I sucked in a breath, glancing around the room, trying to find something that made sense. Nothing made sense. Everything was dark. I could smell perfume and shitty whiskey. So much shitty whiskey. “I can’t. I can’t hear a beat. I can’t hear it.”
“Then just follow me, okay? I got you. I’m holding you. I’m here.”
Slowly, he led us to some sort of dance. I was even more confused than I had been before, looking down at our feet. Mine knew what to do, it seemed, because they were following his as we swayed.
“That’s it, Moon. I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s just me and you, alright? Just me and you. In your apartment. Slow dancing to some music. You’re okay.”
I looked up at him, watching him through teary eyes. “Promise?”
He leaned forward, placing the softest, gentlest kiss on my lips. “I promise.”
A glow formed, outlining his shoulders, his neck, his head, all the way back down to the tips of his toes. Emerson was light personified. I focused on him—on the light—as I took deep breaths when he did, let them out when he did, and moved my feet when he did. The TV was playing an old music video with an old slow song of some sort. It was easy to move to, especially with Emerson guiding me.
He grasped the side of my face, stopping us where we stood. He looked straight into my eyes and smiled. “There’s my brat.”
I looked between both of his eyes, getting lost in the dark blue ocean of them. I wanted to be there, to swim against the current in peace. “Why are we dancing?” I whispered.
“You were having a panic attack. When I get worked up, moving around helps me. This was the best thing I could think of.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
I wrapped my arms around him and lay my head against the middle of his chest. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
This time, I was able to feel my body move with him as we swayed in circles. I listened to his heartbeat through his shirt, counting each one in my head. It was my favorite part about cuddling with him—getting to listen to the life inside of him. Listening to each breath he took.
If I could stay there forever, I would. I’d never felt so cared for as at that moment. We were in sync without any effort, dancing in my living room like nothing else existed or mattered. It was just us.
My voice was shakier than I’d like it to be, but I spoke anyway. I let it out, even if I wasn’t sure future me would like it. I’d probably regret it later. “Someone hurt me. A lot. More than once.”
He rubbed a hand up and down my back in soothing motions. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, lingering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Moon. I’m so sorry someone so awful existed. I’m so sorry you’ve thought something was wrong with you when you are quite literally perfect to me. There is nothing broken. There is nothing to fix. You are fucking perfect.”
A tear fell down my cheek, curving just under my jaw. “I’m not perfect. I’m a brat.”
“I like brats, remember?”
“Something has to be wrong with me. Why else would she have done it?”
“Because there’s something wrong withher,not you. Never you, Moon.”
“It still hurts all these years later.”
“I know.”
I pulled away from him, staring up at the bright, shining glow he emitted. “Will you still hold all of my pieces together, anyway?”
“Of course I will. I’ll hold you so tight for as long as you want until you can believe that your pieces already fit. Because they do. You just can’t see that yet.” He held my face, swiping his thumb across the stray tears dripping down my cheeks.
As we stood there in my living room, holding each other, I started to think that maybe my pieces needed his pieces to be complete. Maybe we were all a giant puzzle, left waiting for the one centerpiece we had left. With that piece, with that person, we’d finally be able to see the big picture.
And maybe, just maybe, that picture would be fucking beautiful.
Chapter Sixteen
My brother was a baker,my other brother was an artist, and my sister was in law school. Somehow, all the talent had skipped me and gone straight to them. I had nothing interesting to show, and it was glaringly obvious. Emerson had decided we needed to cook dinner together, though I wasn’t sure why. He’d been at my house all day, on day two of his off days. We could’ve just ordered in, but he decided it would be easier and cheaper to cook together. He’d also called it a “romantic adventure,” which I cringed at because I was me, and I was allergic to romance.
But the idea of being romantic with Emerson didn’t scare me as much as I thought it should.
