“Nothing?”
“Nothing. I am perfectly happy on my own, and that’s the way I intend to stay.”
The memory of Painkiller Pierce comes to mind and I think about how he told Alfred he’d never considered marriage (until he met me, that is). I raise one eyebrow and give him a long, hard look. “So, you don’t ever think you’d want to get married and have a family? Even if you met the perfect woman?”
“Never. That’s literally the stupidest thing a person can do. Marriage equals misery.” He looks me straight in the eye while he talks but there’s something hollow about his words—like he’s repeated this mantra many times to convince himself it’s true. “You can’t spend fifty years with someone and not let each other down at some point. Or just generally grow to hate one another.”
“Wow,” I say quietly. “I guess you’ve got it all figured out then.”
“Yes, I have.” He gives me a firm nod. “I’d think you’d agree with me after suffering the loss of your parents.”
“Because I’ve been hurt before?”
“Precisely.”
“But the thing is, once you’ve been loved so fully and unconditionally, you know it’s real and that it’ll happen again.”
Pierce stares at me, considering my words. “That surprises me. Were I in your shoes, I would have come to the opposite conclusion—that people leave you so it’s best not to get too attached.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I love having people I can rely on and trust. And even though I didn't have my parents to help me figure it out, I always had Harrison and my Uncle Oscar until I was eighteen. And a lot of the staff at the resort have helped guide us and teach us what we need to know. One woman in particular, Rosy, who works in the office at the resort, has been a lot like a mum to us since we got here.” I sigh, thinking of how angry I’ve been with Rosy for the past couple of weeks. “She gives us shit when we need it.”
“Sounds lovely,” he says sarcastically.
“It is, actually. Rosy and her husband never had children, so in a way, we've become the family we each needed.”
“I'm glad you had that, Emma. Unfortunately, I didn't grow up in a world where any of that would have been possible.” Pierce stares down at his empty plate for a moment, and when he looks back at me, he smiles too brightly. “But I suppose we should get back to work, shouldn't we?”
“I suppose we should. It must be getting late by now.”
We stand and bring the dishes into the kitchen, Pierce managing to tuck the empty wine bottle under his bad arm and carry a considerable amount with his other hand. “Don't feel sorry for me, Emma. Please. I'm happy the way I am. And I'm smart enough to know to be grateful for what I've got.”
I stare at him for a moment before putting the dishes in the sink and turning on the water to rinse them. Somehow, this little act reminds me of what I am to him. No matter what I was feeling earlier, no matter how intimately we were just speaking—I am just a means to an end because in his mind, money breeds reliability in a way nothing else will.
21
Meaningless Things You Don’t Ever Want to Forget
Pierce
Thoughtful silence fills the space while Emma does the dishes. I help somewhat uselessly with one hand, not knowing what to say and wishing we could go back to where we were before dinner, before we were honest. I find myself worried that I've disappointed her somehow with my views on family and the general lack of reliability of the average human. I tell myself it shouldn't matter what she thinks.
I've never really cared what anyone thinks, come to think of it. My entire life, I've just drawn my own conclusions and gone on my blissful way, so I don't see why today should be any different. Just because I've spent every waking moment with her for days, and I find her ridiculously attractive, doesn't mean I should upend everything I believe just to please her. The reality is that we’re nothing to each other, no matter how many pheromones flood the room when we’re together.
Glancing over at the table, I see my laptop sitting open, waiting for us to finish the scene that would come off sounding false were I to go back to it now.
I give Emma an easy smile. “I say we make some cocktails and lighten the mood in here.”
“Certainly. What would you like me to make?” Emma asks in a very formal tone that says she, too, feels the need to remind herself of what we are to each other.
“Have you ever had an old-fashioned?”
“I thought those went out with Model T.”
“They're delicious. I say we bring them back.” I open the top cupboard and take down two tumblers. Emma moves over to the liquor cabinet and before she can ask what ingredients to get out, I say, “I can handle this one-handed. You relax for a few minutes.” She gives me a skeptical look until I say, “Grab my phone over there and put on some music for us.”
“What would you like to hear?” Emma asks, walking over to the table.
“Ladies’ choice.” I place a teaspoon of sugar into each glass, and then sprinkle a few dashes of bitters, then a bit of water. Taking a spoon out of the drawer, I muddle the mixture until it's dissolved, then fill the glasses with ice and add whiskey almost to the rim. Opening the mini-bar, I’m pleased to find some cocktail cherries. The unmistakable sound of Mumford and Sons starts up, and I force myself not to tell her that they're a nice group of guys. I despise name droppers, even though at this moment, I wouldn't mind impressing her.
