Wicked Restless

There’s nothing special about her door at all. There’s only the number on the outside. No welcome mats or seasonal décor plastered on the doorknob or frame like a few of her neighbors. It’s just a door, and it looks just like any other door.

Emma is just any other girl, I remind myself.

I laugh lightly at how ridiculous I’m being and how nervous I am for no reason. She’ll never even know, and I can go back to living a life without her, now knowing a few places to avoid.

Bending down, I slip her license from the pocket in the front of my hoodie, and hold it between my thumb and finger, sliding it along the carpet until it meets the bottom edge of her door. When I see it fits, I flick it hard with my finger, satisfied when it disappears underneath.

“Uhm, excuse me?”

The voice behind me scares me enough that I jump forward and press my hand flat on Emma’s door to catch my balance. I know it isn’t her; I’m pretty sure I’d still know her voice. But it’s someone. And I’ve now been seen—here! When I get to my feet and turn, I’m greeted by a girl with a laundry basket filled with towels, detergent, and fabric softener.

Not Emma.

All that matters.

“Sorry, I…” I stop, realizing I can’t really make up an excuse, nor do I need to. “I found someone’s license at the bar last night, so thought I’d just drop it off. I…I knew where the building was.”

I slide my hood from my head when she starts looking at me suspiciously. I pull my beanie off too and run my hand through my hair, pushing it out of my face. I probably look a little rough, still bruised from a fight and sweaty from practice.

“Oh my god. Emma’s!” Her eyes light up with realization. “Thank you so much! Oh my god, she’s been totally freaked out over that! She’s going to die. I have to call her. Thank you so much!”

“No problem. Really,” I say, exchanging places with her in the hallway. Just hearing her say Emma’s name does something, twists something deep inside. I was anxious to leave, but it’s like there’s a part of me that’s been asleep for years, and hearing the word Emma woke it up. My mind is begging my feet to carry me away, but there’s that other thing inside me that suddenly wants to stay.

The girl is balancing her basket and reaching for her keys. She drops them on the floor, and as I see her struggle to kneel down with the basket and pick them up again, an idea strikes me.

“Here, let me hold that,” I say, bending and taking the basket from her. She smiles gratefully, fumbling with her keys, sorting through the dozen or so on her ring to find the right one. Why do chicks have so many keys? How many things do you seriously need to keep locked?

Finally finding the door key, her eyes flit up to me a few times as she nervously works it into the lock. The more jumpy she gets, the more I start to like my probably-very-bad idea. I like how it’s making me feel.

Her door finally open, I follow her inside, reaching down to pick up Emma’s license as we step over the threshold.

“Here, I slid it under the door,” I say, stepping in a little closer than I need to. I want to see her reaction. Her mouth twists into the kind of smile she’s trying to control. I can tell by the slight shiver in her lips. I step to the side, giving her some space, and notice the deep breath she lets out. I slide her basket onto the table right inside the door, glancing around to take in the full apartment.

So this is where Emma lives now.

“I like your place,” I say, noticing she’s still looking at me, still trying not to smile. She glances to the side of my face, examining my bruise. “Oh, I…I play hockey here. Game injury,” I lie. She likes my excuse though, her smile losing its battle a little more.

When her back is turned, I look down the hallway and out on the patio that seems to run the width of their apartment. There’s nothing in here that screams Emma—not that I’d know what that would be any more. It’s a nice apartment. Not any bigger than mine, really, but the neighborhood’s nicer, everything’s newer. It’s a good place for two girls to live alone.

“Hockey, huh?” the girl says. Interested. Yeah, that usually works. I nod down at my chest, to my NTU Hockey sweatshirt. “Oh…” she says, blushing when she looks back up and our eyes meet.

“That’s where I came from. We had a light practice. There’s a game tonight,” I say, my pulse kicking in all the right places. It’s a mix of adrenaline and fear of being caught. “You ever come out to the games?”