Beauty and the Running Back (19 page)

“Sure,” Emerson says, “Yeah. We can go home, Abby.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment before turning back to
the wheel. Delicately, he extricates his fingers from mine to start the car.
But the second we’re in motion, I reach for it again. His hand is my anchor in
this moment. I need it. I need
him
.

We ride home in utter silence. The radio stays off, the
windows stay closed. I gaze out the window at the darkening landscape, the
familiar contours of the town I’ve called home all my life. The incident at the
diner only makes me want to speed up the days until I finally get to leave this
place behind, go somewhere where nobody knows me at all. But how can I wish
these days away knowing that my flight from here will mean being separated from
Emerson?

Anger floods in to replace my fear and shame. Tucker has
already taken so much from me. Caused me so much pain. Now my long-awaited
conversation with Emerson about where we stand has been ruined, thanks to him.
If he proves to be the thing that keeps Emerson and I from every truly getting
a chance at being close, I’ll never forgive him. Then again, I never plan on
forgiving him anyway. There are some things that no amount of time or patience
can mend.

I know that from experience.

Chapter Four

* * *

Despite Emerson’s offer to listen if I want to talk about the
“diner incident”, we don’t get into it upon arriving home. Dad and Deborah have
gone out for dinner, as they do most nights when Emerson and I aren’t around.
The house feels cavernous and cold tonight. This place hasn’t felt like home
since Mom passed away, but after what just happened with Tucker, the entire
town feels uninhabitable to me. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again.
Scared, confused, and so, so lonely. Only now, there’s actually someone here to
help me through it.

“We still need to rustle up some grub,” Emerson says, moving
ahead of me into the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to mind my radio silence about
what just went down at the restaurant, but there’s definitely been a shift in
his demeanor. His usual grin has been replaced by a comforting smile, and his
entire attitude toward me seems gentler. Nicer. It isn’t that he’s pitying me,
thank god. It’s almost as if he’s recognized something of himself in me. Go
figure—I’m sure he has more pain hidden inside of him than anyone should be
made to live with.

“Well, I’m a terrible cook,” I tell him, leaning my elbows
on the kitchen island. “Couldn’t even boil water if I tried.”

“Huh. Lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent chef,”
Emerson says seriously, opening up the kitchen cupboard.

“Wait. Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Really,” he replies, “I had to cook for Mom most of the
time growing up. Letting a wasted person near sharp knives and open flames is a
terrible idea.”

“That follows,” I reply. “So, what do you have in mind,
master chef?”

“Well,” he says, plucking a few items down off the cupboard
shelf. “How do you feel about risotto?”

“Are you kidding?” I blurt. That’s one of my all-time
favorite foods. I used to ask my mom to make it every year for my birthday. But
there’s no way he could have known that.

“I’ll take that as a ‘fuck yeah’,” Emerson smiles, plunking
a container of Arborio rice down onto the counter. “Why don’t you find us a
movie on demand to watch or something? I’ll get this thing whipped up in no
time.”

I follow his suggestion and head for the living room.
Stealing a glance at Emerson over my shoulder, I feel my heart warm up a few
degrees. His face is composed, free from the scowl that usually rests there.
With Dad and Deb out for the night, I can almost imagine that this is our place—mine
and Emerson’s alone. We’ve never once spent time like this together. He hardly
ever stays in for a night, and I’m mostly preoccupied with extracurriculars and
long study sessions at the library. After our disastrous outing before, this
evening is suddenly looking up. Maybe we’ll even get around to discussing this
sudden shift in our relationship. He’s cooking me dinner, after all. Clearly,
miracles
do
happen.

I scroll through dozens upon dozens of movies as Emerson
cooks. The savory fragrance of his recipe makes my stomach growl in eager
anticipation.

“Jesus. Was that you?” he calls from the kitchen. “Not very
ladylike, Sis.”

“What do you want from me?” I grin back. “Your gourmet
masterpiece is taking forever. I’m starving in here.”

“I could always just scrap it and make you some Easy Mac
instead,” he teases.

“You’re not that inhumane,” I shoot back.

“That is true,” he chuckles, filling two bowls with the
steamy, decadent meal he’s prepared. “Besides, this looks too good to waste.”

Emerson walks over to the deep sectional couch where I’ve
made myself a nest of pillows and blankets. I let out a low moan as I smell the
garlicky, mushroomy goodness of the food. Emerson hands me a heaping bowl
topped with a mound of parmesan cheese and plops down onto the couch beside me,
kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Almost reverently, I scoop a bite of
risotto onto my gigantic silver spoon and raise it to my mouth. Emerson watches
expectantly out of the corner of his eye as I sample his cooking.

“Oh my god,” I mumble around a mouthful of rice, “I think I
just came.”

Emerson lets out a bark of surprised laughter at my crass
joke. “So you like it then?”

I nod eagerly, burrowing into the couch while I take bite
after delicious bite of the food he’s prepared. It occurs to me, as I nosh,
that I haven’t had an honest-to-god home cooked meal since my mom died. That
awareness only makes this gesture of Emerson’s that much more meaningful to me.

“So, what’re we watching?” he asks, taking a bite of risotto
for himself.

I grab the remote and click through to the film of my
choice. It’s an old favorite of mine. “Ta-da!” I say happily.

“The fuck?” Emerson scoffs as he sees what movie I’ve picked
out for us tonight. “I thought you were gonna go for something with super heroes.
Or vampires. Anything but this.”

“What?” I reply. “
Dr.
Zhivago
is a classic!”

“Classically depressing,” he says.

“Have you ever even seen it?” I press.

“Well. No,” he admits, “But look at all that snow and shit
on the poster! Unless we’re talking about
Snow
Dogs
, that’s never a sign of a cheerful movie.”

“Cheerful is overrated,” I tell him, “And this movie is
fantastic. Just give it a chance. I promise, you’ll love it.” He raises an
eyebrow at my fervid vow. “Well...” I amend, “I promise you won’t absolutely
despise it, anyway.”

If it were any other day, I’m sure Emerson would never
submit to watching an old, tragically romantic movie with me. I can practically
see him swallowing his pride like a big old bite of mushroom risotto as he
says, “Fine. Put it on. I’ll try not to fall asleep.”

With a gleeful squeak, I queue up the film and settle back
against the couch. As the opening theme swells to fill our living room, Emerson
eases over on the couch so that our bodies are almost,
almost
touching. His closeness, his kindness,
and his understanding very nearly erase the upsetting events of this afternoon.
I let myself get swept up in the film, in his company, in the wonderful,
unprecedented feeling of comfort that’s wrapped around me like so many
blankets.

As we fill our bellies and turn our attention toward the
movie, I’m amazed at how normal this all feels. Spending time with Emerson
feels natural. Easy. Maybe there was a little silver lining to being so
vulnerable in front of him earlier today, scary as it was. Of their own accord,
our bodies drift closer together over the course of the long film. The big meal
has made me happy and sleepy, and I can feel my eyelids growing heavy.
Emerson’s long, built body relaxes next to mine. And as we both lose ourselves in
the epic story, he casually encircles me with a strong, muscular arm.

I’m elated to be close to him, but more surprised at how
effortlessly our bodies fit together. I snuggle against his side, resting my
head on his shoulder. The warmth of his body is like a balm to my frayed
nerves, and we stay cozied up for the duration of the film. At long last, when
the final credits roll, I’m reluctant to reach for the remote, to let reality
come sweeping into this perfect, suspended moment. I think I can sense hesitation
in him too, but that could just be a lot of wishful thinking.

At long last, the screen goes black. The house is almost
entirely dark without the blue glow of the TV. But even so, neither of us makes
the first move to disentangle our bodies. If there was any question before, I
know that this embrace is more than merely platonic. Emerson’s hand moves
slowly along my side, sending sensation sparking along each nerve he brushes. I
turn my face gently toward his, peering up in the dim light. His blue eyes
gleam even in the darkness, and his caring expression gives me the courage to
rest a hand on the firm panes of his chest. I take a deep, steadying breath,
willing myself to be strong. Steady.

“Thank you for this,” I say, unsurprised to find that my
voice has slipped low in my register with wanting him. “I know you were out to
make me feel better after this afternoon, and...well. It worked. This was
exactly what I needed.”

“I’m glad,” he says, tugging me just a hair tighter against
him. “I hated seeing you so upset back at the restaurant. I figured dinner and
a movie was the least I could do. Was that a panic attack, or—?”

“Anxiety attack, yeah,” I reply, scooting up so that our
faces are level. “I’ve been having them for a few years now.”

“Did they start when your mom passed away?” he asks.

“Um. No,” I say, averting my eyes, “Not exactly.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,”
Emerson insists.

“No. I
do
want to. I want you to know what today was about, I just...” I sigh, trying to
find the right words. “Hardly anyone knows. And this whole us-getting-along
thing is pretty new, you know? I just need to know...that I can trust you.”

I swallow a gasp as Emerson lays a hand on my cheek, his
eyes burning intently into mine. “You can trust me,” he says, “I promise you
that much, Abby. How can I prove it to you?”

“Trade me a secret for a secret?” I laugh, only half joking.

“OK,” he replies, his gaze unwavering, “Deal.”

“Wait, seriously?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter.

“Seriously,” he says, letting his fingertips trail over my
shoulder, down my arm. “I want you to know I’m for real. I’ll tell you a secret
if you’ll let me in on one of yours.”

I try my best to take deep breaths, suddenly afraid of
knowing Emerson’s secrets, being bound to share mine as well. But I know I have
to be bold, now. I’ve spent too much time living in shame and fear.

“OK,” I whisper, inching closer toward him, “Tell me a
secret, Emerson. Make it a good one, too.”

“All right,” he says, his voice hoarse and low, “I haven’t
stopped thinking about you for two weeks straight. Since the night of the
party. I got to see a side of you that night I’d never seen before. In the
closet, during that stupid game...you were so direct. So ready. And so fucking
sexy. If the cops hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would have happened. But I
damn well know what I wanted to happen.”

“What?” I breathe, so close to him that I can feel his warm
breath against my skin. “What did you want to happen?”

His eyes glint with something that looks like longing. Lust.
Can this seriously be happening right now? Is someone about to leap out from
behind a houseplant and tell me I’ve been Punk’d or what?

“It would probably be better for me to show you than tell
you,” he growls. “Is that OK?”

Unable to formulate a single word, I simply nod my assent.
With a fiery intensity I’ve never seen in him before, Emerson catches my face
in his broad hands. I can feel my heart barreling against my ribcage as he
takes one long, steady look at me. Before I can take another breath, he’s
brought his lips to mine in a searing, earnest kiss. The entire world shrinks
down to our two bodies as I feel myself subsumed by the sensation. His lips are
unbelievably soft, his mouth so strong as it works against mine. I open myself
to him, closing my eyes in rapturous bliss as his tongue glances against my
own. The taste of him electrifies my senses. In this moment, there is nothing
but him.

I gasp softly as Emerson pulls me onto his lap. I straddle
him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as his tongue probes deeper and
deeper. Pressing myself flush against him, I let a low groan escape from
between my lips. I can feel through his signature blue jeans that he’s hard for
me. The full, stiffening length of him presses against my sex, exactly where
I’ve been dreaming of feeling him for the better part of four years.

My body has never been this alive with want. Not with
anybody. Moving with him feels intuitive in a way it never has with any other
guy. I grind my hips slowly, feeling him grow even harder beneath me. His hands
slide down over my ass, running along the firm rise in my jeans. He pulls me
tighter, letting me feel just how much he wants me. In a moment of daring, I
close my teeth around his bottom lip, tugging gently. He looks up at me in
wonder.

“Where the hell did you come from, Abby?” he breathes.

“I’ve been here all along,” I smile, running my hands
through his chestnut hair. “You just haven’t noticed until now.”

“Please,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around the small of
my back, “You honestly think I never noticed you before?”

“Well...you never said a word to me before our parents met,”
I point out, bringing my lips to his scruffy throat and kissing deeply.

“Why would I? You were way out of my league,” he replies,
running his hands down my sides. “I didn’t want to risk making an ass of
myself.”

I start laughing so hard that I nearly topple off of him.
“Now
that
is
hilarious,” I crow, steadying myself. “Me? Out of
your
league?”

“Of course,” he says, “Can you seriously not see that?”

“All I can see right now is you, Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous
Lacrosse Star,” I smile, feeling emboldened by his words. “And since we’re
being honest, here...I’ve been carrying quite the torch for you these past four
years. I’ve sort of been crushing on you from afar since...oh...the minute I
saw you in school for the first time.”

“No shit?” he grins.

“No shit,” I assure him.

“How messed up is it that we only figured this out because
our parents started boning?” he laughs.

“
Ughh
,”
I groan, rolling off of him onto the couch, “Please don’t talk about our
parents having sex right now. Or ever, for that matter.”

“Fine by me,” he says, shifting his body my way. Without
another word, he lays me out on the sofa, lowering his muscled body onto mine.
He runs his index finger along my jaw, tipping my chin up toward his face. “I
don’t want to talk right now anyway.”