Working Girl (12 page)

A lock of hair flops down across his forehead, and when he sweeps it away with the back of his hand his eyes meet mine and I question how I can know those eyes so well when I don’t really know him at all. What I do know of him is dangerous for someone like me. Emerson is a heady mix of conventionally attractive and captivatingly enigmatic. The fact that I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, unfurling slowly from my stomach to make its way up my torso to my heart, does nothing to clear the dark cloud that fogs my mind, and I find the heat burns to a fever pitch, leaving me more angry than he deserves.

Before I really take the time to process, I glare at him and let the words start flying from my mouth. “What are you doing here? You have no right to just show up here—”

“I called him,” Chrissy whispers from my left, her words stopping me mid-rant.

For some reason I can’t help but feel betrayed. “You what?” Anger seeps from every pore and I try my hardest to maintain some level of composure as I slowly look sideways at Chrissy.

“I got his number from one of the guys we went to the movies with . . . what was his name?”

“Brad.” Emerson’s voice is flat and monotone.

“Hmph.” Chrissy had obviously had a better time than I thought. Just once, I wanted her to be normal; to keep herself from jumping someone’s bones. And if we weren’t in the middle of my mother’s funeral, I would probably bitch her out for overstepping the mark and inviting him here. She had no right.

“I can leave if you want me to.”

Turning away from Chrissy, I direct my attention back to Emerson
.
While I’m angry at Chrissy, my vulnerability and remorse for my mother are at the forefront of my emotions. Momma deserves more people to mourn her. And well, I really kind of want his company. It’s strange, but my interest in him never stops. It’s borderline unhealthy. Ultimately, I know that nothing good will come of me letting him in, but I can’t stop myself. Maybe I was being too bitchy. He’s all dressed up, and he’s just trying to be nice. “Well you
are
already here . . .” I lead.

My statement is all the affirmation he needs. Stepping forward, he takes a spot on my right and the three of us stand there, shoulders almost touching, silently looking out over the vastness of the canyon, lost in our own worlds. Moments pass with the breeze that is swirling through the canyon. Eventually, I find my voice. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Sometimes saying nothing is better than spewing words that have no meaning,” Emerson says.

I look to him, confused. Confused as to why he’s really here. Why he thought he should come. Intrigued by his mysterious air, as my eyes press down on him he turns my way, allowing the sun to catch his face. He forces a smile and I feel myself relax.

Chrissy’s hand touches mine. Her touch is warm against my skin, pulled taut with the effort of clenching Momma’s urn so tightly. “It’s time to let her go, Presley.”

I nod, the tears stinging my eyes and making their presence known. “Can we sing?” I manage to ask with a quivering voice.

Chrissy nods and we immediately start singing “In the Ghetto.” Not only was it Momma’s favorite, but it seems like the most appropriate song to describe her life . . . and death. We make it through the first verse before Emerson joins us, and his voice is so pure and soulful that it is enough to make Chrissy and I stop in our tracks. He continues singing by himself for another verse before he realizes he’s on his own and shuts his mouth.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because you didn’t need us mucking it up,” Chrissy responds immediately.

He laughs and I stare at him. Yes, I
stare
. Craning his neck in curiosity, he looks back at me. “What?”

“Nothing.” I immediately divert my gaze toward the ground, but in reality I’m blown away. . Emerson is smart, talented, not to mention gorgeous—I mean,
hello
, those dimples—and he came all the way here, to the funeral of a woman he never even met, just to support me. He is nothing short of amazing.

Snapping myself out of my hormone-induced drivel, I bring myself back to the present. Momma is dead. Today is about her; not about some boy I don’t deserve.

Slowly and with shaking hands, I twist off the top of Momma’s urn, knowing I need to say something.
Anything
. But words escape me and in their place the tears roll free. My hands hold tightly onto the sides and I shake with nervousness. I’m not ready to let go, and even though I want to close this chapter of my life and let Momma rest in peace, part of me isn’t ready to lose her. Maybe it’s because I never really got to have her in the first place. She was never really a mother and yet here I am, expected to say nice things and move on, when what I actually want is a do-over. A chance for her to be the mother she should have been.

The tears are coming faster and Chrissy places her arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight in an attempt to soothe me. Silence resounds through the canyon and I question how I’m going to say goodbye.

“Can I?”

With tears spilling from my eyes, I nod, the lump in my throat preventing me from talking is reason enough to let him speak. Momma deserves something nice to be said for her. He clears his throat and starts to speak.

“Good-by proud world, I’m going home,

Tourt not my friend, and I’m not thine;

Long through the weary crowds I roam;

A river-ark on the ocean brine,

Long I’ve been tossed like the driven foam, But now, proud world, I’m going home.”

Chrissy sniffles next to me, but my tears have stopped flowing. My sadness replaced with awe and wonderment. “‘Good-by’ is one of my favorite Emerson poems,” I whisper.

Chrissy wipes her nose and looks at me before pointing in Emerson’s direction. “He wrote that?”

“I wish. The poet I was named after wrote it.”

“Do you know all of his poems?” she asks.

“Most of them. When I was about eight or nine, I thought it would be cool to memorize some of the poems so that I could recite them to Ma. She loved it, and it became quite the trick at the country club.”

“Thank you,” I manage to say and he nods knowingly.

My hands are steady as I lift her urn, slowly tipping it and allowing the ashes to spill out, the wind catching them and carrying them away into the pale blue sky. With tears sliding down my cheeks, I watch as the gray cloud that is my Momma dissipates before my eyes, leaving behind nothing but the beautiful scenery. I imagine them being placed softly on the ground, and I imagine that it makes Momma happy. I hope she’s smiling. She deserves to smile because, sometimes, all darkness needs light.

AFTER WATCHING THE LAST OF
the ashes disappear into the wind, we decide to head to grab some food. Having thought about nothing but funeral arrangements and finances, I can’t even remember when I last ate. As soon as that thought hits, my hunger pangs grow exponentially. Chrissy and I ride together, Emerson following behind us. For the longest time we listen to the radio before the music stops abruptly and Chrissy clears her throat.

“You know, you should be nicer to him.”

Looking at her, I swallow the anger I’m suddenly feeling. We’ve just had a memorial for my Momma. I’m not exactly in the mood to talk about some boy. “Why should I?”

“Because he’s obviously crazy about you. Can’t you see that? He showed up to your Momma’s memorial for Christ sake.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” I retort.

“No, you didn’t . . . but only because you’re such a damn chicken. I did it for you, and he showed, therefore, you should be nice!”

I sigh, letting my shoulders slump in defeat. Not wishing to acknowledge the fact that what Chrissy says is true—she’s a nightmare when she’s right—I turn slightly so I’m looking out of the window. The roads are deserted. Not many cars come out this way during this time of day, mainly because it’s too hot and sandy. The skyline is littered with tall buildings; casinos and hotels mostly. It makes me think about Vegas and all it promises. People come here expecting the glamorous lifestyle. They come expecting to find fame or fortune. But the reality is that Vegas is one sick motherfucker because she taunts them with it. She shows them her glitz and glamour, but just when they think they have it all at their fingertips, she snatches it away, leaving them with barren wastelands; drained of all life. Broken. Forgotten.

I wonder if Momma ever realized that Vegas was not what it seemed, or whether she remained blinded by the promise of a life far richer than the one she found herself living.

“Did you hear me, Pres? Be nice. The boy likes you. Any idiot can see that.”

“He doesn’t need me fucking up his life,” I say devoid of all emotion.

“I know you don’t think you have anything to offer anyone.” When my mouth pulls into a tight line she sighs. “I’ve known you all my life, Presley, you can’t fool me. But there comes a time when you have to stop feeling like you’re a piece of shit, because you’re not. You’re a phenomenal human being. I know that, and Emerson obviously sees it too. Let him in. Cut the shit and let life happen. It’s time.”

We don’t say another word to each other. Silence is like a heavy blanket in the car, the only sound coming from the blinker before we turn into the restaurant. The engine has barely finished purring before I jump out, making sure to slam the car door a little too hard, just to let Chrissy know that her advice is unwelcome.

We sit down and chat casually while looking at the menu.

“I’m not feeling so well.” Chrissy stands from the table and with one look at her I know she’s lying. Chrissy gets pale when she doesn’t feel well, but right now her skin is practically glowing with radiance, and I want to kick her for ditching me. “Presley, can you take the bus the rest of the way home?”

I nod.

“I can drive you home,” Emerson offers, still looking at his menu.

“No,” Chrissy and I answer simultaneously. We both know he can’t see where I live. He’d certainly run in the other direction then. Chrissy and I share a few pointed looks before I start lying through my teeth. “I’ve got some errands to run and I like to ride the bus anyway.”

I hate the bus
.
Las Vegas scum rides the bus. I’m reminded of that fact every time I hop on one.

“Okay, whatever you say.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I go back to scouring the menu even though I know I want a burger and fries, and a nice milkshake. “So, I’ll see you at home?” Chrissy asks in my direction, but I ignore her. I’m pissed at her little charade. It’s childish.

When I don’t give her an answer she rolls her head to the side, glancing at Emerson. “Thanks for coming today. It was nice to have someone else there with us. What you said was beautiful.”

“I’m just glad I could be there.”

I look up at them and I try to gauge what he might be thinking from his facial expression. He looks indifferent, but something in his eyes leads me to believe that he means what he’s saying. Even though I’ve only looked into his eyes a handful of times, I know they can’t lie. Eyes like his weren’t made to deceive; they were made to captivate, to enchant . . . to seduce.
Oh boy, were they made to seduce.

Pull it together, Presley.

Chrissy turns on her heel, escaping before anyone can say another word, her ass shaking the whole way until she’s out the door. It doesn’t escape my notice that every pair of male eyes is on her . . . well, except for Emerson’s. He’s too busy looking at me watching her, and I can feel myself shying away. It’s a curious feeling. On one hand it’s incredibly uncomfortable feeling his eyes on me, but at the same time, being with him is effortless. It’s maddening, really. I don’t understand his interest. Why he can’t take a hint is beyond me.

The waitress comes to our table, supposedly to take our orders, but she’s too busy snapping her gum, trying to get Emerson’s attention.

“So, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before,” she leads, “and I always recognize a face like yours.”

I roll my eyes but Emerson just smiles, his eyes never leaving me. “It’s my first time. Whaddya recommend?”

She leans forward, shamelessly exposing her cleavage while opening his menu. “The burger basket with a shake is
sinful
,” she giggles.

Emerson remains unaffected by her shameless flirtation and a part of me revels in the fact that she can’t seem to gain his attention. For some reason I am what he wants to focus on and it makes me question if I should continue pushing him away.