I shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t think about it.”
Nodding, he looked up and to the side, pressing his lips together as he thought. “I could make spaghetti.”
“Sure.”
“Or, I could make hamburgers. Those wouldn’t take me very long to make.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe even some sandwiches if you want something that’ll be even quicker.”
“Whatever you want.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, staring at me for a moment. “I’m asking what you want, not what I want. I’ll cook whatever sounds better to you.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “I don’t care, Em. I’m not wasting away, so take all the time you need to make a decision, but you don’t really need me to help you do that. You’re a big boy. Use your big boy cop brain to think about it.”
Slowly, he widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, brat. You don’t want to help make a decision, then I will make it for you.”
“Great idea. It’s almost like it was the same one I had, just with more words.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I used fewer words than you did.”
I pursed my lips together in an exaggerated frown. “Aw, you made an observation. A good one, too. You must be so proud.”
“Okay, alright, are you done now?”
“Done with what?”
“Being such a brat.”
“I thought you liked it when I was bratty.” I mirrored his stance from the couch, crossing my arms over my chest and spreading my legs out. “Am I annoying you, finally? You ready to kick me to the curb? I tried to tell you, but you just didn’t listen.”
Emerson sat on the cushion next to me, turning sideways so he was facing me. “Enough. I can take the sass—hell, I can take alot—but I won’t have you doubting yourself, or me, even if it’s a joke. What’s going on, Moon?”
If I looked at him, I’d cave. I’d cave and tell him everything I was feeling. I’d be vulnerable for what seemed like the hundredth time, and I wasn’t sure how ready I was for that. So, I stared straight ahead and ignored the tugging on the doors of the cage surrounding my cold, broken, and aching heart. “What do you even mean?”
“What do I mean? Look at me.”
I didn’t.
“Look at me, so I know you’re understanding this.”
I kept looking forward.
He sighed, muttering something under his breath. “This isn’t like you. I can tell something is wrong. I’m using that big boy cop brain you mentioned, and my big boy cop brain is telling me something is wrong, and I can’t try to help you unless you tell me what it is.”
If there was one thing in the entire world I’d learned to hate, it was the pressure that would slowly build in my gut when I thought someone had found me out. Whenever it seemed like there was a chance someone knew there was more to the facade I was showing them, a heavy piece of metal would fall down into the pit of my stomach, sitting in the acid there.
The sea I was drowning in started to recede, gearing up for a bigger wave than I was capable of withstanding. I tried to move my arms and legs in tandem, waving them around in an effort to keep up with the current. I was losing strength, and I didn’t want to lose it in front of him just yet. “I’m fine. Nothing is wrong.”
“Liar.” He slid down onto the floor, kneeling right in front of me. He looked up, locking our gazes. “You had therapy today. That’s what this is about, isn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question. “You’re hurting, but you won’t let me help soothe the hurt. Am I right?”
Of course, he was right. Of course, Emerson fucking Blake was right, and I was wrong, and Iris was right, and everyone and their goddamn nosy, meddling selves were right. I was so stuck on the wrong sides of hurt and comfort that hurt became the comfort, and comfort became the hurt.
Emerson was the comfort. Emerson was the healing. Emerson was a part of that entire process Iris had been talking about. He was sitting before me—beneath me, instead of above me—looking right into my very soul. This was my chance.
This was my chance to actively be vulnerable. To write the proverbial words on my skin, using his fingertips as the marker, letting him write all the good things I knew he thought about me.
