18. Emerson
EMERSON
Son.
My father called my not-so-fake husband son.
For fuck’s sake.
Swallowing back the panic, I let Mrs. Dominic wrap me in a hug, the smell of her lotion exactly the same as always, under the layers of cooking that permeates your clothes the second you walk in the door.
Pulling back, she cups my face in her wrinkled hands. “You look good; you’ve been sleeping,” she says with a frown. “New husband should be keeping you up.”
She raises an accusatory brow at Garrett whose eyes are as wide as saucers, his hand still mid-shake with my father.
Oh boy.
“Who’s ready to eat?” I manage, stepping out of her hold as she chuckles and motions toward our table, the piece still a little wobbly no matter how many coasters we shove under the legs.
It’s perfect.
“You might have to drive home,” Garrett says as plates and bowls of food are placed in the center of the table.
Family style.
Manicotti, spaghetti and meatballs, and bricole, along with bread and a salad and freshly grated cheese.
My father laughs and raises his glass. “To new traditions. Not to replace the memories but to enhance them and remind us that life continues in the most beautiful and unexpected ways.”
We toast as Garrett’s hand finds my leg under the table, his grip strong as I try not to choke on my very expensive wine.
Can a girl catch a break?
I can’t wrap my head around Garrett’s presence making me emotionally unhinged. I like him here, by my side, but that scares the hell out of me. He’s temporary and yes, he fits right now, but that’s because we’re both making sacrifices we can’t sustain long-term.
My life cannot exist solely in Ironwood.
And he likes the quiet life too much to uproot and move with me to Chicago.
It could never work.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it right now.
“What have you been working on, Garrett?” my father asks, pulling me from my spiral as I accept the serving utensils and add pasta to Garrett’s plate before my own.
Who am I?
“I’m working on some new music. Things with the band are tense right now and we’re trying to figure out the best way to move forward.”
“You need to just get rid of Darren and move on,” I reply without thinking. My father’s expression is full of amusement and Garrett chuffs out a laugh.
“Emerson has had some really great advice,” Garrett says as I tilt my head slightly to the side. “I’m just not ready to take the leap because the fallout is going to be more than I can handle right now.”
My father takes a bite of meatball and chews slowly, clearly contemplating how to answer.
“I think there are risks on both sides of the table. If you wait, you risk what else could happen, but if you jump too soon, you may find you’ve misread the situation,” he warns. “Caution isn’t always a bad thing.”
“I can be cautious.” I gape, making my father chuckle and pat my hand with his.
“Uh-huh.” It’s placating and Garrett is no help, the man focusing intently on his plate instead of backing up his fake wife.
Dammit.
I am a risk taker.
But I’m also smart and fierce as hell, and even if something doesn’t go the way I imagine, I’ve already set a number of contingency plans in motion before the first ball hits the floor.
“We did a lot of touring the last couple of years so that’s a factor too. Part of the band wants to keep up the pace and the other wants to slow down.”
“And where do you side?” my father asks, picking up his glass of wine and watching Garrett over the rim.
“I’d like to slow down. We haven’t been in the studio in a long time, and while I love touring, there’s something about being in the studio that heals the burnout from constantly being on.” Belatedly, he adds, “At least for me.”
“Then it seems like a good plan to keep a healthy balance,” my father says with a nod, replacing his glass on the table and picking up his fork. “We used to be better at the balancing act. I miss this.” He motions between us and the food as a little wave of guilt washes over me.
I had work and then I had Garrett and work and now I need to find time for my father, Garrett, and work.
This is fine.
“I know it’s a bit of a drive between Chicago and Ironwood, but maybe we can figure out a way to do weekly or biweekly dinners?” Garrett suggests, and the way my father’s face lights up is like a punch to the gut.
I thought I’d been doing a good job managing all aspects of my life.
Apparently not.
The chatter continues for the remainder of the evening as we share stories of growing up and things we used to do when mom was alive.
Garrett tells an animated story about his dad falling asleep on the beach and waking up with a mermaid tail made of sand.
He promised to have his mom send him the picture.
But all in all the night is great, the three of us finishing it off with a round of cherry tarts and a couple of extras that Mr. and Mrs. Dominic insist we take home with us.
It feels normal—like it’s always been this way with Garrett and my dad bantering back and forth while I sit by and take it all in.
It’s not until we’re on the way home that the onslaught of emotions I managed to push down reappear in my psyche.
Thoughts of my mom.
And Dad.
And this new angle where Garrett fits seamlessly into the fold even though things between us are temporary.
He won’t be here next year for our trip to see Mr. and Mrs. Dominic, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
Maybe I should regret letting him see so much of me tonight, for letting him into a part of my world I’ve never considered sharing before.
But I can’t.
Because Garrett North made me feel like I don’t have to be alone—that I don’t have to shoulder all of it myself.
But can I be Emerson Fucking Andrews and Garrett’s wife?
Do I even want to?