Working Girl (19 page)

“That book in your hands has my poems in it.”

“Your poems?”

“Yep. I’m terrible at it, but at least I try. It’s got every single one I’ve ever written.”

“Do you mind if I look?”

“Of course not. That’s why I gave it to you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about me actually reading them in front of you.”

He sits next to me, curling his arms around my waist to pull me closer to him. I take a deep breath and fan through the pages. The words fill every page with his tiny box writing and I actually gasp at the sight of it. He shakes his head before propping his chin on my shoulder. “Did you think I was lying?” he asks.

“No, I knew you weren’t, but there are just so many.”

“I told you, I’ve been into poetry my whole life.”

I stop flipping through the pages and stop somewhere near the middle at a poem entitled
The Darkness
. The page before has been torn out, leaving behind a tattered seam. My fingers run over the rough edge. “This one is missing.”

“It wasn’t important,” he says quietly. “Are you going to read or what?”

Smiling, my eyes start taking in his written words.

Darkness reaches deep within.

I want to somehow find the light.

Each day that passes takes me further in

Yet every day I wake, continuing the fight.

Why I bother? You might ask.

To find the one hiding behind that mask.

The mask of cascading brown hair,

Shutting the world out for a reason unknown

Darkness is throughout the air

And the light is the key for us to no longer be alone.

My hand travels to my mouth, somehow hoping to conceal the shock. But it’s no use because the reaction is written all over my face. I turn to face him, my eyes certainly glistening with the emotions I’m feeling. “Is this about me?” I ask without thinking.

Emerson nods. “I wrote it the first day I saw you. There was something about you. I couldn’t ignore it.”

I close the journal and clutch it to my chest. A goofy grin spreads across my face. “I love it. It’s the best present I’ve ever had.”

It’s the
only
present I’ve ever had, but he doesn’t need to know that. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Emerson is it.

The sun.

The moon.

The only light I’ll ever need.

SPENDING SO MUCH TIME WITH
Emerson is easy, and somehow it gets easier with each day that passes. Our relationship is moving forward and I know it’s real. We can be in the same room together and just . . .
be
. Never feeling the need to fill our time with mundane and meaningless conversation just to pass the time, just being near each other is enough. I have to admit that not being alone is nice for a change. He never asks why I never want to go to my place. And we spend every minute we can together.

With our backs propped up against the wall of his room, next to his bed, Emerson stares at the movie he’s been watching for the last hour. It’s an old black and white film, but I’m disinterested and I busy myself by reading the poetry that I’ve grown to love.

Today, like most other days, my poison is Ralph Waldo Emerson. I can’t read Emerson’s actual handwritten poems unless I’m alone because I can never predict my emotions. I’ve stopped reading his words in front of him solely to save face, but that’s neither here nor there.

Emerson nudges me with his elbow, bringing me from my unimportant thoughts, and I giggle. “So, what are you doing on New Year’s Eve?” he asks.

I stop reading my book and look at him and shrug. “I dunno. I’ve never done anything on New Year’s Eve before.”

He gasps, feigning exasperation. “My my my, Miss Presley. You’ve never lived until you’ve partied on New Year’s Eve.”

It must seem odd to him that I’ve never done much of anything, but he never presses, and I’m thankful for it because I’m not ready to share with him. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

I laugh. “Well then, I guess I better start living.”

He kisses me lightly on the forehead. “I think you already have.”

I smile and nod. He’s right. Somehow, without really knowing me, Emerson knows me. “So what are
you
doing?” I ask, opening my book to the poem I’d been reading.

“I thought we could do dinner and then go to a party a friend of mine is having at their apartment off campus. Should be a good time. We’ll watch the ball drop and get drunk on champagne.”

Giddy with the prospect of having a real date and going to a real party, my lips break into a wide smile. “I like the sound of that,” I say as calmly as possible before looking back at the pages of my book.

Even as I pretend to read I can feel his eyes on me, studying me for some reason. I want to continue reading the poem, but my mind has ceased to function. Just knowing that he’s studying me makes my heart race. I keep looking at the same two words over and over again:
The Lover
. The tension in the room thickens with each passing moment.

He reaches out and runs his fingers up the length of my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind. I force my mind to stop thinking about him and the tension mounting between us and force myself to read the words on the page before me.

The Lover watched his graceful maid

As ‘mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty’s best attire

Was woven by the snow white quire;

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from woodlands to the cage.

It’s like Ralph Waldo Emerson is speaking to me through the pages of the book. The poem, paired with this moment, is enough to make the world stop spinning. To me, it seems as though it has. Gasping, I look up to Emerson, who immediately leans forward to see what I’ve read. He smiles.

“Ah, Each and All,” he says. “One of my favorites.”

“It’s perfect,” I manage to breath.

“How so?” he questions even though deep down I know he must know. Surely he was feeling the electricity of the moment between us.

“Well it . . .” I flush with heat as I try to form my thoughts into coherent words to explain what the poem means to me. “Well, this part in particular.” I run my finger over the stanza that stood out to me. “I take it like the woman doesn’t appreciate her beauty. However, she wants to be with the lover, straying away from her beliefs. Ultimately, it sucks the beauty from her. It’s a cage. A trap.”

“This is why I love poetry.”

“Am I not right?”

“There is no right or wrong interpretation when it comes to poetry, Presley. Only differing opinions, remember?”

“So what do
you
think it means?”

“To me, it means that things are most beautiful in their natural state—not when they’re faking it, pretending to be something they’re not.”

His words make sense and I know that there is a hidden meaning in them. He’s trying to tell me something, but instead of driving myself crazy trying to figure it out I just let it go. I sigh and switch the conversation back to earlier, hoping to lighten the mood.

“So, New Year’s . . .”

“Yeah, we can go to my friend’s place off campus. I can pick you up—”

“No,” I bite out harshly.

Exasperated, he rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “You know, Presley, eventually I
am
going to see where you live.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” I whisper.

He pushes himself closer to me, his movements carefully orchestrated. I know he’s trying to fluster me. He’s not playing fair. “You can’t hide from me forever,” he says smoothly. “I won’t let you. Let me in, Presley…” His voice trails off, pleading.

Breaking my gaze from his, I look down at my lap. His words strike me because I
know
he knows that I’m hiding something: a secret of some sort. I can feel the sadness creeping in again when I feel his fingers on my chin. He lifts my face so that his eyes meet mine again and I can see the sincerity in them.

“I can see it in your eyes, Presley. Your demons control you, pulling you down into the abyss where you have to pretend. But when you’re with me, you’re safe. Be who you are, Presley, because that person . . . she’s someone worth fighting for. And as long as you keep fighting, so will I.”

I MANAGED TO CONVINCE EMERSON
to meet me on campus. I claimed to have some last minute studying to catch up on, but I know he knew better. Whatever, it gave me more time to avoid the pink elephant in the room. Where I live is not something I am necessarily proud of. And in the past it has been the undoing of many relationships: romantic and otherwise. Deep down I know that I’m just prolonging the inevitable. He’s going to find out, but for as long as I can, I want to control the how.

We’ve spent the evening being carefree. I feel energized and full of life as we dance foolishly to the music that is playing too loud. The room is buzzing with anticipation of the new year, but as the minutes tick by, Emerson becomes very solemn. I’m still dancing as he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the room, down a narrow hallway. The glass of champagne I drank earlier causes me to giggle as he opens a door and pulls us in through the frame, shutting it behind him just as quickly.

“What are you doing?” I ask slamming into his chest. “It’s almost midnight. We’re going to miss the ball drop.”

His hand smooth’s my hair as he looks down into my eyes. “I want to ring in the New Year with you, and only you.”

The seriousness of his words sobers me. “Why?” I ask.

With a slow and steady hand he cups my face, his thumb gently caressing my skin. “Because it’s the only way I want to spend every day from here on out. With you.”

He quickly kisses me. It’s more like a peck really, and I look at him curiously. “Aren’t you supposed to wait until midnight?”

He shakes his head. “Not only do I want to be your first kiss of the new year, I want to be your last of this year.”

With his body still pressed firmly to mine and the promise of his words, my heart hums in my chest, like the wings of a hummingbird. It’s beating so fast I wonder if it will actually take flight at any given minute. Can he feel my heart beating? Does he realize what he does to me? He must, because the thin material of my dress can only hide it so much.

I say my dress, but in truth it’s Chrissy’s—one of her tamer ones. There had been many arguments back and forth between us about what I should wear tonight. Having never been to a party like this I asked for her advice, and was informed that none of my dresses would do. We eventually settled on a short-sleeved metallic dress that hits me mid-thigh. It’s more risqué than anything I would normally wear, but it is New Year’s and I needed to fit the part.

I was thankful that I had worn something of Chrissy’s because I’m sure none of my dresses would have fit as well with Emerson. If I didn’t already know that he came from money, his clothes would be a dead giveaway. Walmart doesn’t make shirts cut that well. Plus he’s wearing cufflinks.

I’m dating a guy who wears cufflinks, for God’s sake.

Somehow I manage to bring myself back and keep myself grounded and focused on him. And only him.