Appropriate. Of all the words he could have chosen, he picked that one. As if there is anything appropriate about this.
He means coffee—I know he means coffee—but all I hear is warning. Foreshadow.
Me:Somewhere far please
As soon as I send it, the air turns stuffy—excitement and shame crawling in the sheets like twin snakes.
Richard's out at some event, but I'll tell him. I will.
First, I need to look Ben in the eye and know it's gone. That the past is buried and we can nod in the lobby like two decent neighbors, grumbling about how long the renovations drag on.
Because I've built something now. A life that doesn't tremble every time my man enters the room. And I won't throw it away for whateverthisfeeling is.
Ben:As you wish. Mon 1 p.m.?
Me:Deal
Ben:There's a dress code though
A dress code for twelve noon? I almost laugh, but then again, nothing about Ben bows to normal.
Me:What's the dress code?
Ben:The real Emma
7
I stare at the box I shoved into the back of my closet—the one I slapped a label on that readsThe Old Mein red marker. As if that could contain her.
Honestly, it should sayThe Young Me. Who didn't measure life in milestones, but in moments that made me feel alive.
The smell hits first. That mix of my old perfume and night air from open fields when I didn't know how my life was going to unfold.
Things start landing on the bed as I excavate the time capsule. Cheap jewelry. A silver leather jacket, like it was forged from liquid mercury. And my yellow glitter heels.
You know how rich people buy a canvas with two stripes and call it a statement piece? These are that, but better. They add four inches and the lost feeling of Emma that didn't shrink.
I put them on and click across the apartment to reach my walk-in closet.
Most clothes would fit because, well—skirts, sweaters, neutrals that Ben would probably call "pensioner chic." But boy doesn't know that I have a surprise for him today.
I kept that red sundress from our last night. Tight with frilled hem barely grazing mid-thigh. A girl and woman wrapped in one. The girl who kissed him. For nine hours.
If he remembers the dress at all...
At 11:55 a.m. sharp, someone knocks like they alreadyknow they're being let in. I almost jump out of my skin.
When I open, Ben's leaning against the frame, like a shot straight from a cologne ad.
Black short-sleeved tee, dress pants, a jacket slung over his shoulder, sunglasses slipped halfway down his nose, and his raven hair falling into his face.
I have to bite my lip to keep it from falling.
His mouth drops, though.
"Damn," he says, eyes dragging down, pausing at my legs. "You look exactly like the last time I saw you."
Something blooms in me—so he does remember.
