Between the Pages: A Novel (13 page)

“Yeah, sure.”
Is she your girlfriend?
I want to scream. Did he just admit she was his girlfriend? The uncomfortable, burning fire in my belly begins to grow. I’ve only seen Sylvanna once, and even then she was a faraway illusion, but right now I want to claw her big eyeballs out.

“How about tomorrow?” I blurt out. I push away from the wall and open the passenger door without waiting for him to answer.

“Sure,” he responds. I sigh in defeat and buckle myself in as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

I sulk the entire way home. I’m pretty sure Emerson can tell, because the whole fucking time he’s wearing this amused, smug grin. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth?

Fuck
Sylvanna.

Fuck
the sexy Emerson Whittaker too.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Finley

I wake up the next morning as the sun is rising. It’s August 18
th
, or otherwise known as the day I was born. I get out of bed and stretch before heading downstairs for a large cup of coffee. I’m not even sure if Emerson will remember—I don’t recall telling him when my birthday was, but maybe I mentioned it at some point.

As I’m rummaging around in the refrigerator for some of his “organic” creamer, my eyes catch sight of a large pen set up in the living room. I close the door of the fridge quickly and walk over.

Ralph and Waldo are asleep, cuddled together on a large dog bed, and they each have a small, yellow bow tied around their middles. The pen and the bed must’ve belonged to his old dog. I see a card propped up against the cage. Smiling, I open it.

Did you really think I was going to get rid of them?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

One: there’s no writing work today. So don’t even think about it. Enjoy yourself.

Two: we’re having dinner with Sylvanna tonight. She’s excited to meet you.

Three: aside from these adorable balls of fur, your real birthday present is coming tomorrow.

E.

I set the card down and then refill the food and water bowls for Ralph and Waldo. They don’t even stir. A pang of sadness washes over me when I realize in three months, my time with Emerson is up. These guys will still be kittens, and they may never see Emerson again. I’ve already decided I will be taking the cats back home with me to the East Village. I haven’t asked Hannah yet, but luckily she can be easily swayed to do just about anything if it involves baby animals.

We’re making quick progress on his book, and we probably won’t need the original six months. For a second I consider writing slower to spread my time out, but reality sets in and I realize that wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

I make myself a large cup of coffee and go enjoy the view of the beach from the deck. The sky is still pink, and the muggy air suggests a hot day today.

I can’t stop sulking about Sylvanna. Why did I have to open my stupid mouth? Now tonight, on
my
birthday
, I have to meet and interact with the woman who’s sleeping with Emerson. I definitely don’t want to see him with
her.

There’s no point denying my attraction to him, but I guess I’ll have to hide it away.
Ignore it completely.
I have to. This is my
job
, and besides, there’s no guarantee he feels the same way. For him, all of this between us could be purely physical.

What kind of name is Sylvanna anyway? It sounds like an appliance or a form of birth control.

“Hey,” Emerson says from behind me. I twist around, and dear God—he’s shirtless and only wearing a pair of grey sweats.
Happy birthday to me.
His skin is so creamy and his chest tattoo plus the curly, brown hair make me squirm uncomfortably in my seat. He rubs his eyes sleepily and comes to sit in the chair next to me. I keep my eyes focused on the seagulls fighting in front of us.

“Hi,” I say quietly.

“Happy birthday,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Did you get my card?”

I nod. “Thank you.” My eyes drift over his bare chest, where the tribal tattoo is on full display. He catches me staring at it. “What does the tattoo mean?” I ask.

His eyes darken as he licks his lips. “It’s Hunab Ku, the Mayan symbol representing one supreme God. Hunab means one state of being, and Ku basically translates to God. The symbol is a testament to the belief that it can unite opposite forces.”

“Wow. So are you religious?” I think back to the weeks we’ve spent together. He’s never alluded to anything, but then again, religion can be a very personal topic.

“Nah. Not anymore.” He smirks, and his eyebrows shoot up.  “I went through a phase.”

I nod, smiling. “Where’d you get it?”

“Belize. I lived there for eight months.”

My eyes go wide. “That’s cool.” Add it to the list of things I don’t know about Emerson. Just at that moment, Ralph and Waldo come careening toward us, jumping and bouncing. “They’re seem to be happy that they’re staying,” I tease, picking Ralph up. I can tell it’s him because his tail is longer than Waldo’s.

“Right,” he says chuckling. “We’ll have to come up with some sort of split custody when you leave.” He faces me and smirks. “It’ll guarantee I get to see you every two weeks.”

Dear. God.

My breathing quickens.

It’ll guarantee I get to see you every two weeks.

He wants that?

Everything starts to swirl around me—him, me, the kittens, the card, his surprise, the tattoo, his past, Sylvanna, everything . . . it’s all too much. I feel sick at the prospect of seeing him with another woman. It can’t happen—not without an ally.

“Excuse me,” I say, hopping up. I quickly walk upstairs and dig around in my purse. When I find what I’m looking for I retrieve my phone.

Hey, want to come over to Emerson’s tonight? It’s my birthday and we’re having a small get-together.

Lies
.

He responds almost immediately.

Isaac: I’m there! What time?

Me: Let’s say six?

Isaac: Great. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.

I don’t reply. Instead, I sigh and toss my phone onto my bed, face down. I hear Emerson ascend the stairs, and two seconds later he’s at my door.

“You okay? You disappeared kind of fast.” He leans against the doorframe.

“Oh, yeah,” I say casually. “I was just texting Isaac.”

Emerson’s facial expression changes immediately from concern to disdain. He straightens and crosses his arms. “Oh?”

I shouldn’t admit how much I enjoy seeing him this uncomfortable. “Yeah. I figured since Sylvanna is coming over I’d invite Isaac.” I look down. I wish Brady hadn’t gone back to the city last week. I miss him.

“Huh,” he growls. “So did Isaac say if he was coming?”

“He’s coming,” I say, looking up at him and smiling. I don’t feel very awesome about doing this, but I can’t be the third wheel with Emerson and his large-breasted girlfriend. I need someone on my side.

“Great.” The insincere timbre in his voice pleases me.

“Good,” I reply, looking around my room.

He clears his throat. “I made some baked French toast for you last night—it’s in the fridge. I just have to pop it into the oven. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” I answer, honestly. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” he says curtly before turning and walking away.

*

The rest of the day follows in a similar fashion. I spend most of my morning lying on the beach in a small bikini, and Emerson speaks to me in short, brusque bursts. In the afternoon, I spend a while playing with Ralph and Waldo in the living room while Emerson reads nearby in one of the armchairs. Every so often, I catch him looking at me, and every time, he turns away quickly. Around five, I stand to go upstairs to get ready.

“I’ll be down in an hour,” I say, looking at Emerson and spying the book he’s reading. “What book is that?” It’s an attempt at initiating a polite conversation to replace the daggers we’ve been sending each other all day.
This is
so
not how I wanted to spend my birthday.
How I wish Hannah were here. Why didn’t I invite her rather than Isaac? What had I been thinking? I smile when I think of the large bouquet of fancy rananculas she sent over this morning, along with the sweet note. Best
best
friend ever.

“
The Complete Stories of Franz Kafka.
”

I nod my head once, surprised. “Interesting choice.”

“Kafka is my favorite author. His short stories are some of the best in history.”

“Did Kafka employ a ghostwriter?” I jest, but Emerson doesn’t take the bait. He just scowls and bites his thumb.

“Most likely not.”

I sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or inadequate,” I say quickly. “I just . . . 
you 
could write like Kafka. You have the potential. Saying that goes against everything about our situation, I know, but I think you should try writing after this book is done.”

“I can’t,” he replies, his voice low and reverberating. “I’ve tried.”

I hold my hands up and begin to climb the stairs. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” I add, shrugging.

He scowls at me. “Trust me on this, Finley.” His voice is cool and harsh, and for some reason, his lack of trying angers me.
Men.

“Whatever, Emerson. Be my guest and continue to throw yourself the world’s biggest pity party.” I turn and stomp up the stairs, ensuring I don’t hear his response. I slam my bedroom door like a teenager and blast some music. Why does he infuriate me so much? He’s just so goddamn stubborn.
Someone
needs to call him out. I walk to the bathroom and start a bath.

I mean, he wrote his first book without the help of a ghostwriter. Why does he assume he can’t do it again? What happened to make him lose faith? Or better yet, why does he refuse to even try?

After a long, luxurious bath, I get changed quickly. My closet here consists mostly of shorts, tank tops, and T-shirts. Luckily, the last time I was home, I thought to grab a fitted, black dress with thin straps. You could say it shows off my best 
ass
ets. I pin my hair into a messy updo, and I spend more than five minutes making my face up, which is a miracle—usually I go without it completely. I swipe some blush and eyeliner on, followed by a quick coat of mascara. The look is completed by a dangly bracelet, black booties, and some cherry-red lip stain.

At 6:05, I head downstairs. I walk down slowly, trying to listen for voices. I don’t hear anything, so I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge to grab a beer. Alcohol is a necessity for tonight. I will need every ounce of liquid courage I can get. When I close the fridge door, Emerson walks into the kitchen.

He stops mid-step and his eyes slowly roll from my face to my feet. “Uhh,” he says, flicking his eyes back up to mine, “you look very nice.” He licks his lips nervously, and I smile at his reaction.

Nailed it.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice low. I eye his outfit—tan fitted cargo pants and a denim button-up. He even trimmed his beard, so instead of the crazy reclusive writer look, he’s now sporting the rugged, edgy look. I turn and grab another beer from the fridge, hitting it roughly against the bottle opener on the opposite side of the counter. When I turn to hand it to Emerson, I catch him looking at my ass. “Here,” I say, walking toward him, “for you.”

“Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat and taking it from me, but not before wiping his palms off on his pants. Is Emerson 
nervous
?

We both silently sip our beers—me leaning against the counter, him standing awkwardly in the doorway. Neither of us say anything for minutes—we only cast furtive glances at each other once in a while. He’s the first to break the silence.

“Sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. His emotive eyes meet mine. “I guess I was just shocked you invited Isaac.”

I set my beer down and cross my arms. “Do you have a problem with the idea of me dating Isaac?”

He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. He avoids looking at me. “Yes,” he whispers, and his poignant answer makes me inhale sharply.

“
Why
?” I ask daringly.

At this, he stands up taller and looks at me with what looks like desperation. In that moment, he’s totally exposed—he’s laying everything out for me. And do you know what I see? A man who has nothing left to lose. Over the last seven weeks, there have been a few suspect scenarios, but here, now . . . he’s evidently claiming me as his, and he’s not afraid to admit it. His fierce expression says everything.

“I know I shouldn’t tell you who to date, but why did it have to be Isaac?” he asks, his voice burdened. I open my mouth to respond, but he interjects, “I don’t want you to date him.”

He doesn’t 
want 
me to date Isaac? “Umm, since when did you get to dictate my personal life?” I ask, my voice tinged with anger.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Jesus, Finley. I’m just trying to protect you. Isaac can be a real bastard to women.”

“And that’s the only reason you don’t want me to date him?” I ask caustically. I watch him as he struggles to respond. As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and Emerson’s eyes pierce mine as I walk past him to answer it. I need to get away from him.

He grabs my arm and pulls me back, turning me around to face him. His eyes are searching mine, searing my heart, and it’s obvious he’s desperately trying to tell me whatever he wishes he could say. The man is a writer. He owns words.
Why can’t he speak them?
My heavy breathing is the only thing I hear—besides the rush of blood in my ears. The doorbell rings again, and he drops my arms.