Chapter Nineteen #3
And then I’m face-down on a bed. I’m looking at Emmett, because I thought it would be more awkward to look away from him.
I see now that this was a total error. I should be staring at the wall.
I have to look at him while some woman undoes the strap of my bikini top while they hit ‘play’ on the romance playlist. Clearly, they’re going in hard.
It’s been so long since someone touched me, I have to look at him while a woman I’ve never met runs her hands up my back and across my shoulders. I’m sure she swipes the side of my breast where it’s squished into the table.
I watch the same thing happen to Emmett. The way his skin glistens and gives under her thumbs.
It’s meant to be relaxing. It’s not relaxing.
‘You are very tense, yes,’ Emmett’s masseuse tells him in heavily accented French.
He just sort of grunts at her.
It’s amazing to me, the fact that we’re here. A week ago, I never thought I’d ever see Emmett again, and now here we are. On some ill-fated mission guided by Earl and his paintings, frolicking around Paris, half naked and in the middle of a couple’s massage.
I remind myself, for the tenth time this hour, why going there with Emmett is a bad idea. It’s an extensive list of reasons. It should take me far longer to get through than it does.
It’s just that watching him all oiled up makes me forget all the reasons. I’m struggling to even remember my own name.
No. Behave, brain. Different countries. Hurt me so bad in the past. Dying.
You know you really are desperate when even the thought of your untimely death doesn’t quash the horn.
We’re instructed to roll over so at least I don’t have to look at him anymore.
I do have to lie there while the masseuse drapes the towel over my nipples so that half my breast is hanging out.
It’s bad form to move the towel, isn’t it?
It’s just a tiny towel. I thought this was a posh hotel.
Why do they have such a small towel? It’s alright for Emmett, his towel covers everything he needs it to, though he does have his eyes shut.
I have more parts in need of covering. I try to shuffle down the bed a fraction, to no avail.
To be on the safe side, I keep my eyes shut for the whole rest of the massage. It’s only when they leave us, mercifully wrapped up in towels (could have done with some of these earlier, Cherie) that I open one, tilting towards Emmett just a touch.
He has both eyes open. And he’s staring at the ceiling.
‘Thank you, that was lovely and relaxing,’ I lie.
‘Yes, very relaxing. You’re welcome.’ He sounds like a robot.
‘How long do you think we should lay here?’ I ask.
‘They said to take as long as we like.’
What I do know is that I can’t be the one to move first. My bikini top is folded neatly on a little table next to the aromatherapy oils. There’s absolutely no way I’m getting up and trying to wrestle it on while Emmett is here.
Emmett sees me looking at my top.
‘I think I’ll go now, though. You take as long as you need.’
He’s out of his towels like Jesus out of the shroud. ‘I’m going for a cold plunge.’ He tells me, leaving.
I smirk. Maybe I’m not the only one affected by this whole situation.
It does take some wrestling to get my bikini back on. Even my fingers are oily and also, they don’t appear to be working so well. I should probably call the helpline. I just don’t want to. I just want my heart to hold up for two more days.
I can’t escape it, not fully though. I have to go and check my phone. Downside to being on the transplant list is I can’t ever really be entirely away from it. I can’t ever switch it off.
Anyway, I literally slide into the changing room and check my phone. Nothing except some inspirational quote memes from Mum. The day that woman learned to share from Facebook was a dark day, indeed. Mae had tried to remove her from the family Whatsapp.
Emmett appears to be several cold plunges deep by the time I’m done checking my phone.
I walk over to him.
‘How’re you doing?’ I nudge the top of his arm where it’s now freezing.
‘Okay,’ he tells me. ‘Are you done?’
I nod. ‘I might just head up to the room.’
He douses himself in freezing water again.
‘Be my guest.’
I go to walk away, thinking that we’ve spent quite enough time in this spa.
‘Luna.’ Emmett touches the top of my arm lightly.
I turn. It feels important. Whatever he’s going to say, I think it’ll be important.
How can I be so close to him? He’s right there, and he’s looking at my lips.
Some sort of lip-based muscle memory kicks in, and I wet them with the edge of my tongue.
‘Why did you give up art?’
Tell him, I think. Tell him and he’ll kiss you. No, no, no. Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea. It doesn’t work, and reminding myself that this is a bad idea doesn’t matter.
I’m still laser-focused on his lips, shaking my head furiously at his question, but I’m all in by the time Emmett looks at the ground and says, ‘I’ll see you upstairs.’
And I forgot, how could I forget that there’s another reason it will never work between Emmett and me. It’s not just my heart that’s damaged; he’s damaged too. And if memories of the past have shown me one thing, it’s that no amount of love can fix him.