I search my brain for something to say, trying to drag out this moment.
“How’s Brit?” I ask quickly. His younger sister was always a source of drama when I saw him last. Barely in her teens, she was already running around with boys and staying out all night, her skirts hiked up and shirts unbuttoned low. “She must be, what, nineteen now?”
“Yup.” Emerson nods. “I got her through high-school, barely,” he adds. “She waitresses at the bar some nights. I’m trying to talk to her about fashion school, so she can do something with her designs, but… You know Brit.” His voice is wry, but full of affection, and I’m reminded all over again of the side to Emerson he doesn’t let the rest of the world see: the big brother, single-handedly trying to raise two younger siblings, while his mom fell in and out of addiction and bad relationships.
“And Ray Jay?” I have to ask, but I brace myself for the reply all the same. Emerson’s brother was trouble, plain and simple. The teenager I’d known was full of anger and wild, reckless rage. Emerson had been doing his best to keep him in line, but Ray Jay hated him almost as much as he hated being stuck in a small town.
“He’s not my problem anymore.” Emerson’s voice is casual, like he’s joking, but I hear the twist under his nonchalance. “Kid skipped town the day he turned eighteen. Last I heard, he was out in Tallahassee, doing God knows what.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, “I don’t really blame him. I mean, I wanted to get the f**k out of town when I was his age too.”
“But you didn’t.” I say softly, thinking of all his sacrifice and selfless responsibility. “You stayed.”
“Someone had to.” Emerson’s voice twists. I think of his mom, and dad too, everyone who’s walked away from him. And me.
My heart catches. Is he talking about me?
I left, four long years ago. I was the one who got the f**k out of town then, and left Emerson here alone. Sure, he was the one who told me to go, but I could have fought him harder, I could have made him see. I let him push me away, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since. I felt like my heart was shattered into a million tiny pieces walking away, but I realize now for the first time, he must have felt it too, watching me go.
I feel sadness and regret course through me, a familiar empty ache I hoped would fade in time. The sharp pull of emotion; the sting in the back of my throat.
I quickly lift my camera and snap off a few more photos of the dog, which is careening wildly across the sand. The camera hides my face for a minute, and I use the escape to take a few quick breaths, desperately using every ounce of self-control to pull myself back together.
You can do this, I remind myself. This is nothing. You’ve kept it together through worse. God, so much worse.
The reality check works. When I finally lower the camera again—composed—I find Emerson watching me with a crooked half-grin on his beautiful face.
“Still taking photos,” he smiles. “You must be done with art school now.”
“Oh.” I stop. “I didn’t go in the end… I mean, I went to college,” I add, self-conscious, “But not for that. I haven’t picked this thing up in years.”
“You quit?!” Emerson exclaims harshly.
I step back, shocked at the angry look on his face. “No, I just, had school, and… stuff.” I explain, feebly. “There wasn’t time for hobbies.”
Especially ones that remind me of him.
“I can’t believe this.” Emerson stares at me in disbelief. “You were talking about art schools, and your portfolio. And you just let it all go to waste?”
“I was busy!” I protest loudly, bridling at the accusation in his tone. Why is he looking at me like I failed him? My breath comes fast as I feel the heat of anger rise in my chest. “I double-majored in finance and accounting.” I tell him loudly. “I had real, important things on my plate.”
“Bullshit,” Emerson’s voice is loud. His eyes flash dark and angry at me, face set in a scowl. “Photography was your passion! You loved it.”
I loved you.
I shake off the haunting whisper. What gives him the right to judge me for this?
“So what was I supposed to do?” I challenge him. My arms are folded angrily across my chest, and I hear my voice rising, but I can’t calm down now. “Go off to art school, and then, what, spend my life living paycheck to paycheck, trying to struggle through as an artist?” I shake my head, furious. “I made an investment in my future. Accountancy is one of the fastest-growing sectors of the financial market,” I insist. “There will always be jobs going. It’s a safe choice.”
“And photography was a risk?” Emerson demands back.
“Yes!” I cry. I can feel my skin blushing red with anger, but I won’t back down. “Art school would have been a stupid, reckless choice. I would have regretted it for the rest of my life!”
My voice echoes on the windswept beach.
Emerson takes a ragged gasp of air and flinches back. He looks like I’ve slapped him.
Suddenly, I realize. We’re not talking about my college choice anymore.
“Emerson…” I start, but then my voice fades. What am I supposed to say?
“Don’t.” He cuts me off roughly. “I get it. It’s good to know, you made the right choice.”