, my hands wave no. I think I’m flattered by the offer, but kind of. . strange ?
“No. No.” He shakes his head, letting out an apologetic laugh. “He paid.” The bartender points to someone.
“Oh,” I say with recognition of my misunderstanding.
I turn my head slowly in the direction he pointed.
Are you shitting me?
There, over my shoulder, I catch a pair of blue-gray eyes, an irresistible trouble-making smile, and a raised glass.
Running into him again turns something in my gut. It’s like a dusty, old light switch. The one you’d find in your grandparents’ basement that has a chain that you pull. When it’s not been used in a while, you have to tug on it a few times to get the light to turn on. His proximity is pulling on that chain.
What’s in my gut, though? I’m not positive.
Embarrassment that I didn’t show up for dinner? No.
The awareness that he’s somehow here? No.
That I enjoy the way he looks at me and the way it makes my pulse surge? Maybe.
That something dormant in me is thawing? Also, maybe.
This is why I didn’t show up for dinner. Whatever these reactions are, I don’t want them.
I turn my head back to face the bartender.
“Thank you,” I mouth. An anything but delighted smile plastered on my face.
Picking up the glass of wine, I ignore the mystery man and pull to him to find a place to sit.
Across the bar is an open table. I slide into the booth side, which gives me the perfect view for people watching.
My entertainment is quickly ruined when the chair is pulled out, intentionally loud. He doesn’t need to try to get my attention; he’s already captured it.
I stare straight ahead, not giving in to him, at the hand grasping the chair. They are strong, large, hard hands. I would know; they were on me earlier .
I swivel my head slowly, viewing the golden skin jutting from the cuffed sleeve. A slow perusal that moves to his shoulders, broad like his chest. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing no hair and only bare golden skin.
Then to his face.
His eyes darken when ours meet.
“Is saying thank you after someone buys you a drink not common in the States?” he asks me.
He finishes pulling out the chair and sits down. The table shakes under his touch as he pulls himself up against it, as close to it and me as possible.
I run my tongue over my top teeth, not breaking our stare.
“So you are stalking me,” I say.
“You didn’t show for dinner.” He pretends to sound wounded.
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“Your mistake.”
I laugh. “I’ll make sure not to make that one again.”
He lets out a small but full-body laugh. I can see it reverberate through his shoulders and chest. Places I don’t need to be watching and ideas I shouldn’t be thinking about. My imagination is becoming without restraints for this man. Never in my twenty-two years has anyone consumed this many of my thoughts.
“Updating that mental picture you took earlier?” He smirks, as if his plan is working perfectly. “You’re cheekier than I thought. I like it.”
“And you’re cocky.”
“Ah. You noticed.”
My cheeks heat the way my core does at the memory.
“How do you know I’m from the States?” I ask as a way to steer the conversation—and my brain—in a different direction.
“Thought I was stalking you? Perhaps that might be something I would know then.” He’s baiting me .
With my mouth in a line, I pinch my eyes as if I’m a cat figuring out its prey. He isn’t prey, heavens no, but he could be—rather delicious prey, too.
“Right.” I play along even though I deduce the actual answer, which is the café. I’m realizing we are alike; he is observant, too. “You ruined my afternoon. Are you planning on ruining my night, too?”
“States, let’s get one thing straight. You’d know if I was ruining you—”
I can see where he is going, and that’s not what I meant. Cutting him off, I lean slightly forward, clarifying, “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Wasn’t assuming that.” Yeah, right. “I’m Liam.”
“And I’m leaving. Enjoy the table.” I throw back the remainder of my wine. “Thanks for this.”
I set the glass on the table and, with a flick, push the glass toward him. I get up and pass by him, close enough that our shoulders brush. Before I can get away, his arm reaches out and captures my elbow. My head jerks over my shoulder and down at his hand on me.
“I won’t enjoy it unless I’m enjoying it with you.” He looks up at me, his eyes hypnotizing. Despite the terrible pickup line, I get this strange feeling that he might be sincere. “One more drink and I promise to—”
“Leave me alone,” I finish the statement for him.
“Wish that was possible,” he mumbles to himself. “It’s just a drink, States,” Liam says with more oomph this time.
Our eyes are locked. A non-existent staring contest that neither of us wants to be the first to break. Everything in me wants to leave, shake off his touch, and walk out those doors. But everything in me also wants to sit back down.
Because I don’t think it’s just a drink.
“One more drink won’t hurt you,” I hear Natalie say in the back of my mind, like she’s watching me on a secret camera. I know she wouldn’t walk away, nor would she let me if she were here. She’d be living for all of this.
You promised her you would enjoy yourself. And what could go wrong with spending an hour with him?
“Fine. One drink.”
He drops his hand from my arm, and I take three steps backward, sliding back into the booth side of the table.
“So—you got a name, States?”
“Emerson. I’m Emerson Clarke.”