Page 100
Twenty-somethings.
“Oh my God,” he chuckles, then sighs. “I'll swing by later.”
I scurry away from the door and into the living room. My ass hits the couch cushion when the door opens, and Dillon appears.
He looks down at Eleanor eating and snorts. “She seems fine.”
“Yep, fine. You can take your hero cape off once again. Mission Save Emery was a success. Just like old times, huh?”
His crystal blue eyes flick over me before he steps closer, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“I'm sure the last thing you wanted to do on a Friday night was run home to help me. But Dillon Montgomery is a professional people pleaser, huh? Rest assured, I won't call for help again. I'm sure you think I'm so mature and responsible and capable. I lost my cat in my fucking bed.” I laugh, a high-pitched noise that does not make me feel any better. “I'm sorry that you felt like you had to come. I'm sorry you didn't get anything out of it. Want a lil blowie for the road?”
Oh. He looks angry.
“Don't cheapen your feelings or mine, Emerson.”
“So, no blowie?”
He breathes out an unbelieving laugh and scrubs a hand over his tired face. “You like to make a lot of assumptions about me.”
I match his laugh. “Isn't that what we do? Just make assumptions about each other and fuck?”
His nostrils flare and he steps closer. “So when do we stop making all the assumptions and start fucking talking?”
My heart is galloping in my chest. I swallow around the lump in my throat and fist my hands in my lap. “In about one and a half months.”
“Emery…”
I shake my head, acting exactly like the immature guy he probably thinks of me as.
He confirms that fear when he makes a deep noise in his throat and turns away to speak. “I'm thirty years old, Emerson. I've got a kid. I've got a business.” He looks back at me, and my eyes burn from trying to hold it together. “I've tried playing by your rules because that's the only way I get even a sliver of what I want here. But I don't know how to move forward when you won't give in just a little. Do you want me, Emerson?”
I hate how my stomach swoops painfully with the question. How I immediately feel light and heavy all at once. I open my mouth but close it again when all that comes out is a pathetic sound.
Me wanting Dillon has never, and will never be, the problem.
It's whether or not he wants me. Wants me when I'm overstimulated and snappy. Me, when I'm unreasonable and stubborn. Me, when I make messes and don't have the will to clean up. When I have to lock myself away, ignore everyone, so I can regulate myself again. When I forget to text back or check my mail. When I feel like I'm barely functioning like an adult.
Does he want to deal with me messy and real? I don't know. I don't fucking know. But he's a busy man, so what are the odds that he wants to add me to the pile? For real. Outside of just sex.
I’ve only been in therapy a couple of months, but many sessions have been spent softly poking at my juiciest issue. Rejection sensitivity is apparently a thing. It’s real, it’s fucking hard and sometimes it’s easier to default to self rejection in situations that have the power to hurt.
To keep things surface level and fun. To keep people at arms length before they can decide that I’m too much to handle. That's with normal people. But Dillon? It’s easier to drown in the what ifs then look into a pair of blue eyes and speak scary truths.
“I want you to go back, Dill. Go back, finish the job.” I blink up at him slowly when he steps closer to me. He crouches down so we're eye level.
“One day, Em, I'm not going to be able to do it your way anymore.”
That's what I'm scared of. This doesn't feel like my way; this feels like the only way I get a sliver of him.
He presses a rough kiss on my forehead before he walks out without looking back.
Dillon
Sundays are the only damn day of the week I look forward to anymore. I get into my truck bright and early and make the three hour drive to the same diner every week to meet Sabrina and Penny.
We eat breakfast, I get to see my girl. Life is good for a few hours. Then I sit with my head on the steering wheel after Sabrina pulls out of the lot with a wave because I know it will be another week until I get to see my daughter again. Another week of the same old shit.
