Chapter 14 The Delivery
THE DELIVERY
EMMA
The alarm goes off and, for the first time in weeks, I don't want to throw my phone across the room.
I stretch beneath the covers, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from actually living instead of just surviving.
Last night plays through my mind in fragments.
The acrid smell of smoke. The flash of cameras.
Kai's arm steadying me through the chaos.
The way he carried me up three flights of stairs as if protecting me was something he wanted, not something I had to earn.
The way he kissed my forehead and left.
I press my fingers to the spot where his lips lingered. He could have stayed. He could have pushed. Instead, he held me like I was something precious and walked away.
I roll out of bed and catch my reflection in the mirror. Hair is a disaster, pillow-creased on one side and wild on the other. Yesterday's makeup smudged beneath my eyes like a raccoon.
The apartment is still cramped. The water stain is still expanding. The kitchen is still barely big enough to turn around in. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.
A twinge of guilt surfaces as I step into the shower. Last night, a school caught fire. Kids could have been hurt. Kai's company is in crisis. People are scared and angry, and here I am floating through my morning like I've won the lottery.
I let the hot water run over my shoulders and remind myself what I learned in therapy. Feelings can coexist. Joy doesn't cancel out grief. It just means you're still alive enough to feel both.
I pull on my robe and start the coffee maker. My phone shows a text from Kai, sent after he got home.
Home safe. Thank you for keeping me company on a difficult night. Sweet dreams, Emma.
I smile at the screen, imagining him arriving at his apartment, still thinking about me. When I snap out of it, my coffee is lukewarm and I'm nowhere close to ready for work.
I drink it anyway. Reread the message. Twice.
I'm pouring my second cup when the intercom buzzes.
My hand freezes on the pot. Nobody buzzes me. Nobody knows I live here except Zoe and—
“Delivery for Emma Sinclair.”
I exhale. Delivery. Just a delivery.
“I'll come down,” I say into the speaker.
“No worries, ma'am. We're coming up to you.”
Ma'am? And we?
I wait by the door. When I hear footsteps on the stairs, multiple sets, I crack it open and peer into the hallway.
Three delivery people. Arms full of boxes.
“Ms. Emma Sinclair?” The lead guy checks his tablet.
“That's me.” My voice comes out faint.
“Sign here, please.”
I scrawl something that vaguely resembles my name while the other two file past me. They set the boxes down carefully, arranging them in neat rows across my living room floor.
Twelve boxes. Twelve shoe boxes from brands I've only ever window-shopped.
“Have a great day, ma'am.” The delivery guy smiles and disappears down the stairs.
I close the door and turn to face the aftermath.
My living room looks like a high-end boutique exploded. Boxes in cream and red and black, tissue paper peeking from half-opened lids. I sink to the floor in the middle of them, robe pooling around me, and stare.
A small envelope rests atop the nearest box. Cream cardstock, heavy and expensive. I open it with trembling fingers.
Roses are lovely, but your feet deserve good shoes. — K
I open the first box. Red-soled pumps that would elevate my navy dress. The second holds strappy gold sandals, delicate and impractical and gorgeous. The third is a pair of classic black stilettos that look like they could double as weapons.
By the fifth box, I'm laughing. By the eighth, I'm crying. By the twelfth, I'm doing both, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my tiny apartment surrounded by more beautiful shoes than I've owned in my entire life.
He guessed my size. Noticed what styles would suit me. Yesterday, he saw my feet hurt and did something about it.
James never noticed anything. Not when I changed my hair, not when I lost weight from stress, not when I stopped smiling. He looked at me every day for three years and never really saw me.
Kai has known me for weeks and already pays more attention than James ever did.
I grab my phone and snap a photo of myself in the middle of the chaos. Hair still damp. Eyes red and puffy. Mascara from yesterday smeared across my cheekbone. And the biggest, stupidest smile on my face.
I send it to Kai before I can overthink it.
Me: You shouldn't have. I mean it. This is insane. Also thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.
My phone rings fifteen seconds later.
“I was going to let you get ready for work,” he says, voice deep and warm, “but you sent me that photo and I needed to hear your voice.”
I laugh, the sound still watery. “I look like a disaster.”
“You look perfect.” A pause. “Are you happy?”
The question is so simple, so earnest, it cracks something open. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I really am.”
“Good. That's all I wanted.” His voice drops. “This is just the beginning, Emma. Let me show you what it feels like to be my girl.”
I press the phone to my ear like I can hold him closer through it. “Kai...”
“I didn't mean to push.” A beat. “Get ready for work. Wear the lower heels, give your feet a break.”
“Funny.” I'm grateful he gave me a way out. I'm not ready to talk about feelings. Yet.
“You're going to wear the highest ones.”
“Of course! They're amazing, and they feel so soft. I need to test them thoroughly.”
He chuckles, and the sound warms me. “Have a great day. I'll be focused on work, but call me if you need anything.”
“Do your thing. Try to take a break now and then.”
I hang up and press the phone to my chest.
No one has ever wanted to take care of me before. Not really. My parents loved me, but they had their own struggles. James wanted me to take care of him. Every relationship I've had has been about what I could give, what I could sacrifice, what I could shrink myself into.
Kai doesn't want me to shrink. He expands my world.
I forward the photo to Zoe with no context. Her response is a voice memo of pure, unhinged screaming, followed by seventeen text messages in rapid succession.
Zoe: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK EMMA SINCLAIR ARE THOSE LOUBOUTIN IS THAT A JIMMY CHOO BOX HOW MANY PAIRS WHO WHEN I NEED DETAILS IMMEDIATELY CALL ME NO WAIT DON'T CALL ME I'LL BE IN A MEETING TEXT ME EVERYTHING ACTUALLY CALL ME I'LL LEAVE THE MEETING THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT
I laugh so hard I snort, which makes me laugh harder. Zoe's chaos is exactly what I needed. A reminder that I have people in my corner. That I'm not navigating this alone.
I text her back.
Me: His name is Kai. I'll tell you everything at lunch.
Her response is a string of emojis I can't decipher, but I'm pretty sure they include fire, a wedding ring, and at least three screaming faces.
I push myself up from the floor, survey my kingdom of shoes. I should put them away. Get ready for work. Be practical and responsible and all the things I've trained myself to be.
Instead, I try on every pair.
The burgundy pumps fit like they were made for my feet. The gold sandals make my legs look a mile long. The black stilettos give me the kind of posture that says I own this room and everyone in it.
By the time I settle on my outfit, a simple sheath dress with the burgundy Louboutin, I feel different. Not because of the shoes, exactly. Because someone cared enough to give them to me. Because someone looked at my life and thought, I can make this better.
I grab my bag, check my reflection one last time, head for the door.
The subway is crowded and hot. The commute is the same slog it always is, but my feet don't hurt. My shoes are gorgeous. And somewhere across the city, a man who could have anything is choosing to think about me.
I push through the revolving doors of GVM, stride toward the elevators, ready for whatever the day throws at me.
Bring it on.