“I think you’ve asked enough questions for today,” she responds. “Let’s get back to work.”
And because she’s already opened up to me so much today, I don’t argue. I do exactly what she asks.
I get back to work.
She’s still here. I expected her to leave hours ago, but she’s made herself comfortable. For the first time since we started working together, she took off her coat and let me get her something to drink.
I’ve come to learn it’s all about baby steps with her.
“You know,” she begins, setting her water glass down, “I thought I would get bored doing all this hockey research, but I’m actually enjoying it.”
“Why would you get bored of it,” I wonder. “Please don’t tell me you hate hockey and onlytolerateit because of Cam. I don’t know if this partnership could continue if that’s the case.”
“Of course, I love hockey,” she argues. “I grew up loving hockey. But it was always my brother’s thing, you know? I didn’t think I’d want to do a whole project revolving around something that washis.”
“And what’s your thing?”
“Living in his shadow,” she whispers, but she laughs once she sees my reaction. A real genuine laugh, and I hate to admit that I enjoy that sound. “I’m kidding. I guess I don’t really have a thing.”
“Everyone has a thing, Ember,” I argue.
She closes her laptop and hops off the stool. I watch her go to the living room and flop on the couch.
Progress.
“I don’t know. I grew up doing everything with Cam, so I never really got my own thing.”
“There isn’t something you do, maybe something nobody knows about, that you enjoy?”
“I enjoy a lot of things.” She wiggles her eyebrows, and all of my blood rushes south.
It’s not a joke I’d expect from her. I like this side of Ember, and another part of me seems to like this side as well, a little too much.
I adjust myself before jumping over the back of the sectional, joining her on the couch. As I throw my arm up along the back of the couch, my fingers graze her forearm, heat rushes to her cheeks, and I feel the need to adjust… again. But instead, I try to focus on our previous conversation.
“Like what?”
“Cam and I used to play video games when we were kids.” She smiles. “He would never admit it, but I always kicked his ass in the hockey ones.”
Noted.
“Something thatdoesn’tinvolve Cam,” I push. “There has to be something.”
“I paint,” she responds, but there’s hesitancy in her voice. “Or I used to.”
“Okay, intrigued.”
“My therapist thought it would be a good way to express my feelings. I always struggled to see the beauty within myself, that she thought maybe finding the beauty in other things would—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. Her voice drifts off, and so does her mind, by the looks of it.
“Would help?”
“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in two years.”
I don’t miss the way the words get caught in her throat. Everything leads back to that night. That one horrific night.
“I’m probably not even good anymore.” She plays with the top of the couch. “Not that I was, to begin with.”
