Buried in his flannel and safe in his arms, Amelia nodded. “I trust you.”
With a deep sigh, Emory relaxed against her and Amelia rested her head on his shoulder. He caressed her back and spoke slow, his breath humid against her forehead.
“You know, Liam calls you my queen.”
“I do. I think it’s sweet.”
“I need you to know that you’ll always be my queen. In here and out there.” Emory tipped his head to the window and theworld beyond. “It’s going to get hard for a little while. There will be no shortage of things that try to tear us apart.”
Amelia sat up in his lap and coiled her arms around his neck.
“Let them try,” she said with determination her mother might’ve called fearlessness. “It’ll always be you and me.”
“You and me,” Emory repeated, a solemn vow spoken between them and a pillar of strength they’d surely need for the storms ahead.
FORTY-SEVEN
EMORY
The night passed with dreams so strange the morning light couldn’t burn off the delirium. Emory’s subconscious conjured things that would’ve made Dali envious; not nightmarish but disturbing in a hypnogogic way. With Amelia snuggled against his chest and her breaths coming long and slow, the uneasiness drained away. Emory brushed aside a fall of hair, kissed her cheek, and went back to sleep.
They woke for good an hour later. As Amelia showered, Emory packed. The soft-sided suitcase lay open on the bed, his clothes stacked or wrapped in taut bundles, their complementary shapes jigsawed for efficiency.
You could tell a lot about someone by their luggage. When he traveled, Emory made a game of matching suitcases to the assholes crowding baggage claim. Next to the conveyor belt, they threw javelin elbows to snap up monstrously large or hideously patterned suitcases.
Emory would stake out some space in the back and wait as his bag—solid black with a grey tag—puttered along. He’d snag it when convenient and be on his way. What did that say about him? Nothing of consequence and that was the point.
He gave Amelia his good bag, a large oxblood weekender that traveled by car and car alone. She packed in under twentyminutes, everything she’d amassed there fitting in a bag meant for weekend get-aways.
Emory found that deeply confronting. It wasn’t the statement of his innocuous black suitcase looming next to hers, but the punishing sense that he’d failed her.
They weren’t zipping up the coast to breathe in the salt breeze and make love by moonlight. They weren’t driving into pine-swaddled mountains or a sun-washed vineyard for a weekend of romance. She deserved the world, and he gave her far less, just a leather bag for their somber journey.
Amelia took that bag without complaint. In the room across the hall, she carefully folded each garment and placed it inside with the same quiet faith she’d placed in him.
And what did that say about her?
Everything he already knew. Everything he loved.
In the kitchen, Liam prepared breakfast with the stubborn notion that Emory should brief their plans to Corey, Pete, and Zulu over a hearty meal. Liam served up thick slices of garden tomatoes, crispy bacon, and a steaming pile of scrambled eggs. Mirabelle made blueberry muffins that ballooned over their baking cups, the sugar granules on top sparkling like fresh snow.
They gathered around the dining room table and, as the others ate, Emory detailed the plans. Corey, Zulu, and Pete took it well but read the tea leaves. It wasn’t tidying up loose ends for a cold spell but weatherproofing for a hard freeze. Weeks would turn to months. Summer would collapse into autumn that perished with winter.
Emory reached for Amelia’s hand resting beside her teacup. In the rosy light, her profile was serene and stunning.She’d need warmer clothes. Sweaters and flannels. Boots, socks, jackets, scarves. She could have everything she wanted, but one day her vessel would run dry, emptied of the grace she’d given him. She’d want the things she already owned or perhaps just the chance to tidy up her own loose ends.
At the far end of the table, the sun streamed through the blinds and laid slatted shadows over Jack’s face with carceral effect.He hadn’t spoken much, just a few grunts of agreement as he picked at his breakfast. Earlier, as bacon sizzled in the frying pan, he jumped with a startle at a pop of grease. It wasn’t like him to be spooked by paper tigers.
After breakfast, Corey headed for Vegas to unseat Disco. Zulu and Pete returned to LA and would join Emory and Amelia in a week. The rest of them rounded up the last of their belongings.
Where Emory treated his room at Liam’s like a billet, Mirabelle had nested in hers with framed photographs and personal mementos. She packed with frazzled emotion as if being evicted from her sanctum. Amelia helped where she could while Emory hauled their bags to the garage.
Afterwards, he joined Liam in the basement lounge to wait for the others. By day, the space lost its saturnine charm. Purged of celebration, it stank of stale smoke and spilt beer. He and Liam settled across from one another at the oblong table typically reserved for holding court.
“It was nice having everyone at breakfast this morning,” Liam said and reached for a heavy-bottomed ashtray. “Don’t you think it was nice?”
“Very,” Emory agreed, though he didn’t find it odd that they’d shared a meal or spoke freely, sometimes meandering off-topic and ripping with laughter. Families did that every day. The only bizarre thing there was treating it like a novelty.
Liam lit the end of a cigarette and savored the first drag with eyes lightly shut and a hand resting on his belly. He would’ve dozed off, a perfectly good cigarette reduced to cinders between his fingers.He’s getting older,Emory observed for perhaps the first time.
