32. Emerson
EMERSON
In the blink of an eye, another month is gone and while things are fine, they aren’t great. That realization shouldn’t bother me because Garrett and I are closer to the end than we are to the beginning of our arrangement.
Still, the distance between us is unsettling.
We’ve gone to grab coffee at It’s the Grind, a play on the Miley Cyrus song “It’s the Climb,” and have taken walks around both Ironwood and Chicago.
Saw a play and a concert and enjoyed several intimate dinners.
But it feels like we’re going through the motions. He’s working like crazy on new music with Lachlan and Maverick and I’m just working. Like I always do.
Sure, the sex is fantastic but there’s something missing—or maybe I’m projecting with everything else going on.
Why do I care? Am I feeling neglected?
I don’t get the chance to delve too far down that particular rabbit hole before my cell starts vibrating on my desk.
Tom.
My stomach rolls as I snatch it from the wooden surface and accept the call.
Tom doesn’t call to chat. Tom calls when there’s something wrong—otherwise he’d just text me.
“Hello? Tom? What happened?”
“We’ve got paparazzi outside. I just wanted you to be aware.”
Why are they here? Did something happen with Garrett?
“Why?”
“Nothing concrete that we can identify. I think they’re just hoping for you to drop some kind of crumb they can print.”
“But he’s all right?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line that I don’t appreciate, like I’ve surprised Tom by caring.
Or maybe I’m just annoyed because I do care.
“He’s tucked away in Ironwood. Nothing on the cameras outside the gates.
Everything seems quiet. We’ll have police do extra patrols tonight just to be sure.
We have a plan in place for when you’re ready to exit the building.
There’s nothing you need to worry about; I just wanted you to be aware of what’s going on. ”
“Right,” I say automatically, thankful that I can turn off my panic in a crisis. Not that this is a crisis. But still. “Of course, thank you for letting me know.”
Disconnecting the call, I stew over the information, walking to the windows and looking out at the street below. Ropes have been set up to keep the paparazzi back from the entrance to the building. There’s no frenzy happening.
Nothing alarming.
But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
EMERSON: There’s paparazzi at my work—did something happen?
GARRETT: Nothing I’m aware of
EMERSON: Nothing with Darren or the band or the influencer?
GARRETT: Nothing. Sometimes they’re just hoping for a story to appear when gossip is slow
GARRETT: I’m sorry you’re upset. Is there anything I can do?
I stare at the message and blink.
I’m sorry you’re upset. Is there anything I can do?
I’m not upset.
Why would he think I’m upset?
Pinching my eyelids closed, I take a steadying breath, annoyed that I was worried something happened to him—that he was upset.
EMERSON: No, I just wanted to make sure you were okay
GARRETT: Are you sure?
Irritation claws at me now that Garrett is making this bigger than I intended it to be. This is why I don’t get involved romantically with anyone. Caring about my family is different from caring about someone who is temporarily in my life.
I can’t dedicate time to worrying if he’s all right.
Even in my head the argument seems ridiculous. I’m allowed to care and worry about Garrett regardless of whether we’re together or not.
I just don’t want to.
It makes me feel raw and exposed—like I’m sharing a secret and not knowing what he’ll do with it.
Am I really so jaded I can’t just care about someone?
EMERSON: Yes, I’m fine.
I’ve barely hit send before my phone starts ringing, my desire to answer Garrett’s call far less now that I’ve had time to stew in my thoughts.
“Hey,” I manage as I put the device to my ear and pace around my office.
“Don’t worry about the paparazzi, okay?” Garrett’s voice is deep and reassuring, the sound wrapping around me like a hug.
Which I also do not want.
“I know they can just show up but why my office? It’s so boring.”
“You’re anything but boring, Miss Andrews.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be playing right now?” My heels click against the dark wood floors, only silencing once I hit the cream-colored Persian rug before turning back and making the circuit again.
“We’re taking a break. And even if we weren’t, I’d still be making this call, so I know you’re okay.”
Ugh, why does he have to be so damn sweet?
“I’m fine. I just have a lot of work to do.” Annoyance thrums through my veins because I do have a lot of work and yet I’m still dragging this out.
“I’ll see you when you get home?”
Forcing brightness into my tone I don’t feel, I say, “Yes. Let’s just get takeout.”
“Anything you want.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right, Em. Try not to worry, all right?”
Instead of answering, I hang up and toss my phone onto my desk before sucking in a steadying breath and steeling myself to be productive.
The stack of contracts I need to go through is suddenly less appealing than getting a root canal.
I can’t completely abandon them, but there’s also no chance that I’ll make it a full day here.
My entire being feels worn out, all because the paparazzi are outside my office. I shouldn’t let it get to me but right now, I can’t find any fucks to give. And if I’m going to spiral, I might as well make it good.
Picking up my phone, I type out a new message.
EMERSON: I need a favor
THEO: Yes, goddess of the corporate world, to what do I owe this pleasure of your communication?
EMERSON: And they say I’m spicy
THEO: I’m a habanero
THEO: Now what do you need…