Matt
TWENTY-FIVE
The rollercoaster stalls at the top. It’s dangling at the edge for that awful second stretching too long… before dumping us into the void.
That’s how I’ve been feeling since Emma left. My heart’s lodged in my throat, thoughts slipping through my fingers.
I try to ignore it. She’s an editor, after all. It might not even be about me. That’s what I keep telling myself as I clean up from breakfast.
Almost works. Then, I pick up her coffee mug.
Just like that, time rewinds, putting me back outside with her beside me.
Honestly, I feel like I’m going through withdrawals.
The memory’s vivid enough to catch the cloudiness in her eyes when she finally looked up at me. The usual blush in her cheeks gone. A faint shakiness in her hand as she clutched her phone so hard her knuckles went white.
I can lie to myself for hours. At the end of the day, though, I know. If it weren’t about me—about us—she wouldn’t have left.
I check my phone for what has to be the fiftieth time. Still nothing. My fingers type out a message and send it before I can overthink it.
You made it okay?
The typing bubbles pop up. Her reply comes in. Short, and stripped of her usual spark.
Mills
Yes. I’ll probably have to stay home all day.
Be casual, I tell myself.
Don’t forget you owe me a rematch.
Mills
I won’t. Don’t worry.
Too late. I already am.
The article felt like the perfect solution at first. Answers to my problems landing right in my lap. Should’ve thought a bit harder. Never mix business with pleasure, right?
What We Carry could cast someone else. Funny how quickly that puts life into perspective, to realize I don’t care if it costs me everything, as long as I don’t lose Emma. I could end up on reality TV and wouldn’t blink twice if she was by my side.
Emma doesn’t have a safety net. No list of endless opportunities lining up at her doorstep. If this assignment goes south, it could be the end of a writing career she hasn’t even started.
Fuck. I can’t believe I’ve been this na?ve, jeopardizing her when I know exactly how Hollywood press works.
I try to shake it off. Change into some gym clothes and hit the treadmill until my legs threaten to give out. When my muscles start trembling, I cut the machine and lean on the sidebars to keep from collapsing.
For a moment, I wonder if that’s the only way to burn the ache out of my chest.
Instead, I grab my phone, scroll through my contacts, and hit call.
“Hey, mate,” Harrison answers after a few rings. “How’s your day off?”
“Not good.”
“I’m listening,” he says, immediately.
“Something’s wrong with Emma.” The words fight me on the way out. “She got some news from work and bolted mid-breakfast. I’ve never seen her like this before. She went pale, Josh.”
He hums on the other end, letting me dump it all out.
“I’ve been trying not to jump to conclusions. But her work is about me. I texted, she’s off,” I continue. “Two years, I’d been waiting for her to see me. I’ve opened up to her more than I have with anyone else before. What if the mere fact that she knows is putting her in a vulnerable position?”
“Maybe it’s about time the world finds out about you. The layers under the action. Not just Emma.”
“Yeah, in an ideal world that wouldn’t be an issue. Be real. The press takes the raw and cooks it until it’s burnt,” I groan. “I should’ve told her how I felt at the wedding. Or any of the dozen chances I had. Now she’s stressing, doing who knows what to keep herself afloat because of me.”
“This might seem too simple to work,” Harrison says, “but why don’t you go see her?”
“If she wanted to talk to me, she wouldn’t have left.”
“Don’t push. Show up. Be there for her,” he suggests. “I get that work complicates things, so pretend it’s not about you. What would you do if this was another regular, bad day at work?”
I’d make some popcorn. Let her pick the movie. Rub her feet while we curled up on the couch. Distract her every so often to feel her lips against mine.
“Good pep talk,” I tell him. He hums knowingly.
Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The wait after I decide to head over is excruciating. I want to make sure she has plenty of time to deal with whatever this is on her own before swooping in. I throw myself back into the workout. It only makes me more anxious.
As soon as the sun starts to dip, I hop in the car and head to the nearest store. I buy an excessive amount of popcorn and a bag of chocolate drops to sprinkle on top.
“There’s nothing like the mix of sweet and salty,” she’d said once. Immediately, it went into the Emma-shaped folder in my brain.
I turn onto her street, and I’m praying she doesn’t send me away. Emma’s the kind of woman used to handling everything on her own. I’m hoping she lets it not be that way anymore. With me.
I get out and lean against the car.
Are you up for surprises?
Mills
Depends…
Whatever’s gotten her like this is infuriating. I have to take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here.
Come outside and find out.
Not a minute later, her apartment door swings open.
She’s wearing my shirt. Little thief.
Her eyes widen. She takes two steps before realizing she’s barefoot. I push off the car and make my way over to her. Slow. Giving her time to decide our next move.
Must be a no-brainer, because as soon as I’m within arm’s reach, she wraps around me. The bag drops. My hands come up to cradle her head against my chest. We don’t move. She exhales long, melting further into me.
“Hi, Mills,” I whisper when she tilts her chin up to me. Her eyes are tired, but I can still see that spark of hers behind the worry. “Nice shirt.”
“Thanks. I just got it,” she chirps.
“Did you now?” I raise an eyebrow, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I missed you.”
Emma gives me a soft smile. “I missed you too.”
“Up for a movie? I brought snacks. You pick.”
“Anything I want?”
I nod. She pulls me inside without another word.
The popcorn goes in the microwave. I grab two beers and head to the couch, handing her one where she’s already plopped down.
She scrolls so fast through the list of movies, I don’t catch a single title.
When I sit next to her, I realize, it’s probably because she already knew what she was looking for.
“Didn’t peg you for a romcom girl,” I tease, as The Proposal loads on screen.
“Oh, this is more than a romcom. It’s comedy at its peak.”
“How many times have you watched it, Mills?” I ask, narrowing my eyes playfully.
“A couple?” Emma says, sheepish grin in place.
She’s watched it so many times she knows the dialogue by heart. Could audition right now and nail it all in one take. On the other hand, it’s been so long since I’ve seen a romcom, I forgot how funny they actually are.
Margaret’s currently running around holding that tiny white dog up to the sky. Emma’s losing it beside me, wiping tears from her eyes.
There’s nothing better than this. Nothing.
I could stay here. Admiring her laugh, falling in love all over again for the rest of my life and it’d be enough.
When we’re nearing the end of the movie, and Margaret flies back to New York with the immigration officer, Emma cuddles closer. I rub lazy circles on her shoulder. It’s not until my shirt turns damp that I realize she’s crying.
“Mills,” I whisper, wiping away a stray tear. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “I just love Betty White so much. And now she’s gone.”
“I’ll tell you what—next up, The Golden Girls.”
“Really?” She blinks up at me. “You’d do that for me?”
“I’d do anything for you, Mills.”
The movie ends. It’s almost midnight, but neither of us move. We slip back into that limbo. Both a little scared to make the wrong choice again.
I sit up and pull her into my lap.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask quietly.
“Do you want to go?”
“No. I don’t.”
If I’ve learned anything, it’s not to keep my feelings to myself.
“But it’s your call. I don’t want to pressure you into anything. If you need space, I get it. Showing up unannounced was already a risky choice.”
Emma goes quiet long enough I start to wonder if she’s passed out.
“I want…” Her words drag, sleep-heavy. “I want you to carry me to bed. And I want to fall asleep in your arms.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out. Tomorrow will be a different day. For now, I’ll take what I can get. And, luckily for me, it doesn’t get much better than spending the night with my girl.
“I got you.”
I stand, lifting her easily, and carry her to the bedroom.
It’s exactly what I’d imagined. Simple. A little messy but organized in her own way. There’s a vintage wooden surfboard in the corner. On her nightstand, with a bookmark half-way through, the book I got her a couple of weeks ago.
She kept it…
Well, that will be fun when all these work issues are behind us.
“Bathroom,” she mumbles against my neck. “I have an extra toothbrush you can use.”
We stand side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Emma blushes. It’s so stupidly domestic. I already know I won’t be able to live without this.
“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” I ask.
The heat was blistering today. Even with the AC at full blast in the car, I didn’t stand a chance.
“Of course,” she says, leaning up for a kiss. “I’d join you but I’m exhausted. There are fresh towels under the sink.”
The warm water finally loosens the last of the tension in my body. Or maybe it’s being here, with Emma, her cherry blossom shower gel clinging to my skin covering me with her scent.
Nothing’s burning yet. I keep telling myself everything’s fine. Regardless of how much I want to take care of this for her, not pushing is the right move. She’ll let me in when she’s ready.
When I walk back into the room, she’s already fast asleep, slightly turned on her side. Her laptop is dangling from her stomach, still glowing. She looks so peaceful, for a second I debate whether I should take the couch so I don’t disturb her.
I move quietly, reaching for her laptop to put it away before it slides off. The screen isn’t locked. An email thread is open, the last message fully visible.
I don’t mean to look, but the words are right there.
Make it bleed.
I don’t care what it takes.
I expect the same level of quality… you do for every other Golden Scoop article you’ve written.
Everything in me drops out: my heart, my breathing, even my mind’s gone blank. It hits like a fight-or-flight switch, but my body picks neither.
I read it again. Slower this time. Maybe I misunderstood. It might be forwarded from a coworker who needs advice. Or any other version of this that makes sense.
It isn’t.
Suddenly, everything clicks into place. Her distance this morning. The way she rushed off. The vague, emotionless texts. Why she was chosen for the article in the first place.
Emma wasn’t stressed. There was no work pressure. No confusion.
It was guilt.
My world tilts, like someone’s given it a cruel little spin. A hollow, sinking feeling opens in my chest and spreads to the rest of my body until my limbs feel unreliable.
I sit on the edge of the bed and try to go through the breathing exercises I learned years ago in therapy. They don’t work.
She knew what this was going to turn into when she took the article. Hell, apparently, it’s what she does for a living. She’s more involved in the Hollywood scene than I am.
I was dragged along. I opened up, told her how I felt. Was everything a lie? Did I take my mask off, just to miss the biggest act of all right in front of my face?
My eyes are glued to where she lies, unable to look away, to make sense of what’s happening. Still asleep. Still Mills in every other way. As if my mind is playing tricks on me and I’m imagining it. Somehow that makes it worse.
The past few weeks rewind in my head, moving in slow motion over all the moments where I thought I was breaking her wall down. All the questions. The observations. Was it all part of the story?
I exhale slowly and stand. There’s not enough brainpower to confront her right now. I don’t trust myself to wake her up… and not say something I’ll regret later on.
The article’s basically done. Our working partnership is over. Whatever this is—us—it has to end too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of her many notebooks, a pen tucked into the spiral binding. With shaky hands, I close her laptop, place it on top of her nightstand, and tear a piece of paper from the back of it.
There’s no thinking. I pour everything onto the page. The love, the hope, the betrayal. When I’m done, I fold it carefully and leave it on the pillow next to her. I sit there for a beat longer than I should.
Eventually, I stand, get dressed, and leave before and change my mind.
I thought she saw me. I shake my head. How did I get this so wrong? What I felt with every touch couldn’t have been one-sided. It didn’t feel fake. The way she relaxed into me every time I kissed her.
And as much as I don’t want to believe it, the email thread is right there, mocking me, making me wonder if she’s exactly who she’s always been—a gossip columnist chasing her next headline, getting the win no matter what.