Working Girl (16 page)

WINTER TERM HAS STARTED
. I’m thankful for the distraction in a way. It keeps me busy; plus I get to see Emerson more often without having to look desperate. Craving time with him has become the norm. My thoughts are possessed by him, and there is nothing I can do about it. I need him near me, but at the same time I know that being so dependent on him isn’t good. Make no mistake—Emerson has become my kryptonite.

The sun beats down on us as we sit on the grassy knoll in front of the main entrance of the college. In fact, it’s probably the only grassy knoll within Las Vegas, so I know that it must be fake. Manmade, like so many of the breasts around here. I look around at all the girls walking around campus and can’t help but wonder, why me? Emerson could have any girl he chose. What made him like me?

The thoughts continue to run rampant in my brain like a disease. A disease that feeds off my self-doubt and insecurities. My stomach churns as I recall all the horrible things men have done to Momma, and the heartache that my few experiences with boys have brought to me.

Swallowing my fear, I turn toward Emerson, taking in everything that I’m growing to love about him. Gorgeous. Confident. Smart. He’s unique, and marches to the beat of his own drum. Part of the crowd, while still managing to maintain his individuality. This boy has something about him, something familiar, yet still mysterious. He intrigues me, even though I feel like I already know him.

His brow pinches together as he focuses on what he’s reading. I flip over onto my stomach and reach up to run my fingers over the old, withered binding. Touching books is something I’ve always done; my way of introducing myself; a proverbial handshake, if you will.

“What are you reading?” I ask, even though I can clearly read the title.

His eyes never leave the page. “It’s a compilation of poems.”

See? Nothing about Emerson is what you would expect. With looks like his, and the way that girls flock to him, you’d expect him to be a typical ‘guy.’ It’s not hard to see that guys want to be like him, and girls want to be with him—that much is clear, especially given the looks that I get when people see us together. It appears I’m not the only one questioning why he’s chosen me. I prop my chin up on my hands, kicking my feet carelessly into the air like a child. “What is it with you and poetry?”

“I thought I explained this to you before?”

“Is it just because your mom loved it?”

Shaking his head he closes his book, leaving his middle finger in between the pages, keeping his place. “No, not totally. I mean, that played a part in it, but once I got into poetry on my own, I discovered the beauty of it.”

“And what’s that?”

“The thing about poetry is that you and I can read the same poem and feel different feelings. Just like viewing a painting or drinking a fine wine, the experience is different for every individual, reaffirming that we’re all alone to a certain extent.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe so, but even though we’re alone, trapped in our own minds, we can be here,” with his free hand he reaches across the space between us, grabbing my hand, “together.”

Somehow he always manages to say something that makes the world stop spinning. Unable to breathe, I stare at him, waiting for him to disappear before my eyes because guys like this don’t exist in real life. Guys like this live in books, not in Vegas, and they certainly don’t associate with girls the likes of me. I let out the breath I’ve been holding in and quickly roll over onto my back, looking toward the sky. Emerson lies next to me and does the same, without saying another word.

Even though I feel something for Emerson, part of me can’t enjoy it. There’s the demon inside of me that knows that this won’t end well. It can’t. I’m living in a dream world if I think I can actually be happy with Emerson, or anyone else for that matter. It’s not fair that I feel like this, that I can’t even enjoy the one good thing in my life. Despite the happiness I’m experiencing right now, I can’t help but wonder how long before the darkness starts to creep back in and threatens to take the light away. That is what Emerson has become to me—the light in my darkness. I just wish I knew how long I have until the darkness reclaims me. The thought is an unwelcome one, and as hard as I try to keep them at bay, tears threaten to free themselves from my eyes.

But then I feel his pinky wrapping around my pointer finger, and somehow my sadness melts away in an instant. His actions speak louder than words, and I can start to feel the happiness creeping back in. With just a simple touch, he’s capable of soothing me, more so than Momma ever did, and he doesn’t stop there. With his head still pointed toward the sky, he says exactly what he’s trying to show me. “I don’t know what your story is, but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere. You are worth fighting for.”

Unsure of what’s happening between Emerson and I, or what might be in store for us, I nervously look down at my cell phone and note the time. The fear of the unknown is too much. He keeps laying it all out there and while it excites me, it scares me just the same. “I gotta go. My next class starts in ten.” I sit up and frantically start shoving my books and notebooks back into my messenger bag.

His hand reaches out and grabs my wrist, causing me to stop and look at him. “I’m serious, Presley. Whatever this is between you and me . . . I can tell it’s worth fighting for. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.” He shoves his book into my free hand and smiles. “Take this. Read them. But don’t just read the words,
feel
them. Let them take you away. Let them lead you and your feelings.”

I run my fingertips along the spine of the book, allowing my rapid heartbeat to even out before I move again. The weight of the book has managed to center me, and I almost bet that Emerson knew that before he placed it in my hand. The way he reads me is almost unsettling. Doe-eyed, and slightly calmer, I look up at him and force a smile. “I’ll try,” I promise.

“That’s all I can ask for. Just try.”

“WELL DON’T YOU JUST
look like a hot mess.”

I look over the pages of the book Emerson gave me at Chrissy, who’s propped up against the doorframe of the office in her usual stance. My eyes roll and I divert back the flowing words of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Virtue runs before the muse

And defies her skill,

She is rapt, and doth refuse

To wait a painters will.

Star adoring occupied

Virtue cannot bend her

Just to please a poet’s pride

To parade her splendor.

No truer words have I ever read. Perhaps it’s the timing, perhaps it’s all that’s happening in my life, but these words strike such a chord with me that I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. I want to be strong like the woman in the poem. To hold true to the only thing I have going for me, but it’s hard and Emerson makes me feel fickle. Chrissy taps the cover as she walks by me and the book falls from my hands into my lap, snapping me from my thoughts. “So, whatcha reading?”

“Poetry,” I say without hesitation.

“And you’re crying?” she asks with a laugh. “Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad.”

“I am not crying!” I try to argue, even though I know there’s no use. She’s caught me red-handed.

“Don’t lie to me, bitch. I just watched you wipe away the tears.”

“It’s the dust,” I lie.

Chrissy scoffs at my weak attempt at fibbing before she plops down and reaches for my stash. My hand hovers over hers and I slam the drawer closed. “Why should I share?”

“Because I just got done having sex with some lump of a man while you’re out here day dreaming about your knight in shining armor. It’s the least you can do, really.”

She has a point and I remove my hand from the drawer, allowing her to open it and grab her favorite—vodka. “You know, you ought to lay off the booze,” I say sincerely. All jokes aside, it’s easy to develop addictions in this kind of environment, and I can’t stand the thought of Chrissy becoming one of those washed up girls. Can’t bear thinking of her becoming my mother.

“I know, I know.” She waves me away as she twists the top off her bottle. Glaring at her as she takes a swig, she stops and smiles. “Seriously, Presley, it’s no big deal. I’m fine, I promise. Now tell me about Dream Boat.”

Setting my book on the desk, I let out the air I’ve been holding in. “He’s great, it’s just—”

“You’re scared,” she says, finishing my thought for me.

I nod. Chrissy knows me better than I know myself; she’s had first-hand experience with each and every one of my demons, including my fear of intimacy. I have spent years avoiding sex and all the drama and feelings it brought with it for one reason and one reason only. I can’t risk it. I can’t allow myself a taste because I fear that once I feel all the feelings, once will never be enough. I’ll always want more. And I can’t run the risk that it might ruin me, like it eventually ruined Momma.

“Presley, you’re different than your mom. You won’t be like that.”

“You don’t know that,” I hiss. “You’re just guessing, trying to be hopeful for me, but I’m not. I’m a realist.”

She shakes her head in disagreement. “You’re not going to turn into a sex-crazed maniac the minute you pop your cherry.”

I lean forward, throwing my head in my hands. “Ugh, do you always have to be so vulgar?” I ask, scrubbing my face as I bring my attention back to her.

She shoots me a pointed look through raised eyebrows. “I’m a hooker, Presley, of course I always have to be so vulgar. It’s in my nature.”

“See that’s my point!”

I stand up and begin to pace the area behind my desk. “Isn’t it somewhere within my own nature to love sex? I mean sure, I’m different than you—more
prudish
, as you say. There’s never been a day where I’ve wanted anything to do with this life, but somewhere buried deep in my DNA has to be the sex-crazed gene, right?”

“You’ve got to stop being so afraid. It’s really quite unbecoming.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, but seriously, when are you going to start living, Presley? If you keep waiting, resorting to this game that you keep playing with yourself, then life is going to pass you by and one day you’re going to wake up an old woman . . . an
alone
old woman. And definitely still a virgin. All because you were too scared of the ‘what ifs’ to actually live life.”

“What’s wrong with being alone?”

She raises her eyebrows at me but it’s not necessary because the minute I finish asking the question, I already know the answer as well. Shaking my head with disgust I answer my own question. “Right, my momma.”

“You can’t be serious?” Chrissy asks before taking another sip of her vodka. “Save the drama for your momma—literally. I’m over it. And you should be too.”

She stands and tosses the now empty bottle into the trash. “You’ve got a lot going for you right now and you need to seize the opportunity. Be irresponsible. Be twenty-one, for God’s sake. Make mistakes. Take risks. Do
something
. Because watching you let it all pass you by is seriously pissing me off.”

I watch as my only friend hastily leaves the office, leaving me alone with nothing but my own thoughts, the walls closing in on me as I realize that I’m letting my past control me, just like it did to Momma. Chrissy has every right to be frustrated with me. I have a chance. A chance that she
doesn’t
have. A chance to make life what I want.

And I’m not about to let it pass me by anymore.