Unbroken (16 page)

Emerson tucks a stray strand of sweaty hair behind my ears, and drops a gentle kiss on my temple. “You good?” he checks.

“Uh huh,” is all I can manage in response.

He laughs, a low chuckle against my neck. Then I feel a hesitation, his body tensing, just the smallest amount. I twist to look at him.

“What?”

He studies me carefully, dark with unspoken questions. “The boyfriend…” he says at last.

“We’re not together.” I tell him quietly. “Not for now.”

“Good.” Emerson’s eyes flash. “Because if you think I’m letting him touch you, after this…”

I giggle.

His expression darkens. “What’s so funny?”

“You.” I grin, that amazing calm afterglow still flooding my system. “Think I could… that I would do this, with him, after…” I trail off, looking around. “Shit!” I exclaim, seeing the mess. “What did we do to this place?” The floor is covered with cans and packets of food we must have sent tumbling from the shelves as we slammed up against them.

Emerson grins. “Yeah, I had more important things on my mind.”

I laugh, and lean up to kiss him gently on the lips. Emerson captures my mouth, deep and slow, and brings his hand to cup my cheek, the rough pad of his thumb stroking my cheek as I sink into his kiss.

This, right here. It’s all I ever wanted.
It’s everything.

There’s a noise. I break away and look up in time to see the door swing open. The storage room is flooded with light as someone steps inside. Brit. She’s got her hair pulled back and an apron over a cut-off T and mini-skirt.

“What the fuck?” She gapes at us, tangled half-naked on the floor.

I let out a yelp of embarrassment and scramble for my shirt.

“Get out!” Emerson yells out in anger. He leaps to his feet, grabbing to zip up his fly.

Brit backs out of the room, looking horrified. “Sorry!” She yelps, and slams the door shut again.

I tug my bikini and T-shirt back in place, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Oh God, how much did she see?!

There’s tap on the door, and then Brit’s voice comes again, nervous. “Um, Em? There’s a bunch of guys waiting at the bar, and I’m not old enough to serve them beers…”

“Just keep them busy, I’ll be right out!” Emerson calls back. He turns to me, looking sheepish. “Uh, sorry about that. I forgot this door doesn’t lock.”

“You think?!” I exclaim. I make sure everything’s covered, and catch my breath.

“I better get out there before they start to riot.” He starts towards the door. I prepare to follow him.

“How do I look?” I ask. My cheeks are still burning when I think about Brit walking in like that. Hell, she’s probably told everyone in the bar by now!

“Like I’ve just been doing unspeakable things to you.” Emerson says with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“No!” I yelp, patting frantically at my hair – now tangled and messy.

He laughs. “Relax, you look great. Always.”

Emerson holds his hand out to me. I look at it for a split-second, amazed that after everything, I’ve wound up here. A week ago, I would have laughed at anyone saying I’d be back in Emerson’s arms—or on my knees in a storage closet. I would have said they were crazy, that I would never be so reckless and stupid and backwards. But here I am, and I don’t feel any of those things.

I feel free.

I take Emerson’s hand and follow him back out into the bar. I’m blushing, certain everyone will be able to tell what we were just doing, but nobody even turns in our direction.

“What time do you get off?” I ask, twisting Emerson’s fingers in mine. It’s crazy, I still can taste him in my mouth, but I already want him again—for real this time. All the way.

“You tell me.” Emerson grins, and I can tell from the dark flash in his eyes that he’s thinking the same thing. He leans in close, lips softly scratching my earlobe as he whispers in a low, seductive drawl. “I can have this place shut down in five minutes. Just say the word.”

I feel a shiver of excitement, but I know I need some breathing room. Time to process what just happened in there. I step back, lightly planting my hands on the broad planes of his chest. “No, finish up here. Come over when your shift’s done.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I start to walk away, but Emerson grabs my arm and yanks me back. Before I can think, he takes me in his arms and dips me low to the floor, capturing my mouth in a scorching kiss. I can hear the sound of whoops and whistling around us. Then Emerson lifts me up again, setting me back on my feet. I blink at him a moment, breathless and dizzy.

He winks at me. “See you later.”

I nod dumbly. I don’t know how I manage to turn and walk away, but somehow, I make it back out to the car. I open the door and slip into the driver’s seat, my head still reeling from that heart-stopping kiss.

God, but that man can kiss.

And do a whole lot more besides…

My mind flashes back to the storage closet, and his mouth closed over my nipple; his fingers driving me insane. I sink lower in my seat, flushing hot just at the thought of it—of what I did to him!

And what I want to do to him, tonight…

Later.

I shake it off and start the engine, but even as I crank the radio loud and drive back towards the beach house, I can’t stop the grin of pure satisfaction from spreading across my face, so wide my cheeks almost hurt. I feel like a kid the night before Christmas, full of nervous anticipation and excitement for what’s to come. Except Emerson isn’t just a Christmas present to unwrap, he’s birthdays, and holidays, and summer vacation all rolled up into one: every good thing to look forward to, waiting for me.

Tonight.

* * *

Back at the house, I drag my duffel inside and unpack for real this time, in one of the upstairs guest bedrooms I always used to sleep in, all those summers ago. It’s the smallest of the four bedrooms, so the others never wanted it, but I loved tiny space, crammed up in the attic under the eaves with a too-big bed and a chipped dresser. The flower-print wallpaper is faded now, but the windows are hung with gauzy blue curtains that flutter in the breeze, and the view looks all the way out across the shore.

I open the windows wide to the warm, afternoon breeze and hang my clothes in the closet, going down to the bathroom on the first floor to arrange my toiletries and makeup. I hum along to the radio, breathing in the scent of salty air and summertime. Now that I don’t have the anxious fear of seeing Emerson hanging over me, calm and relaxed, some of the dark shadows in the house fade away.

Some, but not all.

I pass a closed door in the hallway: the master bedroom. The one room I still can’t bring myself to step inside. I pause, and lift my fingertips to rest them against the wood, like I can feel the ghosts lurking, just on the other side of the door.

This was my mom’s room. Dad was never around enough for it to belong to him, so I always thought of it as hers. She picked out the pink comforter, and painted the dresser to match when I was still a kid: dripping paint all over newspaper on the porch. She even had some of my photos framed and hung above the bed. I can see it all so clearly, from that last afternoon.

The day that I found her.

I feel an ache in my chest, but this time, I don’t try to swallow it back. I just hold the pain there, breathing slowly, in and out. In and out.

I lean forwards and rest my head against the door. Tears pool, hot in my eyes, and I feel one trickle down my cheek. I want to open the door, I really do. I want to step inside, and see the stripped mattress, and the empty space—show myself that it’s all in the past. That the ghosts don’t live here anymore.

But something in me fights just as hard to keep it closed. Because as long as I can picture her there behind the door, she’s not gone yet. I can imagine walking in, and seeing her frozen body laying there motionless on the bed. I picture rushing to her side the way I did four years ago, grabbing her shoulders and shaking, filled with desperation and panic. I yell her name, begging, pleading at her to wake up. But this time, my terrified shouts break through her slow drift, and her eyelids flutter, and she opens her eyes.

I find her soon enough. I save her.

The way I couldn’t save her before.

Nobody understands the secret guilt I’ve had to carry all this time, but why would they? We told everyone it was cancer that killed her, but that’s not the truth, not really. It was the reasons she died, sure, but in the end, my mom took her own life with a handful of painkillers washed down by a bottle of wine.

Suicide.

The doctor and my dad agreed to keep it under wraps. I didn’t even have time to tell Emerson before the funeral. The doctor told us after, that there was nothing we could have done anyway: the disease was too far advanced. Chemo, surgery—it was too late for anything. My mom knew, all along. It’s why she brought us here, for one last summer together.

And then, when summer was over, she left us without even saying goodbye.

I spent a long time hating her for it. Raging in my darkness that she could lie to me like that. Just give up, not even try to fight, and take the easy way out. But when the fury burned away, I could see, that there was nothing easy about her choices. She wanted to spare herself the slow, agonizing death of just wasting into skin and bones. She wanted to spare us the sight of watching her die.

I’ve forgiven her for what she did, but I’m still not sure I can forgive myself.

Because in my darkest hours, the whispers come, cruel and taunting. Maybe if I’d been a better daughter, she would have thought she still had something left to live for.

I let out a long sigh, and slowly step back from the door. The counselor at college I saw freshman year told me that every time I had a bad memory of my mom’s death, I should try and think of a happy one we shared, to balance it out. I only went to her for a few sessions: after I got the prescription for anti-anxiety meds, I figured it was best to just put my head down and try to get on with things, instead of endlessly talking about the past. But now I have that vision of mom’s body on the bed back in my head, I decide to take her advice. I wander downstairs and into the kitchen, searching my memory for something, anything, to replace it.

Meatloaf.

I see the baking dish sticking out of the top of a box, and remember. That last summer, mom had a weird fixation with teaching me to cook. She had a bunch of old recipes, handed down from her mom, and grandmother before that, and kept nagging at me to learn. I could care less—I was caught up in Emerson, and my photography, and the last thing I wanted was to stand around some steamy kitchen cooking, when I could be off at the beach somewhere with him. But mom kept on at me, and so one rainy afternoon when Emerson had to work, I agreed to let her teach me.

We drove through the rain to the market, and I trailed behind the cart and watched her pick out ingredients. She told me how to check with the guy at the meat counter about the beef, and pick tomatoes that weren’t watery, and what spices would make just the right sauce. There was something manic, almost frenzied about her enthusiasm, the way she babbled on about how her grandmother brought the recipe over from Europe before the war, and how her mom changed this and that. To tell the truth, I zoned most of it out, too busy texting Emerson flirty messages. Now I know why she was so insistent, thrilled to get the chance to pass on the family recipe before it was too late.

She knew she didn’t have much time.

We spent the afternoon cooking here in the kitchen as the rain poured down outside. Mom played old country classics on the stereo, and soon, even I was humming along, chopping and stirring and mixing with her at the counter. All our fights about Emerson and my college choices were put on hold, like we hit pause in our mother-daughter battles. Looking back now, I can see it was a perfect day: no deep forced conversation or anything, just simple, comfortable togetherness.

The kind I’ll never get with her again.

I look around the kitchen. I can almost smell the scent of oregano and basil, see mom pirouetting between the refrigerator and the stove-top. I hug myself, trying to hold the happy picture in my mind. I can’t remember the last time I let myself just think about her. After it happened, and I fell apart, I figured the only way to keep going was to block it all out completely: the good memories, along with the bad. I’ve worked so hard to push down any thought of her, scared to death that the moment I let her picture fill my thoughts, or conjure up the sound of her voice, then I’ll see her body, laying there all over again. And, worse, feel the familiar tight bands of steel smothering my breath, the rush of hot panic that crushes me alive.

But here I am, thinking about her, and I feel OK. Sad, yes. Wistful, and regretting, and edged with all my usual guilt and anger, but not so bad I can’t keep it under control.

Maybe I’m ready to start remembering.

I exit the kitchen door and cut across the lawn to my photography shed. Inside, I find everything where I left it: chemicals in their bottles on the shelf, plastic basins stacked in the sink. And that airtight box of old film canisters, waiting to be developed after all these years.