Unbroken (17 page)

I feel a calm settle over me, and almost before I can think twice, I find myself setting out my equipment in a routine I know by heart. I check the heavy drapes block out the light completely then I flip off the lights, so I’m bathed in the warm red glow of the safety light. The afternoon passes in a quiet, calm haze as I unspool, and mix, and wash, adding chemicals and rinsing until the negatives are hanging in thin amber strips around me, and I’m bringing the first images to life on thick glossy paper.

I gently swirl chemicals over the paper in a basin, watching the faint outlines of the image begin to show through. I’d forgotten how soothing the whole routine is. Most people find it boring: they’d much rather have the instant pleasures of a digital camera, where you can see the image right away on the screen, and upload them to the computer in an instant. For the last four years, I’ve been the same: snapping photos on my phone, and texting them in the same moment. I told myself it was better, hassle-free and easy, but now I know they were just lies I told myself to forget the strange comfort of being here in the dark, making pictures from nothing like I’m some kind of magician, taking memories and casting them onto the page.

This reel of film is from that summer, four years ago. I travel back in time with every new photo. Carina glaring, nose in her cellphone as she texts all her friends about what a drag her vacation is turning out to be. Dad, fleeting, always at his laptop, with an eye-roll to get my camera out of his face. And mom, always outside: sitting on the beach for hours, staring into the horizon.

I trace her face gently, hanging the photo up on the line to dry. How did we not see it? She was fading away right in front of us, but we never guessed. I guess she was determined to hide the truth: wearing makeup, and baggy linen clothes, and forcing her voice loud and bright to hide the shake of uncertainty. In this shot, she’s in a lawn chair down by the sand. Her hair is dancing in her eyes, and she’s got a smear of sunscreen on one cheek. She’s laughing into the camera, teasing me about something. She looks happy. At peace.

I smile to myself and move on, finding whole rolls of film full of Emerson. The two of us, hugging close on a windswept beach. Driving the back-roads. Laying half-buried under the tangled sheets on his bed. Fragments that send me deeper back into my memories, down a different road this time, to when I lived in a constant state of nervous exhilaration, my pulse jumping at the slightest touch.

Desire…

I can see it all in the delicate lines of the prints: those late nights clinging breathlessly to him in the front seat of his truck; sneaking him up the back stairs; muffled laughter under my covers. Emerson’s gaze pierces me even through the photographs: dark and thrilling and full of fierce affection. I feel a deep pull of lust, tracing the outline of his face—years younger, but just as conflicted.

God, we were consumed by each other. It was like nothing I’d ever known, the compulsion to drown myself in his touch and never come back up for air. There was no slow fall for us: no gentle hesitant dates, and shy flirting. Right from the start, loving him was like hurling myself off a tall cliff and hoping like hell he would be there to break my fall. And when I hit the ground and found myself all alone in the world, without him, without my mom, I tried to forget this summer altogether. Pretend like it had never happened. Anything to stop the endless agony, the wretched guilt and pain and creeping suspicion that it was all my fault.

That they left me because I wasn’t enough to make them stay.

I thought it was healthy. Moving on. But looking around, at the photos hanging around me, wet on the line, I realize there’s a place in my heart that’s been empty and frozen ever since. Numb.

And now it’s cracking wide open.

Emerson was just the start of it, the first shard through my tough defenses. He broke my steel shell, and now I’m feeling all the emotions I’ve ignored for so long: sadness, and sweetness, hurt, regret. Even passion.

Especially
passion.

It thrills me, experiencing the rush all over again, but it terrifies me too. Because no matter how much I love what Emerson does to me, I know what comes after—when I crash full-speed into the end. Feeling like this is what got me into trouble in the first place: so desperate and depressed, sinking under the black cloud of hopelessness. Lacey was right, what she said that first day I drove into town: I can’t go back there, to that place. I swore, never again, and I meant it. So how do I go there with Emerson and not risk that fall?

Is there any way to love him besides with all my heart, all the way?

* * *

I don’t even notice time passing, until a gentle tap on the door jolts me out of memories and I check my watch to find it’s eight PM. Emerson!

“Is it safe to come in?” His voice slips through the closed door.

I grin. He’s learned from his mistakes. The first time he came to find me in the shed, he flung the door open without warning and ruined a whole roll of film I was developing. We got into a drag-out fight that lasted until he threw me up against the wall and made me forget all about the wasted reel.

This time, I need to show more self-control, I decide. Sure, I was sobbing and undone in his arms just a few hours ago, but I can’t throw myself at him completely. I’ve got to play it cool.

“All-clear!” I finally call out, hanging the final print to dry on the line.

The door opens, and there’s a brief flood of light before Emerson closes it quickly behind him and we’re alone in dark and the low red glow.

My pulse skips, just at the sight of him, his body filling up the space, commanding.

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time.” I apologize quickly. He’s looking around at the prints hanging to dry. “I found some old films,” I explain, embarrassed. “I figured, it would be good to see…”

“I remember this.” Emerson stops at a photo of us, taken at an angle as I held the camera away from our faces. We’re wrapped up in sweatshirts and scarves, the sky cloudy in the background. “We drove out to the lake, and it rained all the drive home.”

“We had to pull over to the side of the road it was pouring so hard.” I think back to that stormy afternoon. “And wait it out in the truck.”

Emerson gives a low chuckle. “Waiting wasn’t all we did.”

I feel my cheeks flush. Anyone could have pulled over and found us there, half-naked and gasping, but I didn’t care.

Emerson shifts, reaching for a new photo. His arm brushes against me, and I catch my breath. The sound of my inhale echoes in the stillness, and I see a smile curve on the edge of Emerson’s lips.

Damn.
So much for playing it cool. He knows what he’s doing to me.

Emerson keeps browsing the photos, while I wait, on edge. My stomach is tied up in knots, uncertain what I should do next. Everything in me is screaming out just to reach for him, and go plunging headlong into that ecstasy again, but he hasn’t so much as touched me yet—not on purpose anyway.

My heart twists with fear. Is he having second thoughts? Was our storage closet hookup enough to sate his curiosity and lust? Maybe without that desire blinding him, he’s decided dredging up the past is a bad idea.

“How was work?” I blurt, desperate to fill the silence. “Everything OK?”

Emerson ignores the babbling questions and finally turns to me. “It’s good to see you back in here.” His eyes lock onto mine, shadowed in the dark. “I always loved watching you. In your element.”

I blink, my breath catching in my throat. Suddenly, I remember Emerson up behind me as I bent over the work bench, his hands roving, teasing across my body until I couldn’t take it anymore, and abandoned my prints for the sweet, hot rush of his lips on mine. Here, in this very shed, I gave myself to him completely for the first time. No fear, just a hunger I didn’t think could ever be satisfied until I was pressed beneath the weight of him, feeling him deep inside.

I can see from the flash in his eyes, he remembers too.

Emerson takes a half-step towards me, and touches one finger to my lips. His gaze sears into mine, magnetic, and I can’t help but part my lips in a silent gasp, reaching to taste his fingertip with my tongue.

Emerson lets out a ragged breath, then gently pushes deeper into my mouth. It’s unbearably erotic. I shudder, feeling a rush of heat pool between my thighs, but I don’t look away. I close my lips around his finger and suck.

He lets out a groan. “Fuck, Jules.”

I can’t wait any longer. I reach for him, pulling his face down and kissing him hard and hot and hungry. Emerson staggers back against the bench, his arms coming tight around me, his body slamming against mine in a delicious wall of muscle. I moan into his mouth, taking greedy handfuls of his hair, sliding my hands down the hard planes of his shoulders. I’m already wet and ready, screaming out to deliver on the promise our bodies made earlier today—hell, the promise my body has been waiting on for four long years now, laying in bed alone at night, imagining my fingers are his, that he’s inside me, claiming me for his own.

I reach for his fly, but Emerson suddenly pushes me away. “Woah,” he gasps, struggling for air. “Hold up.” He puts me aside and takes a few steps away, as far as he can get from me in the tiny shed.

I’m left alone and panting, nothing but empty air where his body was.

“We should…” Emerson gestures outside, like he can’t wait to get away from me.

A hot rush of shame floods through me.
He doesn’t want me.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stutter. I want to die—for the ground to open and swallow me up. Oh God, what was I thinking? I practically stripped him naked and threw him on the floor. He must think I’m a dog in heat, that I haven’t been laid in years! “I.. I thought… That you…”

Fuck. I sink back against the bench, humiliated. Just kill me now.

“Just go.” I say quietly, turning away. “You don’t want me. Forget this ever happened.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant.” In an instant, Emerson is at my side. “Jules, look at me.” He takes my face between his thumb and forefinger, and gently turns my head so I have no choice but to look at him. “It’s not that I don’t want you. Damn, all I’ve been able to think about for days is ripping your clothes off and fucking you senseless.”

“So what’s stopping you?” I blink back at him. “I don’t understand.”

Emerson grins gently. “You thought I was just going to walk in here and slam you up against the bench?”

“Well, yes!” I exclaim, embarrassed.

He laughs. “I came here tonight to take you out.”

I stare. “Like, on a date?”

“Yeah.” Now it’s Emerson’s turn to look embarrassed. “You said we needed to talk, and… I didn’t want you thinking I only want you for sex.”

“No, that’s my move.” I say, flushing hot again.

He gives me a daring grin. “Believe me, baby, it’s taking everything I have not to get you naked right now. But, I made plans. So if you can hold off driving me wild until after your surprise…”

“I can try,” I tell him, smiling as relief washes through me. It’s all OK. I haven’t screwed this up. “But no promises.”

“Good enough.” Emerson opens the door and then holds it open, gesturing me to go through it. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

CHAPTER TEN

Emerson waits while I go clean myself up inside, then we head outside. In the light of the setting sun, I can see that he’s cleaned himself up: he’s clean-shaven, with his damp hair smoothed back, wearing a sky-blue shirt with his jeans that sets off his tan and makes his eyes look like deep pools of crystal water.

He looks flat-out, drop-dead gorgeous.

Good enough to eat. Again.

I get to the truck, but as I reach for the door, Emerson cuts in front of me to open it. He holds out his hand to help me up. “I didn’t say it before,” he adds, holding on once I’m inside. “But you look really beautiful tonight.”

I blush. “I had, like, three minutes in the shower,” I point out. I was racing round my room so fast, I’m surprised I managed to get my sundress on the right way around.

“So?” Emerson bends his head and drops a soft kiss on my knuckles. “You always look amazing.”

He slams the door and goes around to the driver’s side, while I try to get my blushing under control. I’ve got butterflies whirling in my stomach, and I feel like I’m a teenager all over again and he’s come to pick me up for our very first date.

Not that we really did the whole ‘dating’ thing, I remind myself. We cut right to the backseat part of the night.

“So where are we going?” I ask, as Emerson backs out of the drive.

He grins at me. “It’s a surprise.”

“Not even a hint?” I fake pout, and he laughs.

“Nope. Patience.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I think we figured out that’s not exactly my thing. At least, not with you,” I add, then immediately scold myself for my honesty. Something in me still doesn’t want him knowing the effect he has on me, like nothing I’ve ever known with anyone else.

But Emerson doesn’t seem to notice my inadvertent confession. Or if he does, he doesn’t mind.

“Believe me,” Emerson drapes an arm over the back of my seat, the brush of his fingertips on my neck sending shivers right through me. “You’re not the only one with impulse control problems. I’m already thinking of all the ways I’m going to make you come tonight.”