“The restaurant’s thriving,” he says. “You’ve got financial security, an incredible house, a daughter who’s happy and healthy and surrounded by people who love her. You’ve doneeverythingright. You’re the best guy any of us know.” He pauses. “Maybe it’s time to stop being so careful and actually go after something for yourself.”
I stay quiet, staring out at the fire pit. Chloe’s sparkler fizzles out and she runs to Lark for another one.
“Just think about it.” Calvin claps me on the shoulder, grabs a couple of the finished hot toddies, and heads back outside.
The door closes behind him and I’m alone in the warm kitchen, drinks still left to make, the question he asked still hanging in the air. What if I asked, what could go right?
I stay there for a long moment, watching through the window. Jack has Chloe on his shoulders now, her legs danglingover his chest, and she’s waving the burned-out sparkler like a sword while declaring herself queen of the backyard. Maren’s laughing so hard at something Lark said that she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Alex and Dom look like they’re bickering about the Seahawks, but they’re both smiling, the argument more about the pleasure of disagreeing than any real conflict.
I’ve always prided myself on doing the right thing. I’ve been telling myself that staying away from Emma is the mature decision, the honorable one. But maybe honor doesn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe I’m just scared of what happens if I actually let myself have what I want.
CHAPTER 12
Emma
The corner store on Maple Street stays open until ten on Fridays, which is how I find myself walking home in the dark with a paper bag full of wine, cheese, and crackers. The holy trinity of “I survived this week and deserve a reward.”
My outfit is what happens when you have zero intention of encountering another human being. Old pajama pants and my favorite college sweatshirt under my puffy coat, and my hair is twisted up and secured with a single bobby pin that’s been holding on for dear life since this morning. I’m completely fine with it because my evening plans consist of the couch, Netflix, and being horizontal.
The week before Thanksgiving break nearly killed me. Twenty-three first-graders running on pure sugar and anticipation is not for the faint of heart. By Wednesday they’d basically stopped pretending to listen to anything I said. Then I spent the actual holiday grading papers in my apartment while my sisters’ group chat exploded with photos from the family’s gathering.
Sloane sent seventeen pictures of the tablescape alone, each one more aggressively curated than the last. Cream linens,tasteful gourds, place cards in calligraphy. Sophie texted “wish you were here” with a sad face emoji, and I felt a pang of guilt for not going.
But I don’t know how to explain that reheating pad thai in my tiny kitchen while watching old episodes ofThe Great British Bake Offfelt more like a holiday than any of those perfectly staged dinners ever did. The ones that always ended in thinly veiled arguments about the company, or someone crying in the bathroom by dessert. I’ll take Paul Hollywood judging someone’s soggy bottom over that any day.
The streets are quiet tonight, most of Dark River apparently having better Friday night plans than a wine-and-cheese-for-one situation. The air is sharp and cold, my breath fogging in front of me, and I’m maybe ten minutes from my building when headlights slow behind me.
My shoulders tense automatically. That instinctive awareness every woman has of being alone at night. I shift the paper bag against my hip and glance back. And then I actually see who it is.
Theo.
I let out a breath. He rolls down the passenger window, and the interior light illuminates his face, looking like he just stepped out of some kind of rugged outdoor catalog. Meanwhile I look like I crawled out of a laundry hamper.Fan fucking tastic.
“Want a ride?” he calls out.
“I... it’s just a ten-minute walk,” I say, which isn’t actually an answer to his question.
“It’s cold,” he says.
“I have a coat,” I point out, because apparently my strategy tonight is to argue against my own self-interest.
“Emma.” He’s smiling now, patient and amused. “Get in the car.”
Part of me wants to keep walking. We haven’t really talked in weeks, and I refuse to keep throwing myself at a man whoseems determined to hold me at arm’s length. I have some self-respect.
Admittedly, that self-respect took a serious hit the night I ugly-cried over him while eating frozen cookie dough straight from the tube, then followed it up by touching myself in the shower to the memory of his mouth on mine until I nearly slipped and cracked my head open. So my self-respect reserves are running dangerously low. But they exist. In theory.
He waits, watching me through the open window, and honestly the man has no right to look that good in a flannel. I’m only human. Ugh. Fuck it.
I get in the car.
The warmth envelops me immediately, a sharp contrast to the late November night, and I settle into the passenger seat while trying to look casual about it. I’m suddenly hyperaware of every detail—the way his hands rest on the steering wheel, the faint music playing from the speakers.
“Thanks,” I say, clutching my paper bag of wine and cheese like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. “For rescuing me from the brutal ten-minute walk. I might not have survived.”
“I couldn’t risk it.” He smiles and pulls away from the curb.
I watch the familiar streets slide past the window, trying to think of something to say that isn’t “so why have you been avoiding me?” or “do you think about that kiss as much as I do?”
