Wicked Restless

“Harp…” He shakes his head, literally biting his tongue, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, as if this is somehow stressful for him. I’m about to tell him to drop the empathy act when there’s a soft knock at our door.

It’s probably one of the guys, wondering why we’re not celebrating at Majerle’s. I use it as an excuse to get out of our conversation, and as Trent moves to the door, I walk into our kitchen to get each of us another beer. When I come out, she’s standing in the doorway, and Trent is rubbing his chin.

“Over your head,” he says under his breath as he trades spots with me near the door. He takes one of the beers from my hand and pauses to make sure my eyes meet his, get the warning in them, before he moves back to his spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” I don’t even waste time with being nice. I’m so pissed she’s at my door. It means she knows where I live, and she doesn’t get to know things about me. That’s not how this works.

“Why are you doing this, Andrew?”

I hear Trent scoff behind me, and it pisses me off that he’s hearing any of this. I slide my beer on the small shelf nearby and grab my jacket from the hook on the back of the door, motioning for her to get the hell out of my way. She takes a step back as I move outside with her and hand her my jacket. She looks at it like I just handed her a slab of meat.

“It’s forty degrees out here, and your teeth are chattering. Just put the damn thing on,” I say, walking down the path toward the road. Our street is filled with cars nestled up next to meters, and graffiti mars the sidewalks. It’s a far cry from the tree-lined cobblestone walkway that leads to Emma’s front door. I live in the real world.

Emma joins me near the roadway, but she’s still holding my jacket in her hands. I nod at her hands to put it on, and she scowls.

“Seriously, don’t make this a thing. It’s a twenty-dollar winter coat from Target. Just wear it for five minutes for fuck sake.”

She takes in a sharp breath before shoving one arm into a sleeve. “I don’t even know who the hell you are anymore,” she mumbles.

“Isn’t that the point? We pretend we don’t know each other?” I move in close, and she takes a step back. She wants to keep distance between us, which only makes me want to shatter her comfort more. I advance again, this time a little aggressively as my chest rumbles with light laughter. She doesn’t move this time, instead her shoulders sagging as she lets out a slow breath.

“Is that the point? Why is that the point, Andrew? What are you doing? Do you want me to pretend I don’t know you? I mean…I thought that’s what you wanted. I thought you really liked Lindsey. But then you keep doing things and saying things and you’re so—”

“So what, Emma?” I challenge her, waiting for her to say it. Her toes are matched with mine, and I feel her shoe against the tips of my own. My lip curls, unable to stop from grinning when I tap my foot against hers softly. Her eyes wince, just a little, but enough that I see it. She’s drowning in the fog of my breath, and I exhale once hard just to erase her. She backs down, her eyes falling to both of our feet as she takes a step back.

“Go on, Emma,” I say, moving toward her again. “What am I? Am I mean? Am I…angry? Am I the kind of guy who returns a girl’s license to her so she doesn’t have to worry? Does that make me your hero?”

She nods, but then shakes her head, bringing her hands up to the side of her face. Her eyes are threatening tears, and I know I have her on the brink.

“Or am I the guy who tells a lie for you, and then sits back while your life is perfect and mine is a fucking nightmare, and you can’t even bother the common decency of saying thanks?”

Her body grows rigid at that last one, and her face finds mine, her eyes wide and red, the water pooling in them, ready to fall to the ground in front of her. My hands out to my sides, I shake my head at a loss. I tried to make sense of it so many nights I lay awake at Lake Crest. I even tried to understand why she didn’t care after I moved to Iowa. I think about it every time my feet touch the ice, every time a fist lands on my face, and when I look at the scars I got for her.

“Come on, Emma. Tell me…what am I?”

Her breath falters, and the tears finally release down her cheeks as her bottom lip quivers with her cry and her gaze falls to the ground.

“You’re different, Andrew,” she says. I laugh her answer off, looking up at the sky, knowing she’d say something like that. I’m different. No shit, I’m different. You would be too.