“Crap, I have to put an end to all this craziness.” Anger had replaced my sadness, and I felt a stubborn destructive streak coursing through my veins.
“I gotta go,” I told my dad as Bev made her way back into the kitchen. I shooed her out with my hand.
“Em, listen to me. None of this is Price’s fault. Do you hear me? Don’t take this out on him.”
Not really sure what I knew or what I heard, I knew what I had to do. After disconnecting the call, I marched out to Sheila and Bev’s living room. “I’ll be back. You stay.”
“Wait!” they called out in unison, but I didn’t listen.
Price
“I’m back!” Finally back from Pennsylvania, I dropped my bag on the floor, disappointed that the apartment looked empty.
Emerson hadn’t answered any of my texts all day. Not a single one. I knew she was working at the bakery, but it was closed for the day by now. Fucking Moira and that group text stuck in my gut like sour milk.
My greeting met silence, but the security alarm wasn’t on, so I wondered if Emerson fell asleep. That had to be it.
“Em?” I called, walking toward the bedroom. My pulse raced, worry and regret pounding in my chest.
I stopped when I noticed a yellow sticky note on the counter.
I can’t do this right now. It’s not about you, but my mom.
Love always, E
“What the fuck?” I roared, crumpling the note and slamming my other hand onto the metal island.
I stalked toward the bedroom and found Emerson curled up in a ball on the bed, her eyes open, staring blankly into space. “Is this some sort of cruel joke? Emerson? What the fuck is going on?”
When she jerked back in the pillows, I immediately apologized.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so gruff. But I just walked in on this note. This freaking note saying you can’t do this.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, and then started to cry.
“Hey.” I sat down next to her, my hand finding purchase on her hip. Her eyes were open, so I didn’t think she was sleep talking, but she hadn’t said anything more. “You okay?”
My hand ran up and down her arm, and I noticed she was in dirty, sticky work clothes and shoes. But she still said nothing.
“Is this about the weekend? About Moira? I told her not to come to dinner. She got mad, but she didn’t come. Wants to be friends and all that, but it’s not going to work.”
Finally, Emerson moved, shaking her head.
“Em? Babe, what’s wrong?” I turned her to face me.
Her eyes puffy and red, she started to bawl. She couldn’t get out a word out through the hiccupping sobs.
“Shhh, you have to calm down and tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring the shit out of me.” I pushed the damp hair out of her face and pulled her into my chest, but she continued to cry. “Emerson? Tell me what the fuck is going on?”
I was losing my patience. My own body began to shake. First the note, and now this.
“I ... I have to move out of here,” she croaked out. “I was going to just leave ... the note. But I couldn’t. I lay down in bed and all I could smell was you, and I couldn’t make myself get up. And my dad said—”
“What? Why? What does your dad have to do with any of this?”
A million possibilities ran through my head. Money, jobs, moving back with her dad, leaving New York for good, Moira. Emerson could be lying about not caring. Maybe this was about her asshole ex ... he could have weaseled his way back in.
“Em, you’re not making any sense.”
