The Rise of Emery James (2 page)

Emery

6 Years Later

THE TILE BENEATH ME
is cold and unforgiving. Then again, it wasn't meant for sitting and I've been sitting here in this kitchen for hours, staring into the dark. Into the nothing. It feels appropriate, the emptiness that surrounds me. Like the rest of my world has finally caught up.

I suppose a person can’t run forever. Eventually it all catches up with you.

The front door slams somewhere in the distance, followed by the echo of heavy footsteps on the marble entryway. Boots. I hear the heels hitting the floor in steady, confident strides getting louder with their approach. I close my eyes at the familiar sound, my body flooded with instant comfort.

"Emery?" The sound of my father's voice breaks apart the dam that has held every emotion at bay for the past twelve hours and I begin to cry. He wastes no time joining me on the hard floor and pulling me into his arms. He strokes my hair to comfort me, the way he used to when I was a kid and I'd skinned my knee. Only this time it's so much more than a skinned knee. This time I will need more than a kiss on the forehead and the promise of extra ice cream on my pie after dinner.

No, this time I'm not sure that even my daddy can put me back together.

"Sweetie, it's okay. I'm here. I've got you," he says. His voice is strong and I take comfort in the strength behind his words. My cries come harder because I know he means it. This man would do anything for me. He'd move heaven and earth to make me happy, to soothe my pain. Even after I've been such a horrible daughter. Even after I've shut him out for years. After I've broken his heart.

"Daddy, I'm sorry," I say, choking on the tears and the guilt that seize my entire body.

"Stop, Emery. Stop," he commands quietly. He's always been this way, so strong and quiet, but fiercely loyal. And I can't help but wonder how it is that I have strayed so far away from him, from the entire foundation of my home.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I say again. Now that he’s here the distance and time between us cracks me open. The words feel so empty.

"Sweetie, let's get up off of the floor, okay?" he says. He shifts and then pulls me gently to my feet. I follow him, feeling the weight of the past few hours, hell the past few years, heavy in my limbs as he leads me towards the living room.

My body aches from sitting for so long. I'm not even sure how long I sat there, long enough for my dad to hop a plane and fly to Connecticut. Long enough to replay every memory from the moment I'd met Gabe. Long enough to analyze every decision, every conversation, and every moment that brought me to this reality.

"Daddy, he's dead," I say quietly. I hear his breath catch, breaking for his little girl. And I know he thinks my heart is shattered. After all, I've just found out that my husband is gone. I'm twenty-four years old and I'm a widow. Just like that. But I can't settle on any one emotion long enough to feel it completely.

Pain. Shock. Anger.

Relief.

They are all there, swirling in a storm I can't quite stand against. So instead I sink into the embrace of my father, and cherish his warmth.

"I know, baby," he soothes.

"What do I do now?" I ask helplessly.

"Just rest. We'll get through this. I'm not leaving you," he promises. I nod, taking comfort in his words as I curl up on the couch, my body suddenly too exhausted to stay upright. I'm vaguely aware of the blanket he lays over me as my eyes drift closed, shutting out this day and giving me a reprieve from this nightmare.

THE SUN IS SHINING
through the curtains when I open my eyes. I blink away the sleep and heaviness from my lids as I stretch. It feels like I've slept for days, every muscle aches. I look around the room realizing that I'm no longer on the couch, but in my bed. The large king bed feels even larger this morning as I stretch an arm out to Gabe's side, still perfectly made and untouched. It's not that different than most mornings. He’s always gone on business trips, so I'm used to waking up alone. But this morning it feels different, because this time I know that he isn't coming back.

I twist to my side, curling up into a protective ball as I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and stare at his pillow. I try to imagine him lying here beside me. I try to picture his face, relaxed in sleep, his dark hair falling into his eyes, the hint of whiskers growing along his jaw. I've always liked it that way, but he never lets it stay. He says it isn't professional.

My mind plays over our last conversation when he’d called to tell me he'd arrived in Chicago safely. He'd said that he was going out with clients and would call me in the morning. It was the same generic call we’d shared countless times before. Only this time, when the call came the next morning it hadn't come from him. It had come from the state police, telling me about the accident. I’d stood there listening in a daze as the voice on the other end of the line rattled on with words like
they did everything they could
and
I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Forrester.
I wonder absently if they realize the impact they have, or if it is so commonplace to them that they are just words. Not life altering boulders that take down everything in their path.

But even with the harsh reality that my husband is dead, the one thing that keeps echoing in my head is the police officer telling me that his companion had also been killed. His
companion
. I guess that is the polite way to put it. It leaves a sinking feeling deep in my stomach as the situation only turns harsher in the cold light of the truth.

He wasn't alone. He was with
her
.

I push myself out of bed, refusing to think about it anymore. I need a shower and some caffeine. I need to try and pull myself together. I smell the coffee as soon as I open the bedroom door. Of course Dad would have a pot going already. I make my way into the kitchen and find him sipping from a mug and making notes in a spiral notebook.

He looks up with a soft smile and I can see that there are extra lines around his eyes. The guilt hits me again as I think about the fact that I've been away from him for so long. I can't help but wonder if I am the cause of some of that stress.

"Morning," he says.

"Hi, Daddy," I say. I walk to the table and lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He grabs me and pulls me into a tight hug and I feel the tears prick my eyes as I try my hardest to keep the emotions locked away. I don't want to break down right now.

I give him a moment to hold me, because I know that he needs it. I've shut him out and he needs to fix things. I need to let him try.

"I'm okay," I assure him as I gently pull away. He gives me a soft smile and I pat his shoulder before going to get a cup of coffee. The routine act is comforting and I hold on to the sense of normalcy that it brings.

"What are you doing?" I ask, taking the creamer from the fridge.

He hesitates before answering. "I was just making a list of things that we'll need to do." And just like that the normalcy is gone. The stones are back, sitting heavy in my stomach.

I look at my father and am struck with the sudden realization that he's made this list too many times in his life already. First when my mother died and then for Nana. He’s always done it alone. It’s always been easier for me to hide when things are hard. I left him alone to deal with everything, yet here he is, sitting at my kitchen table making the list again. For
my
husband. To protect me.

"Daddy, you don't have to do that. I'll sort it all out," I say, even though my voice comes out shaky.

"I'm going to help you through this, Emery. You don't have to do any of it alone."

I nod and keep my mouth shut. He needs this. He needs to help. If I'm being honest, I desperately need it, because I'm not sure what to do next. I want to steal a look at his list, but I'm too afraid to see what's on it.

I can’t hide this time.

The realization that Gabe is gone and that my life is completely different than it was yesterday starts to set in. I won't see him again. He won't walk back through the door, he won't call. And it's crazy, but I can't seem to shake the feeling that I've been forgotten. It doesn't feel like he's dead. It feels like he simply left and forgot to take me with him. Like a piece of luggage that didn't make it into the car or the dry cleaning he forgot to pick up before he left for the airport. The thing that was supposed to be important, but wasn't.

But that’s a familiar feeling. Lately, my marriage has been nothing more than a string of days where I go through the motions and try to say the right things. I feel like I've been living in a fog, like the entire world has continued to spin while I've somehow isolated myself in a life I never expected.

It's funny, sometimes you don't even realize just how far off course you've gone or how much you've missed until life swoops in and jars you awake. That's how this feels, like being shaken from a deep sleep only to trade one nightmare for another.

"Have you talked to Gabriel's parents?" My dad asks carefully, pulling me from my thoughts.

I shake my head. They haven't called and I only managed to call my father. "The police said they had contacted them. They are on vacation somewhere I think."

I have never been close with Gabe's family. Their dynamic is nothing like what I grew up with. They are stuffy and boring and everything has rules. Rules I worked hard to follow, yet somehow I always seemed to fall short. I should have clued in when Gabe took me home that first time. It should have been obvious to everyone that I'd never fit in. I was naïve. I thought he was different. He’d convinced me that he was different. After all, you can't choose your family. Little did I know he was just his father in training.

They'd never welcomed me in. I didn't fit in to high society and my southern twang had made his mother cringe. I had never let it bother me, because Gabe had loved it. He would make me talk for hours, telling me my sexy drawl turned him on. He made me believe a lot of things in the beginning.

Once we were married though, and his father took him under his wing and pushed him higher up in the family business, my country upbringing wasn't so cute. Gabe was constantly telling me to tone it down, even going so far as telling me it made me sound dumb. That was about the time that I stopped talking at business dinners. It was easier to smile and nod and sip my white wine quietly. No one wanted to hear what I had to say anyway. Not even my husband.

We became strangers and I shrunk into the background.

I shake the memories away. They keep flooding in without warning, playing on a constant loop. Good to bad. The tale of two Gabes. The loss of one Emery. Standing here in the kitchen with my whole world crumbling around me, all I can think about is how I have absolutely no idea who I am anymore. I think this is the realization that makes me saddest of all.

HAVING MY DAD
here is a lifesaver. I'm not sure that I would have made it if he hadn't shown up. There is a good chance I would still be in the kitchen staring off into nothing. Instead we are working through the list. It's easier than I thought. I find a way to go on auto pilot and somehow I answer all of the questions thrown at me at the funeral home. I look at caskets, I look at flowers, I pick out music. I make each decision with careful precision, thinking about what Gabe would want. I wonder if he ever gave any thought to his death.

Probably not.

He thought he was invincible.

I'm looking through a book of flowers, exhaustion heavy in my shoulders when I hear a commotion coming from outside the room. I glance up, looking between my dad and the consultant that's been helping us all day. They look as confused as me.

The door behind me opens and my entire body tenses at the shrill voice of Gabe's mother, Patricia. "She has no right to pick out anything for my son. You can just stop everything. I will be making the arrangements. This funeral will be elegant and tasteful. I will not have it planned by a hillbilly."

My dad immediately stands, his chest puffed up and his nostrils flaring. "Daddy," I warn quietly. I don't want to fight with her. It's not worth it to me. I accepted her opinion of me a long time ago. It will never change. And well, it doesn't really matter now.