Untouched: a Cedar Cove Novella (3 page)

This isn’t for
him.
I tell myself sternly.
For all you know, Emerson doesn’t
even live in town; he’s just passing through.

Still, that doesn’t
stop me dabbing on some lip-gloss, and fixing my hair in a braid
before thundering back downstairs and out to the garage, to pick out
one of the rusted old bicycles and push off towards town.

The winding back-road
is empty, and the sound of birdsong and rustle of the trees in the
wind is a strange backdrop after our city suburb, with the lawns all
trimmed neatly, and cookie-cutter houses laid out in straight lines.
But as I cycle, I’m not thinking about the scenery, or the freedom
of summer stretching out in front of me. There’s only one thing on
my mind.

Him.

Emerson. I roll the
name around my mind, feeling that anxious flutter in my stomach just
at the thought of him. It’s crazy, I know, the way I fell to pieces
just from one look of those midnight blue eyes. When I remember the
way I stuttered and stared at him in a daze, it makes me hot with
embarrassment all over again.

And just plain hot.

I grip the handlebars
tighter. It was never a big deal in high-school, but now I’ve
graduated – about to head off to college – I’m realizing just
how inexperienced I am when it comes to guys. To sex. The truth is,
the sum total of my romantic experience is a couple of sloppy makeout
sessions in the back room of some basement party with a guy from this
local garage band. My friend Shana was dating the lead singer, and so
when it got late, and everyone else was pairing off, I’d wind up
hanging with the drummer, playing video games and killing time
waiting for our friends to be done doing… whatever they were doing.

But even then, hooking
up with him was more curiosity than anything: an experiment, trying
to figure out what it was that sent Shana giggling after her guy with
that knowing smile on her face; that made the girls in school pour
over their cellphones and ditch class to meet guys. But the
experiments never worked. For all my drummer boy’s enthusiastic
groping, all I felt was restless, detached. I never got it, never
knew what it was I was missing out on.

Not until Emerson
smiled at me.

Jesus.
I try to
shake the thought away as I turn off the dirt road onto Main Street.
One smile—it’s like I’m so starved of male attention that I’m
melting for the first guy to check me out. But even as I scold
myself, I know it’s not true. The heat in his eyes as they trailed
over my body lit some answering flame in me; nerves and synapses
crackling to life with a deep pull I’d only ever glimpsed from far
away. Call it desire, or lust, or just plain possibility, but it was
something new. And now I’ve had a taste, I can’t help but look
for him on every street as I cycle slowly through town, hoping to see
that red truck parked on the corner, or his tall, muscular body
strolling down the sidewalk.

I make a slow circuit
down to the harbor and back, but it doesn’t take long for me to
tour the entirety of Cedar Cove, and soon, I’m right back where I
started. I pull over, fastening my bike up outside Mrs. Olsen’s, a
cute little diner I remember serving the biggest ice-cream floats I’d
ever seen. I must have been seven years old back then, but when I
step inside the front door and the bell rings out, I swear, it hasn’t
changed at all. Red chequered linoleum covers the floor, and a
jukebox in the corner plays old Motown songs to the blue plate
special crowd.

“Sit anywhere,
honey.” An older woman calls from the front counter, so I pick a
booth by the window.

Just in case Emerson
comes by.

I pull out my workbook
and busy myself until my shake arrives, sketching out plans for my
summer photography projects. I want to work on my portfolio, so maybe
I can do a series on the town, or something about the shoreline, and
how it’s changed…

I’m lost in thought
when the waitress brings my drink. “Thanks,” I say, and take a
sip. Then I look down, and realize my hands are covered in dirt from
the bicycle. “Hey, do you have a bathroom here?”

“Right in back.”
She points it out for me. I leave my sweater in the booth but take my
purse. I guess old city habits die hard: out here, they probably all
leave their doors unlocked, and give rides to strangers.

The bathroom is a
small, two-stall room. I’m rinsing my hands at the sink when I hear
a muffled sobbing noise, coming from the occupied stall.

I stop.

The noise comes again,
ragged, like someone’s weeping, and doing their best not to be
heard.

“Hello?” I ask
cautiously. “Is everything OK?”

Another sob comes,
louder.

I move over to the
door, and tap gently. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

“N…no.” A woman’s
voice replies, hoarse. “I…I’m fine.”

I stand there, awkward.
“Are you sure? I could call someone for you.”

There’s a pause, and
then the door swings open to reveal a woman huddled on the seat with
tissue paper bunched in her hands. She’s older, in her forties
maybe, wearing a cheap red tank top and jeans, with mascara running
down her cheeks and dark roots under bleached hair.

She looks up at me, and
her expression is so hopeless, I catch my breath. “Are you OK?” I
ask again. She’s nervy, jittering, and I realize what’s wrong.
I’ve seen it before, with my dad, every time he goes more than a
day or two without a drink. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”

She shakes her head,
inhaling and wiping her eyes with shaking hands. “I’m fine,
honey. Don’t you worry.”

The woman gets up, and
I stand back to let her past. She takes a couple of steps towards the
door, and then her legs give way. I rush to hold her up, but her
weight is too much for me. I lower her gently, so she’s crumpled on
the floor, leaning against the wall.

“I’ll go get
someone,” I say hurriedly. She doesn’t look hurt, but her face is
pale, and her eyes are bloodshot; her whole body trembling.

“No, I’m fine, I
just need a moment!” she protests, but I’m already out of the
door.

I find the waitress by
the register. “I need some help,” I say quietly. “There’s a
woman back there, she’s in a bad way…About this tall,” I
describe. “Blondish hair, red tank top…”

The waitress’s face
changes.“Dawn.” She sighs with recognition. “Don’t worry,
sweetheart. I’ll handle it.” She moves to the phone, and dials a
number.

“Is she hurt?” I
ask, worried.

“Only what she does
to herself.” The woman’s tone is resigned. “Thanks for looking
out, but we’ll be fine. Your shake is melting.” She points to my
booth, but I shake my head.

“It’s OK. I’ll
stay with her.”

The waitress shrugs, as
if to say, ‘suit yourself’, and then starts murmuring into the
phone. I collect a wad of napkins and some ice-water, and head back
to the bathroom.

The woman hasn’t
moved. Her head is tipped back, eyes closed, like she wishes she was
anywhere but here.

“Here, you’re Dawn,
right?” I say, crouching beside her. “We’re calling someone for
you.”

She takes the water and
sips, avoiding my gaze. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk, so I
wait in silence beside her until, after what feels like forever, the
bathroom door flies open.

“Get up.” The order
comes in a harsh voice that sends a shock right through me. I
recognize that voice, from just a few hours ago, but it can’t be….

It is.

Emerson.

I stare up at him,
stunned. I can tell from the expression on his face, he’s just as
surprised to find me here. He’s still wearing that faded grey
T-shirt from before; his eyes a stormy blue as he glances quickly
from Dawn back to me. “What are you--?” He starts to demand,
looking so mad, I scramble to my feet.

“I found her like
this.” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… They said
they were calling someone, but I thought I should wait, make sure she
was OK...”

Now it’s my turn to
trail off into silence, my words dying as I take in the anger and
harsh, flinty resentment etched across his chiseled face. He looks
like a totally different person to the guy I met earlier: that
Emerson was smirking, flirtatious, playful. Even when he was yelling
at me about the accident, there was something confident about him,
full of swagger. But this Emerson looks hollowed out, so tense it’s
like his body could snap with just one touch.

Hold
him.

The thought comes from
nowhere, and I fight it off, waiting until finally, Emerson gives a
sharp nod. “Thanks,” he grounds out, like he means anything but.
“I got it from here.”

He reaches down and
grabs the woman’s arm. “Come on, mom.” he grounds out through
gritted teeth.

Mom?

“You’re hurting
her.” Before I can think better of it, I rush forwards and gently
help Dawn to her feet. “Do you think you can walk OK?” I ask
softly, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Sure she can.”
Emerson interrupts, but I ignore him, keeping my focus fixed on the
woman’s watery eyes.

“Just hold onto me,
OK?” I tell her brightly. “Easy there.” I put my arm around her
shoulders, helping her along, and slowly, we shuffle out of the
bathroom and back into the diner. Thankfully, it’s almost empty,
and the family in the corner is more concerned with the toddler
grabbing at their plates than us. “Don’t worry,” I tell Dawn,
guiding her outside. “We’ll get you home soon, OK?”

Emerson’s red truck
is parked out front, slung at an angle across the street like he
didn’t take the time to park.

“I got it from here.”
he tells me curtly, when Dawn is delivered into the passenger seat.
He doesn’t meet my eyes, or say anything more, he just slams the
door and strides around to the driver’s side like I’m not even
here anymore.

I stand a moment there
on the sidewalk, frozen. I know I should leave them. This is none of
my business, and God knows, it looks like he’s got enough to deal
with, but something about the hollow resignation in his voice and the
brisk way he shuffled her out of the diner breaks my heart.

He’s done this
before.

Before I can stop
myself, I open the cab door and scramble up beside Dawn in the
passenger seat. Emerson looks over, his mouth dropping open in shock
to see me here.

“I’m coming with
you.” I say breathlessly. “I can help.”

Emerson scowls at me.
“Get out of my truck.”

“No.” I reply,
amazed at my sudden bravery. “I’m coming. I can help.”

He glares at me,
fierce. “We don’t need your help.”

“Well tough, you’re
getting it.” I snap my seatbelt on, and then help fasten one around
Dawn. She’s sitting limply between us, crying softly like she’s
got no energy left. “Go on, drive.”

Emerson stares at me
another moment, his jaw clenched, then starts the engine. He drives
angry through town, taking the corners too fast so I have to hold
Dawn up against me to stop her slipping against her belt.

I don’t dare tell him
to slow down. I still can’t believe I demanded he take me with
them, I just know somehow, deep down, I can’t let him go through
this alone. Even if he’s a stranger to me, even if hates me for it,
nobody should have to go through this alone.

I should know.

Emerson takes us a
little ways out of town, pulling up outside a squat, small bungalow
half-hidden in the woods. It’s an old, run-down home in desperate
need of repairs, but as I follow him to the front porch, I can see
that the lawn is freshly mown, and there’s a fresh coat of paint on
the door.

The small details make
my heart twist: the sad evidence of someone desperately trying to
keep things together.

We carry Dawn inside. I
expect Emerson to kick me out or tell me to leave now, but instead,
it’s like he’s given up on getting rid of me. When I send him to
make some coffee, he obeys without a word, disappearing while I run a
hot bath, and feed Dawn some aspirin and a glass of water. She sits,
red-eyed in her underwear in the water. She’s zoned-out now, limp
as a rag-doll as I wrap her in a robe and settle her on the bed in
the master bedroom. She curls into a ball, ignoring everything.

On the bedside table,
there’s a photograph in a cheap plastic frame. It must have been
taken years ago, because it takes me a second to recognize Dawn,
bright-eyed and smiling. She’s got a new baby in her arms, and
another blonde toddler in her lap, and standing shyly beside her is a
dark-haired boy I can’t believe is Emerson. I look closer. The edge
of the photograph is ragged, as if someone’s been torn out of the
shot.

The sound of Dawn’s
breathing beside me slows, so I put the photograph back and
cautiously wander out into the living room, still bracing myself for
Emerson’s anger. The house is empty, but I see a flash of movement
out in the yard, so I pull the screen door back and step outside.

Emerson is pacing in
the back yard, a beer bottle in his hands. The sun is setting, and
his features are shadowed in the dim light. I feel a flutter of
nerves, but push them down, waiting for him to say something.
Anything at all.

Nothing.

“She’s sleeping
now.” I break the silence. “She should be better in the morning.”

“Better?” Emerson
turns, spitting the word back at me. His face is still etched with
anger, his eyes clouded and bleak. “How can you say that?” He
demands, coming closer. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

“You needed me.” My
response is quiet and trembling.

“Yeah? How?”
Emerson roars. “What the fuck do you know about any of this?” he
demands, furious.“You’re just some pampered brat with a beach
house! What gives you the right to come into our lives, and act like
you know a damn thing about it?”

“Because I know!” I
yell back, my frustration finally boiling over. “Because I’ve had
to scrape my daddy off the floor more times than I can count. You
think I haven’t been here?” I demand, advancing on Emerson. I
shove at his chest, sending him reeling back. “You think I don’t
know what it’s like, getting the call to come pick him up, because
he’s passed out in the back room somewhere, choking on his own
vomit? Believe me, I’ve seen it all.” I spit, hollow from years
trying to keep the truth from Mom. “So quit acting like I’m the
one to blame here, when all I wanted to do was help!”