Beauty and the Running Back (32 page)

I open my mouth to answer, but the ringing of my cell phone
interrupts me. I snatch the device out of my purse and see that Riley is
calling. After her dozens of texts and calls over the course of last night, I
figure I’d better at least answer once.

“Ri, it’s
really
not a good time,” I say into the phone, turning away from Emerson.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” she replies,
sounding panicked. “Where the hell are you, Abby?”

“I’m at work,” I tell her, “Or...The place that was work for
a second, at least. What’s going on, Riley? Are you OK?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all night,” she hurries on,
“Abby, there were some papers delivered to the apartment last night from your
grandparents’ lawyer. They’re kicking us out of the apartment, effective
immediately.”

“What?” I ask, nearly voiceless with shock. This can’t be
happening. Not right now.

“Apparently they weren’t kidding when they said you had to
choose between them and Emerson,” she goes on, “They hadn’t heard from you, so
they’re kicking us out. Unless you assure them that Emerson won’t be a part of
your life, that is.”

I’m silent for a long moment, just watching as the other
people on the sidewalk pass me by. Then, for lack of a rational response, I
start to laugh. Wildly. Emerson looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head,
but his confusion only sets me off further. This can’t all be happening to me.
And yet, here it all is, landing in my lap in a heap.

“Have you totally lost it?” Riley asks me over the phone.

“It’s possible,” I cackle, gripping my sides, “It’s very
possible.”

I should have known better than to feel sunny about my twenty-sixth
year. In a matter of hours, I’ve managed to lose my new job, my apartment, and
the only family I have left. Every stable thing I’ve muscled into place has
disappeared.

“Abby?” Emerson says, as I let the phone drop from my ear.
“Why don’t we head home now and talk all this out?”

“Home,” I repeat, my voice going hollow on me, “I don’t
think I have one of those anymore, Emerson.”

“What?” he asks, his brow furrowing.

“I’ve been evicted. By my grandparents,” I tell him,
wondering at the statement even as it leaves my lips.

“I don’t understand. Why would they do something like that?”
he asks, outraged on my behalf. “You’re their granddaughter.”

“Cooper isn’t the only one who disapproves of us being
together,” I reply, “My grandparents forbid me from seeing you after the other
night. They said I could either be a part of their lives, or a part of yours.”

I watch the news sink into Emerson’s mind. His outrage
softens as he understands what I’ve sacrificed for him. And why losing my job
now is such a huge deal.

“Well. You can borrow my home, then,” he says, the hardness
draining from his voice as he drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Everything’s
going to be OK.”

I let him guide me back through the Lower East Side. I feel
shell-shocked, blindsided. Like every bit of context organizing my life has
fallen away all at once. Or at least, every bit of context besides Emerson
himself. For now, just having him by my side is enough. We can figure out the
rest along the way.

Chapter Seventeen

* * *

After I’ve made sure that Riley isn’t going to be left out
in the cold tonight, I settle in for a long, befuddled evening at Emerson’s
place. The hours creep past as I try to process everything that’s happened, and
what I’m supposed to do now. Emerson and I are both out of a job, I’m out of a
home, and he’s bound for Europe at the end of the week. So much for that
bright, shiny future I’d been so optimistic about.

Emerson spends about an hour on the phone with Cooper and
the other Bastian partners when we get back to his loft. They argue
incessantly, trying to hammer out a truce. No one at that company wants to see
Emerson leave, least of all Emerson. But with everything that went down between
him and Cooper this afternoon, I don’t see what other choice there is.

For my part, I spend the better part of the afternoon
absentmindedly patting Roxie’s head and trying to work up the nerve to call my
grandparents. Surely, they’re just bluffing. They don’t actually expect me to
bend to their will and never see Emerson again.

Or do they?

“Well,” Emerson sighs, emerging from his bedroom having hung
up on the hour long conference call. “They’ve backed off the whole firing-me
front. Now it’s just a matter of whether or not I want to back off the I-quit
front.”

“So?” I ask, as he sits down beside me, “What do you think
you’re going to do?”

“For starters,” he says, brushing a lock of hair out of my
face, “I’m going to open another bottle of wine. Helps me think.”

He offers me his hand and pulls me off the couch, towing me
back to the kitchen island.

“Have you talked to your grandparents yet?” he asks me,
selecting a bottle of Merlot to start with.

“No,” I say faintly, burying my face in my hands. “I don’t
know what the hell I’d even say to them.”

“Say they’re a couple of assholes, who should fuck right
off,” Emerson shrugs, fetching a wine opener.

“I don’t want them to fuck off,” I exclaim, “They’re my
family, Emerson. Why can’t you understand that it’s important to me?”

“Maybe because I know just how badly family can mess you
up,” he replies, popping out the cork.

“You think
I
don’t know that?” I ask.

“If you do, you seem to have forgotten,” he remarks, taking
two wine glasses down from the cupboard.

“Maybe I’m just not ready to give up on my family so
easily,” I say without thinking.

Emerson pauses with his back to me, his shoulders going
stiff. “What is that supposed to mean, Abby?” he asks, his voice deathly quiet.

“Just that I’ve never been the type of person who cuts and
runs on the people who care about her,” I say, wavering in my stance.

“And I
am
?”
he asks, irate as he turns to face me. “I was my mother’s nurse for years while
my father was away. I’d probably still be taking care of her, if she’d ever
gotten well enough for outpatient treatment again.”

“I know, Emerson,” I say, edging away from his rage. After
the flare of anger I saw go through him at the office today, I don’t want to
provoke him any further.

“For fuck’s sake, I had to raise my mother, rather than have
her raise me,” Emerson fumes, clutching the edge of the counter. His knuckles
go white with the force of his grip.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell him, trying to keep my
voice calm, “I know how much you sacrificed for your mom. But you know better
than anyone how painful it is, having your family not be there for you. Cutting
my grandparents out of my life should be easy, but it’s not for me.”

“It’s not like they’re giving you much of a choice,” Emerson
says.

“I just have to figure out a way to get through to them,” I
say shaking my head, “Without this job, I’m going to need a place to stay, at
least for a little while.”

“You have a place to stay,” Emerson replies quizzically,
“Right here.”

“I know you’re letting me stay here tonight,” I tell him,
“But I mean long term, Emerson.”

“Maybe I mean long term too, Abby,” he shoots back, his
anger fading to determination.

“What are you talking about?” I ask him, “You’re not even
staying here long term. You’re going back to London at the end of the week.”

“Only if I decide to keep my job at Bastian,” he says.

I stare at him, jaw hanging out. “You’re not seriously
considering quitting?” I ask, “That job is once-in-a-lifetime. Bastian is the
best in the field. You can’t walk away from that.”

“Sure I can,” he challenges me, stepping around the island
toward me, “After the way Cooper disrespected us this morning? Why would I want
to stay?”

“No,” I say, “No, Emerson. You can’t leave that agency on my
account.”

“And why not?” he demands, placing his hands on my hips.

“Because,” I splutter, staring up at him, “I can’t...That’s
too much pressure! I can’t be responsible for you losing your job.”

“I’m responsible for you losing yours,” he points out.

“Yeah. But,” I stammer, resting my hands on his firm chest.

“I was doing perfectly well before Bastian hired me,”
Emerson says, “I can do perfectly well without them now.”

“But what if you start resenting me? You know...for making
you leave?” I ask, unable to meet his gaze.

“That would never happen,” he says, turning my face toward
his.

“You don’t know that,” I insist.

“Yes I
do
,”
he says, his eyes flashing angrily. “I know myself, Abby. I know what I care
about. And what I care about above all is you. I don’t want to work for any
company that doesn’t value you as much as I do.”

“Then what are we supposed to do, huh?” I ask, taking a step
away from him.

“Anything we want!” he exclaims, “I have enough money saved
up from my first few app sales to last us two lifetimes!”

“And I’m just supposed to be content, living off your
money?” I ask archly, crossing my arms. “Remember how well that worked for my
dad? And your mom?”

“It’s not the same thing,” he says sternly.

“I don’t see any difference,” I say, shaking my head. “My
dad never had any pride in himself, because he just lived off his parents’
money his whole life. I was already headed down that road with my grandparents,
but Bastian was finally going to get me on my own two feet. I need to find
another job, another way to be independent, not another meal ticket.”

“Is that what I’d be to you?” Emerson asks heatedly, “A meal
ticket?”

“Of course not!” I cry, “I love you, Emerson. I loved you
when you were a penniless eighteen-year-old and I love you now!”

“So what the fuck are we arguing about?” he shouts, slamming
his fist down on the island. “It’s just
money
,
Abby. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, it—”

“It means nothing,” he insists, “You sharing my life, my
resources, wouldn’t mean that you were bound to me, or that you owed me
anything. It wouldn’t mean I had power over you, it would just mean...that you
were here. With me. That we were in this together.”

“Emerson, I don’t...” I whisper, trying to wrap my head
around what he’s suggesting. “I don’t know how to think of money as anything
but a bargaining chip. My family—”

“Your family is fucked up, pardon my saying,” he cuts me
off. “Your grandparents use their money as a weapon. But me? I’d like to use
mine as a gift. A way out, for both of us. Why won’t you let me do that for
you? For us?”

“I’m just...I’m sorry...” I say, trying to blink back the
tears that have sprung to my eyes. “I just need to think.”

“Fine,” Emerson says, his jaw set.

He turns on his heel, storms across the loft, and grabs up a
retractable leash from the side table. “I know I should just be some alpha man
idiot and storm out into the wind or whatever the fuck, but Roxie needs a
walk.”

The Westie goes galloping over to Emerson when he whistles.
Emerson attaches the leash to her collar and looks up at me. “I’ll give you
some time to think everything over. Have some wine if you like. If you want to
leave before I get back and find some other way...I won’t hold it against you.
Just make up your mind, Abby. You know what I want.”

Before I can say another word, he wrenches open the front
door and disappears with Roxie on his heels. I fall back against the kitchen
island, letting the baffled tears stream down my face. With shaking hands, I
fish out a bottle of Cabernet from the stockpile. Pouring myself a very tall
glass, I let my warring thoughts pour out through my mind as well.

Emerson is willing to leave his job and share everything he
has with me. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to abandon my job at
Bastian, have no place to live, and hardly any money to my name. If he and I
were to start a life together now, I’d be bringing nothing to the table.
Shudderingly, I remember how I felt about Deb when she showed up on the scene.
I thought she was desperate, and manipulative, and a helpless dependent. How
would what Emerson is proposing make me any different from her?

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been living off the generosity
of my family for my whole life so far. Sure, I worked hard to get into a good
college and paid most of my tuition with scholarships, but I have privilege
coming out the wazoo. And now, what—I’m just going to marry rich and have that
be that? How am I supposed to live with myself if I go down that path? I have
to earn my own way through life. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

I take a huge gulp of wine and feel it go straight to my
head via my empty stomach. Getting trashed is not the solution here, but I have
no other brilliant ideas. I wish that I had someone to talk about all of this.
Riley’s probably furious with me for getting us evicted, and it’s not like I’m
going to call my grandparents up. It’s times like this when I most keenly feel
the loss of my mother. I wish more than anything that she was here for me to
talk to. She’d be able to help me through this mess. But of course, that’s just
a dream. I’m all alone in this, as ever.

“Well, Self,” I mutter, raising the wine glass to the empty
apartment, “It’s just you and me again. Let’s figure out what we’re going to
do.”

I nearly lose my balance on the bar stool as a loud knocking
rings out from the front entry way. That’s weird. Emerson just left five
minutes ago, and besides, he has a key. We didn’t order any food, and there’s
no way Riley’s swinging by to say hello after what I’ve done to her. So then
who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

Cradling my wine glass, I stand and cross to the front door.
Probably it’s just Emerson’s dry cleaning, or something. Billionaires have
things like dry cleaning delivery, right? I step into the entryway and unlock
the front door, swinging it open with my free hand.

There’s a man standing on Emerson’s front steps. He wears a
dated but clean sport coat, a fair amount of stubble, and scuffed shoes that
must once have been very expensive. His hands are clasped nervously in front of
him, and his hunched shoulders give him a look of preemptive defeat. There are
red splotches across his nose and cheeks, signature features of an alcoholic.
The man is staring at shoes, and for a moment I can’t place him. But then, he
lifts his face to me, and I feel the wind rush out of my lungs.

“Dad?” I breathe, paralyzed in the doorway.

“Hello Abigail,” he replies with heartbreaking formality. “I
hope this isn’t a bad time. Well. I know it is, but...Can I come in?”

“Oh. Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in.

My dad shuffles past me into Emerson’s loft, looking as
frail as I’ve ever seen him. I stare after him, utterly baffled by his sudden
appearance here. I haven’t seen him since my masters program graduation
ceremony, and even then he barely said hello before disappearing into thin air
again. He’s not exactly an active presence in my life, so what the hell is he doing
here, on one of the most intense nights of my life?

“Dad,” I begin, watching as he stands awkwardly in the
middle of Emerson’s loft, “Why are you here?”

“Your grandparents. They told me what was going on,” he
mutters, “I figured you might be in a tough spot, so I thought I’d come and try
to...I don’t know. Help?”

“But how did you even find this place?” I ask.

“Your friend. Roommate. She mentioned you were with Emerson.
This address wasn’t too hard to find,” he shrugs.

I take a nervous sip of wine and immediately feel horrible
for doing so as my dad shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t,” I
murmur, setting down my wine glass.

“No, it’s OK,” Dad assures me, “I’ve been sober for a solid
six months.”

I bite my lip. Six months is always about how long he lasts
between relapses. I don’t want to set him off. What I do want is to understand
what possessed my father to track me down tonight. We haven’t had a real
conversation in years. Really, not since his falling out with Deb. His endless
cycle of relapses and recoveries has broken him down. He looks feeble, now.
Broken. I hate to see him like this.

“So?” I prompt him, “Are you here to save me from the evil
Emerson Sawyer? Are you going to tell me that Grandma and Grandpa are right,
and that I should steer clear of him if I know what’s good for me?”

“No,” my dad replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“No?” I reply, taken aback. “But—”

“I’m not here to save you from Emerson,” my dad goes on,
“I’m here to save you—try and save you—from yourself.”

“You’re gonna have to drop a few more bread crumbs if you
expect me to follow this,” I tell him, crossing my arms.

“I know this is going to sound insane, coming from me,” my
dad says, struggling with his heart-to-heart dynamic. “But when your grandpa
told me what the situation was, it’s like I knew what you’d be thinking. You’d
be thinking, ‘I should just give up on Emerson,’ and ‘It’s too hard,’ and ‘It’s
not right to let someone help me, I need to go it alone’.”