Beauty and the Running Back (18 page)

“I won’t. Not unless we can have a real conversation about
this,” I say at full volume, crossing my arms. “You owe me that, at least.”

“You are so fucking impossible,” he says, shoving a hand
through his chestnut hair. “OK. Fine. You wanna take a drive or something? Will
that shut you up?”

Despite the context of his offer, my stomach still does a
thrilled somersault at the idea of being alone with him. “Sure,” I say, “Let’s
hit the road.
Bro
.”

“I hope you know I’m just using you as an excuse to get out
of this house again,” he grumbles, dropping the chips onto the floor and
storming off down the stairs. I follow right behind him, wondering whether or
not he’s fucking with me. At this moment, it doesn’t much matter. I’m just
happy that he’s speaking to me again at all.

You’re
just pathetic
, I berate myself silently. Berating myself is something
I’m pretty great at—I have a lot practice.

“Are you leaving again already?” Deb cries from the kitchen
as we try to make our exit. “You just got home!”

“Yes Mother,” Emerson sighs, in his most over-the-top
cordial voice. “Abigail and I are going to take a spin around town. Take in
some fresh air. Cheerio!”

“Oh. Well. Good. You guys are spending some time together,”
Deb says uncertainly. “Um. Be back...sometime?”

“Will do!” Emerson says, tipping an imaginary hat to our
parents.

I step out the door after him, shaking my head in amused
befuddlement.

“And
I’m
the weirdo, right?” I laugh.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Sis?” he says, striding
over to the beat up Chevy parked in the driveway. “We’re both weirdoes, you and
me. Get in the car.”

I trundle into the front seat, trying not to gawk as I
settle in. I’ve never been allowed in Emerson’s car before. True, he and his
mother have only been living with us for a few weeks. But still. Being admitted
into this “sacred vessel” of his feels pretty significant. It’s all I can do to
keep myself from caressing the worn out leather seats, the dusty dashboard, as
if this car were a shrine to the boy I’m crazy for.

“So. What kind of shit do big brothers do with their little
sisters?” he asks, rolling down his window and lighting up a smoke. “Want me to
take you to the playground or something?”

“No. But you could bum me a cigarette, to begin with,” I say
lightly.

“You don’t smoke,” Emerson scoffs, looking over at me
sharply.

“Not anymore. But I did,” I inform him.

“No fucking way,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes fucking way, I assure you,” I reply. “Come on. Gimme
one.”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” he goes on, passing me his
pack of Camels and a lighter, “Smoking doesn’t really seem like your kind of
thing.”

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Emerson,”
I reply, plucking out a cigarette and lighting it up. “But if you’re real nice
to me, I might just tell you a couple.”

He stares at me for a long, silent moment. The same look he
trained on me the night of the party is there in his eyes again now. I do my
best to draw deep breaths, hoping he can’t read my thoughts. My desires. But
instead of giving me any sort of clue as to what he’s thinking, he just starts
the car and drives off toward town.

We zoom along in silence, unsure of what to say. Or at
least, I’m unsure. Maybe he just doesn’t care to spare any words on me. After a
while, he flips on the car radio. A song by the Foo Fighters comes on, and I
sit up a little in my seat. They’re one of my favorite bands—just heavy enough
for my taste. I start singing along, nodding my head with the beat. Emerson
lets out a short, surprised laugh.

“Would have taken you for more of a Taylor Swift kind of
girl,” he says over the music. “But I’m not supposed to make assumptions about
you anymore, right?”

“That’s right,” I smile.

“Can I at least assume that you’ll want dinner at some point
tonight?” he asks.

I have to fight hard from letting a dopey, love-struck look
escape across my features. He just wants to grab food. It’s not a date. I just
happen to be along for the ride.
But
still.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” I tell him.

“Great. Me too. Let’s swing by the Crystal Dawn,” he says,
turning off onto a main road in town.

Chapter Three

* * *

The Crystal Dawn is our local diner, frequented by just
about everyone in our relatively small town. High school kids, senior citizens,
working class parents—no one can resist the Crystal’s Dawn’s greasy spoon
appeal. Emerson rolls up to the silver diner and swings into a parking space,
cutting off another car with a laugh.

“Do you just go out of your way to antagonize people?” I
ask, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t mean to antagonize them. Most people just happen to
be assholes. I just treat them the way they deserve.” he shrugs, tossing his
smoke into the gutter. I follow suit, relishing my final drag. It’s been over a
year since I’ve had a cigarette. Damn, do I miss them sometimes.

“What a charming attitude,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Thanks Sis,” Emerson winks, holding the door open for me
like a real gentleman. Or so I think, until he lets it fall in my face at the
last possible second.

Yeah. Maybe all this lovey-dovey nonsense is just in my head
after all.

We walk across the crowded dining car, over to a red vinyl
booth in the back corner. One of the regular waitresses, a woman in her forties
with heavy blue eye shadow and a perm, plunks a couple of menus down onto the
table. We don’t even have to look at them, of course. We’ve both lived in this
town long enough to know exactly what we want. It’s said that you can tell a
lot about a person by their usual Crystal Dawn order.

“What’re you having?” I ask Emerson with a playfully grave
tone.

He wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially, perfectly aware of
the weight of the question.

“Bacon burger. Medium rare. Chipotle mayo.”

“Of
course
you’re a raging carnivore,” I groan, shaking my head.

“Well, what are
you
getting?” he shoots back.

“Broccoli and cheese soup in a bread bowl,” I smile.

“Wait,” he replies, laying his hands on the table. “You’re
not...a
vegetarian
,
are you?”

“I sure am,” I reply with a chipper smile.

“Of fucking course,” he grumbles, looking downright
appalled.

“You know factory farming is destroying our planet, right?”
I tease him, putting on my best goodie-two-shoes voice.

“You know that tofu is a sin against humanity, right?” he
shoots back.

That one takes me by surprise, drawing a real laugh out of
me for once. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t start being a vegetarian for the
environment’s sake,” I tell him. “I wish I was that noble. But the real reason
is way stupider.”

“Well. Why
did
you start?” he asks, halfway interested. That’s still halfway more than usual,
at least.

“When I was eight, my dad let me watch Jurassic Park with
him,” I reply. “You know that scene where the goat gets eaten by the T-Rex, and
its leg flies up and sticks to the window?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Emerson replies. “Shit was groady.”

“Yep. That’s what did it,” I admit. “I haven’t eaten meat
since watching that movie. My mom was so pissed at my dad for turning me off
chicken nuggets, I don’t think she spoke to him for days. They kept waiting for
me to grow out of it, but I never did. And so, here we are.”

“That’s hilarious,” Emerson says, smiling genuinely for
perhaps the first time I’ve known him. It’s not like his usual, sarcastic grin.
It’s something warmer, more honest. And it just about does me in.

Luckily, the waitress comes back for our orders right at
that moment, so I don’t end up throwing myself at him right then and there. We
lapse into silence again as we wait for our food to arrive. He agreed to talk
to me about what’s been going on between us, since the night of the party. But
now that the moment has arrived, I can’t think of how to begin.

“So. Are you and Courtney a thing or what?” I blurt out.

Smooth,
Abby
, I grumble internally.

“Courtney? Nah,” Emerson shrugs, “A little too high
maintenance for me. And crazy as shit, too. Plus she’s always got show tunes
on...Who listens to show tunes for
fun
?”

“I’m sure she’s...nice. When you get to know her,” I reply.
The last thing I want to do is go shitting on other girls just because they
happen to have sucked face with Emerson. If I did that, just about every pretty
girl in our school would be on my shit list. Girl on girl hate is something I
try and avoid altogether, if I can help it.

“I’m not really that interested in ‘nice’, is the thing,”
Emerson scoffs, picking at a bit of loose paint on the table.

“What...
are
you interested in?” I ask, my voice going soft on me.

Emerson lifts his eyes to mine, the gold specks reflecting
in the dying spring light outside the diner window. I swallow hard, waiting for
him to go on.

“I’m interested in someone who can teach me things. Show me
things,” he says.

I’m totally taken aback by his direct answer. “Oh?” I say
meekly.

“I could hang out with hot girls who don’t give a damn about
me as a person, or look for someone who seems interested in something other
than my fantastic body,” he continues, “I’m gonna go with the latter.”

Of course, he can’t let a serious phrase go by without
turning into a joke. Is that a defense mechanism or what?

“Have you ever met someone like that?” I dare to ask him,
“Someone you could be interested in for more than a weekend?”

He lets me writhe under his gaze, taking his sweet time to
formulate an answer to my question. I can feel my cheeks growing hotter by the
second before he finally says one word:

“Maybe.”

The rest of the restaurant seems to fall away around us as
Emerson trains his eyes on me. I have to choose my response very, very
carefully here. This one little moment could be a turning point. A transformation.
With my heart in my throat, I let my hand rest on the table, only a couple of
inches away from his. Those mere inches of space spark with electricity,
searing my already frayed nerves. I wish I could tell him that I want the same
thing from a relationship—to be with someone who challenges me, like he does.
Someone who’s not interested in being nice or normal, like he is. Someone who
could show me a life I’d never be able to dream up on my own.

Like he very well could.

“Emerson,” I say softly, letting my hand drift slowly toward
his, “I—”

The front door of the diner flies open, slamming against the
wall with a loud clatter. Emerson turns to look over his shoulder at the sound,
and just like that, the spell is broken.
Shit
.
I glance up, annoyed, to see who’s disrupted our near-perfect moment. But when
I recognize the group that’s just sauntered inside, I feel myself going numb.

“Goddamn it,” I whisper, “Not now.” I quickly hiding my
hands under the table, not wanting Emerson to see how they’ve begun to shake. I
pretend to be very interested in something out the window as I hear the
boisterous voices of three guys from my school fill the enclosed space, one of
whom I’m very intimately, and very unfortunately, acquainted with.

To my horror, I watch from the corner of my eye as Emerson
waves at the trio. Of course. They’re his lacrosse teammates. He has no idea
why flagging them down is the worst thing he could possibly do to me right now.
Against my silent prayers to any god that’s listening, the three boys stroll
over to our table. Emerson swings his body around to greet them.

“Hey guys,” he says to his three teammates.

“Hey Tank,” says one of the guys, a blonde junior named
Steve, using Emerson’s lacrosse nickname. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. As usual,” Emerson laughs, “What’s happening
tonight?”

“Some people will be over at my place,” says Roger, a lanky
senior. “Got a couple of dime bags, if you want in.”

“You know I do,” Emerson replies.

“We interrupting you?” Steve asks. I feel their three sets
of eyes fall on my face like laser beams. Shit. I was hoping I’d get out of
this without having to say a word to them.

“Just grabbing some food,” Emerson says, “Right Abby?”

With great reluctance, I raise my eyes to the four boys
before me. I try to keep my gaze trained on Emerson, or even Steve and Roger,
but my eyes can’t help themselves. They flick masochistically up to the third
boy standing next to our table. He’s as tall as Emerson, with jet black hair
slicked away from his hard jaw, his full lips. His own dark eyes skirt away
from mine the second we make eye contact. He hasn’t looked at me in years. I
like to believe it’s because he can’t bear to, that the guilt and shame are too
much for him to deal with. But in reality, it’s probably just cold indifference
that repels his gaze from me.

His name is Tucker Jacoby. He very nearly derailed my entire
life, back when we were fifteen. And it’s abundantly clear that Emerson has no
idea.

“Yeah...” I finally manage to say, my voice barely audible.
“Just getting some food.”

“You guys know Abby, right?” Emerson says to the trio. I can
feel my skin starting to crawl with every passing moment they...
he
lingers beside me.

“Sure. Yeah,” Steve nods, “You do all those cartoons in the
school newspaper, right?”

“Right,” I say shortly, my hands shaking violently under the
table. “That’s me.”

“I liked the one with the duck,” Roger puts in, “Didn’t
really get the joke, but—”

“I’m starving,” Tucker cuts in. The sound of his voice is
like an ice pick to my composure. “Let’s get a table. See you, Tank.”

He turns away without acknowledging me, just as he’s done
for the past couple of years. Emerson raises an eyebrow at his retreating back
before glancing over at me. He freezes as he catches a glimpse of my upset
expression, taken off guard by the extremity of my discomfort.

“See ya, Tank,” Roger says, turning toward the table that
Tucker’s claimed for them. “Think you’ll swing by my place tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll get back to you on that,” Emerson says, his eyes
still fixed on my troubled face. The sudden concern clouding his handsome face
is enough to make my own eyes prickle with hot tears.

Roger and Steve trundle away after Tucker, leaving Emerson
and I alone again at last. Our food has yet to arrive, but I’ve lost any trace
of my appetite. The air in the Crystal Dawn feels poisonous now. Contaminated.
I’m finding it harder to breathe with every shallow gulp of air I can manage to
force down.

“Abby, are you OK?” Emerson asks, reaching for me across the
table.

“I. I need...” I gasp, struggling to form the simplest
words. “Can we go? Please?”

“Of course we can,” Emerson says, his voice soft but firm.
He rises to his feet and offers me a hand as I stand, shakily. I feel the
comforting weight of his arm as he drapes it over my shoulders, holding me
snugly against his muscled side. Usually, I’d be all butterflies and giddiness
to be this close to him. But in the midst of my anxiety attack, all I can feel
is icy panic. I can’t help but glance over at Tucker as Emerson leads me out of
the diner. I should be used to the uncaring expression he saves just for me by
now. I shouldn’t let the mere sight of him unravel me like this.

But I’m just not strong enough to not give a shit. I never
have been.

After what feels like a decade, I settle into the passenger
seat of Emerson’s Chevy. As he rounds the car, sinks into the driver’s seat,
and slams the door shut behind him, the bubble of my fear and apprehension
bursts. Shame and relief crash simultaneously over me, rendering me speechless
as Emerson turns to take me in. His look, infused with compassion, undoes me
completely. Fat tears roll down my cheeks as I stare straight ahead, wishing
that I could actually be as small as Tucker makes me feel. If I was, it would
be easy enough to slip through the cracks and disappear forever.

“Abby,” Emerson says quietly, “Can you tell me what’s going
on?”

I draw in a deep, ragged breath, trying to muster the
strength for words. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says, his
brow furrowing. “Abby, is it OK if I hold your hand?”

His simple request acts as a life preserver, saving me from
going under in this rush of emotion. I look over at him and nod silently.
Without pause, Emerson reaches for the hand that is currently gripping my
thigh, uncurls my fingers, and laces them with his own. I cling onto him like a
drowning woman, amazed that he took the time to ask me if I wanted to be
touched. I remember, through my thick fog of misery, that he must have plenty
of practice being the comforter. How many times has he sat with Deb as she
descended into a depressive stupor?

“Thank you,” I manage to tell him through my tears.

“Any time,” he replies, giving my hand a squeeze. “Are you
with me now?”

“I am. I’m here,” I gasp. His simple touch was enough to
drag me through the thick of my panic. I can feel the world coming back into
focus around me.

“If you want to talk about what just happened back there,”
Emerson says, rubbing his thumb against my still-trembling hand, “We can.”

I look over at him, leaning toward me from the driver’s
seat. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s calm. Gentle. Caring. And all
for me. I desperately want to explain myself, to tell him why I had to get out
of that diner the second Tucker walked in. But letting him in on my shameful
secret...what if it wiped that compassionate look right off his face? What if
he was never able to look at me the same way again? We’re so close to figuring
out how to talk to each other, how to spend time together despite everything. I
don’t want to ruin that. Not for anything.

“Would you mind if we just...went home?” I ask, forcing my
voice to remain steady.