“Special delivery for Principal Jones,” she announces as the flowers cover the top half of her body. They bounce and shift as she hoists the arrangement onto my desk. “I put them in a better vase for you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the flowers, attempting to set them on the desk. They take up half the space. I set them on the floor and wince, feeling rude for the thought, then resort to setting them on the couch, propped up by my bag.
“How are you doing?” Ellie breathes out, like she’s been chomping at the bit to ask this question.
“I’m fine,” I say, refusing to mention what I just experienced in Daniels’ office.
She bites her lip as the internal struggle of morality and selfishness etches her face. Furrowed brows, squinted eyes, and a clenched jaw all form as she fights the urge to call me out. All my life, Ellie has been the level-headed, calm presence I need. She can be very opinionated and, at times, ready to rumble. Rarely the rumble is about me, though, so it’s safe to assume she’s unsure how to approach this situation. She wasn’t around during postpartum last time; our phone calls were a good barrier to hide how I was really doing. But now, there’s no safeguard, nothing to blur the truth. Her job is to analyze people and figure out how they’re feeling before they do. And she’s done it with me.
She shifts on her heels, fidgeting with one of the roses in the bouquet. I cross my arms over my desk and wait quietly.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I sigh, theeverything is okaywall starting to come down. Ellie tilts her head, giving me the empathetic, sister look. Not the therapist one, but the one that says,I’ve seen every part of you and can handle whatever it is you need to share.
Or maybe I’m just hoping that’s what it says.
“Have you talked to Steven?” she asks.
My silence is answer enough. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to bother him,” I whisper pathetically. This is the man that promised his life to me. I shouldn’t be a bother. Some days, I don’t think am, but not every day. And definitely not lately.
She snorts. “You could never bother him. He is the father of your children, the man who sang “Islands in the Stream” to you on your first date. The guy who stood on tables for you.”
Ellie keeps going, but my brain clings to the tune of Dolly Parton singing “Islands in the Stream,” taking me back to 2008. My heart pangs at the memory. Steven doing all of the corny things a man does to impress his date—flowers, a suit jacket and tie, fancy restaurant, a carriage ride downtown. The flowers fell, his tie got caught in the car door, the restaurant was way too crowded for my anxiety, and it rained on the carriage ride. It was awkward and silly and perfect. And we ended it with three hours at a karaoke room, just the two of us.
The music fades in my mind. At some point, Ellie knelt to eye level on the other side of my desk and gripped my hands in hers.
“Why are you running from your husband, Emma?”
I stammer. The question is absurd. The thought is absurd. “I’m not.”
“Em…”
She studies me closely, concern knitting the small crease between her brows, and I have to look away to keep from unraveling. I’m not exactly running from my husband, but I’m not running to him either. And when I do try, I find every possible way to turn back.
“He’d want to know,” she says as the bell rings.
I think back to this morning in the car, the feelings that followed when he walked away. The emptiness that can only come from what our marriage has become.
Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe we’re so far apart because of me, because Iamrunning from him, always putting everyone else first, burying my own pain so deep it’s twisted into something bigger. Something monstrous. And it’s now clawing at the fragile edges of my mind. Something I don’t know how to shake.
Maybe I’ve been running so long I don’t know how to get back to him.
Chapter six
Emma
When It WasAll New
Nothinginlifecanprepared me for this. Dating a man that could be mistake for Blair Underwood is one thing. But dating at man that treats me like awoman? There should’ve be a warning label.
Warning: relationship can cause constant overheating, maybe some jitters, definitely recurring hysteria.
It’s been hard to maintain my composure, to play aloof to the pure magnetism he has over me. He walks into a room, and every head turns, including mine. And it’s hard to put these feelings to words when someone asks about us. Being exclusive with a guy who wakes me up from my dreams is a wild experience. A fever dream I never want to snap out of.
“Ugh, Em, it’s only been four weeks. Chill out,” my sister groans on the other end of the Skype call after I’ve spent the last hour dumping every minute detail of my relationship onto her.
