Working Girl (13 page)

She tries her luck a few more times before eventually giving up and just taking our order. We both rattle off what we want with ease, Emerson’s eyes never leaving me. Handing our menus over to the girl wearing the apron, I let out a deep breath. His intensity is overwhelming and I’ve had enough.

“You’re creeping me out,” I finally say.

“Good,” he says coolly, “because you infuriate me.”

His honesty takes me by surprise and I take in a sharp breath. There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to ask him, so much I don’t understand, but instead I sit in silence, brooding, my arms crossed over my chest. While I brood, I try to understand why this boy won’t leave me alone. It must be part of some sick joke. That, or he gets his kicks by going after girls that he can’t have. Another guy who enjoys the thrill of the chase. Whatever it is, he’s seriously affecting my mood.

“You can quit pouting. It does nothing but make you more adorable.”

I glare at him. “I don’t understand this.”

“You don’t have to. Let’s just sit here and pretend to be two normal human beings for the afternoon and see where it takes us.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, the waitress arrives with our food, carefully placing the plates in front of us. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks, slightly breathless. We both shake our heads and I quickly pop a fry into my mouth. It burns my tongue, but the greasy goodness is too good to spit out. Having the food in front of me reminds my stomach just how hungry I am, and any thoughts of acting ladylike go out of the window as soon as the salt hits my taste buds, a deep groan escaping before I can stop it. I shovel a few more into my mouth as I consider my next move. There’s the option of continuing to be a cruel bitch, in the hope that Emerson will back off. Problem is, if he hasn’t taken the hint yet he probably never will, so I might as well just give up and start enjoying his company. At least for today. After the morning I’ve had, spending the rest of the day alone isn’t very appealing, and it’s not like Chrissy stuck around to keep me company.

Focusing on my burger, I allow myself to think about what might happen if I were to become friends with Emerson. Chances are, I could like him, maybe even
really
like him. He may even like me back. It’s a risk, but it’s time for me to start taking chances. No longer having Momma to worry about gives me the opportunity to start living my life for myself.

But am I game enough to try?

Swallowing the bite of my burger, I wipe my face with my napkin. “So what’s your damage?” I ask, convincing myself that he must have some sort of emotional baggage if he’s continuing to chase after me, despite me being a cold hard bitch. Even though I’ve carefully constructed this wall around me, there’s something about this boy that intrigues me. Something that makes me think I
could
care. Maybe.

Shaking his head, he gives me a sideways smirk. “I’m not giving it up that easy,” he says between bites. “Not until you give me something about you.” He pauses, taking a long sip from his milkshake and I feel the burger in my stomach threaten to make reappearance. Of all the topics he could choose, he couldn’t have picked something a little less intrusive? Granted I asked him, but isn’t it good manners to
answer
a question? You don’t answer a question with a question; that’s just rude.

Having never had a friend other than Chrissy, I’m a little unsure about the whole “getting to know you” part of things. Couldn’t he have started with my favorite color? Or brand of shampoo? Why did he have to touch upon the one subject I want to avoid? Wracking my brains while my heart beats at a rate rival to that of a hummingbird, I remember Chrissy saying that guys like girls who listen to them. I’m about to try and turn the tables on this conversation when he says, “Tit for tat, so to speak. Besides, it’s only fair. I’ve been sticking my neck out, trying to get you to notice me for the past few months. It’s the least you could do.”

I groan before tossing down a half-eaten fry. “Ugh. Must we talk about me? I’m really not that interesting. I swear.”

“You’re only not interesting to yourself. When people become friends they talk about their lives. It’s quite the concept. You should try it sometime.”

“Fine!” I yell, my voice too harsh and too loud, the thought of having to talk about myself making me angry. I realize that I’ve overreacted, but it’s too late. Looking around, I notice everyone in the diner glancing in our direction. I run my hand through my hair, focusing on my plate of food. This boy. He doesn’t pussy foot around me, putting me in my place every time I try to push back. Somehow he gets under my skin.

Taking a deep breath, I let the words spill from my mouth. “My momma loved her job more than me. Sometimes I wonder if she even loved me at all.”

The words sting more than I expect them to. They’re harsh and I can see my own sadness reflected on Emerson’s face. “That,” I gesture toward his face, “is why I never bother to tell anyone anything about myself. I can’t stand their pity.”

Shaking his head, he sighs. “It’s not pity, Presley. I can empathize is all.”

Feeling slightly more at ease with his admission, I set down my burger again. “Your turn then.”

“My dad was, and still is, always working—that is when he’s not off having one of his ‘episodes.’ He missed games, awards . . . pretty much every single one of my birthdays. He taught me how to not be a father. But at least I had my mom. Now, she is amazing.”

“What do you mean
episodes?
” I ask. It’s probably more than he’s willing to give, but I can’t help but want to know.

“My dad has struggled with his mental health for years. He goes off and leaves us for days at a time. He always said it was for work, but I’m not so sure.”

Listening to Emerson talk about his own parental issues soothes me in a way. Here we are, from two completely different walks of life, yet somehow we find common ground. “Playing second fiddle sucks,” I mumble, taking a bite from my burger.

“Sure does,” he agrees quietly, lost deep in his own thoughts.

With a full mouth I continue. “But, at least you had your mom. I only had Chrissy to help me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s one of the most amazing people to have your back, but I can’t imagine it’s the same.”

Continuing to make work of his meal, he nods.

We eat in silence for a few more minutes, me watching with curiosity as Emerson runs his hand along the back of his neck, almost as though he’s trying to ease his own tension. He shakes his head and continues eating in silence. With the sudden unease, I withdraw into my own little world, picking at my fries before the sound of Emerson cracking his knuckles pulls me back from my daze.

I look back at him just in time to watch him quickly throw down two twenties and stand up from the table, putting his hand out for me. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”

Unsure, I look up at him from beneath my eyelashes knowing that this could be the moment. This is one of those times that will dictate my future. I can feel it in my bones and it scares me shitless. Trying to buy time I look down at my plate. It’s practically empty, I really don’t have any errands to run, and I’m not quite ready to go back home and face my reality yet. There are no more excuses. Besides, when I look into his eyes I see something that reaches deep into my soul. Something that makes me want to go with him; to let him have a chance. “Where are we going?” I ask between shallow breaths.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

My head screams at me, but something in my heart stirs. I may not trust him, but somewhere deep within me, I want to. Turning my self-doubt and negative thoughts off, I place my hand in his and he helps me to my feet, pulling me so close that my stomach is almost touching his.

“You can trust me, Presley.”

I say the only thing I can.

“I’ll try.”

THE RADIO IN EMERSON’S CAR
plays a song that catches my attention. The words are familiar, but the tune and voice singing it are different. Punk rock almost. I try to place it for a few seconds before finally looking at him and asking, “What is this?”

The dimples on his cheeks appear and my insides stir a little. “I Believe I Can Fly,” he says through his smile.

Instantly, I recognize the song but it doesn’t sound like the version I knew years ago. “I knew the words were familiar, but that’s not R. Kelly singing,” I say with confusion.

“Nope,” he states, handing me over a CD case with five dudes dressed in 1950s sweaters, dancing on a checkerboard. “
Me First and the Gimme Gimme’s
. They cover classic songs with a punk rock twist. I’ve been a fan ever since middle school.”

Grabbing the CD case, I shrug. “Never heard of them.”

“I feel bad for you,” he teases. “Such a sheltered life you’ve led.”

I force a fake smile. He doesn’t know the half of it. My life is anything but sheltered. I just haven’t had the luxury of being able to be a fan of music, movies, or anything outside the box. All my energy is spent focusing on learning everything I can so that I can eventually get the hell out from the death clutches of Big Earl, and the life that had killed Momma.

Concentrating on the lyrics flowing from the stereo, I’m able to block out my thoughts for the remaining drive. The atmosphere in the car is comfortable, and as Emerson absently taps his thumbs on the steering wheel as he drives, I feel myself relax a bit. This is what normalcy must feel like. I could get used to this.

Emerson turns the wheel, pulling into a cemetery with dirt roads peppering the lush green rolling hills. My curiosity piques and I find myself leaning forward in my seat. “A cemetery?” I ask, disregarding the obvious.

He nods. “I told you, I have something I want to show you.”

We drive down the long winding dirt road for a while before he places the car in park and unfastens his seat belt. There’s no chapter on how to handle situations like this is any of the books I’ve read so when he doesn’t say a word, just gets out of the car and walks away from me, I fumble with my own belt and find myself quickly walking behind him in order to catch up.

He’s already standing in front of a headstone by the time I reach him. His eyes are looking down, his fingertips tracing the words scrolled on the white stone. Following his gaze, I read over his shoulder.

“Sebastian Emerson Williams. Son, taken too soon.”

I recognize the last name as Emerson’s, as well as the middle name, the same as his first. There has to be some sort of connection. But what?

“Your brother?” I ask.

“No,” he says, an uncharacteristic sadness to his voice. “My son.”

A gasp escapes from between my lips and, shocked by my visceral reaction, I clamp my hand over my mouth, preventing any further inappropriate responses.

“I was only sixteen when my girlfriend at the time told me she was pregnant. It was like my whole life stopped. My reaction was negative to say the least. I could literally see all my hopes and dreams swirling down the toilet, but I refused to not be part of everything. I had to be there for them both.” He sighs. “The pregnancy progressed normally and she went into labor on a Saturday. I can remember being so nervous driving to the hospital. Nervous that I would be a shitty dad like mine. Nervous that I wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibility. Once I got there she was already pretty far into her labor and within the hour she gave birth to him. Our son. But the room never filled with cries like it should have. He came out struggling to live. Fighting to breathe.”

Tears built up behind my eyelids, which had long closed, and a lump formed in my throat.

“At our twenty week ultrasound they thought they found a heart defect. But further testing came back negative so we figured we were in the clear. We thought wrong. The doctors did all they could: transfusions, oxygen, and even an operation in attempt to correct the defect. But it was all in vain. He died a week after he was born, and I buried my son on my 17
th
birthday.”

“I’m so sorry,” is all I manage to say. It’s all I really could think to say; one of those instinctive reactions ingrained in people when they have no clue how to verbalize how they’re feeling. Emerson had been through so much at such a young age. Even though he seemed so put together and so lively, he had such deep seeded pain that I couldn’t even imagine.

“It’s been five years and it doesn’t get any easier. Every day I feel sadness for him, but I pick myself up and keep going.”