Like he very well could.
“Emerson,” I say softly, letting my hand drift slowly toward his, “I—”
The front door of the diner flies open, slamming against the wall with a loud clatter. Emerson turns to look over his shoulder at the sound, and just like that, the spell is broken. Shit. I glance up, annoyed, to see who’s disrupted our near-perfect moment. But when I recognize the group that’s just sauntered inside, I feel myself going numb.
“Goddamn it,” I whisper, “Not now.” I quickly hiding my hands under the table, not wanting Emerson to see how they’ve begun to shake. I pretend to be very interested in something out the window as I hear the boisterous voices of three guys from my school fill the enclosed space, one of whom I’m very intimately, and very unfortunately, acquainted with.
To my horror, I watch from the corner of my eye as Emerson waves at the trio. Of course. They’re his lacrosse teammates. He has no idea why flagging them down is the worst thing he could possibly do to me right now. Against my silent prayers to any god that’s listening, the three boys stroll over to our table. Emerson swings his body around to greet them.
“Hey guys,” he says to his three teammates.
“Hey Tank,” says one of the guys, a blonde junior named Steve, using Emerson’s lacrosse nickname. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. As usual,” Emerson laughs, “What’s happening tonight?”
“Some people will be over at my place,” says Roger, a lanky senior. “Got a couple of dime bags, if you want in.”
“You know I do,” Emerson replies.
“We interrupting you?” Steve asks. I feel their three sets of eyes fall on my face like laser beams. Shit. I was hoping I’d get out of this without having to say a word to them.
“Just grabbing some food,” Emerson says, “Right Abby?”
With great reluctance, I raise my eyes to the four boys before me. I try to keep my gaze trained on Emerson, or even Steve and Roger, but my eyes can’t help themselves. They flick masochistically up to the third boy standing next to our table. He’s as tall as Emerson, with jet black hair slicked away from his hard jaw, his full lips. His own dark eyes skirt away from mine the second we make eye contact. He hasn’t looked at me in years. I like to believe it’s because he can’t bear to, that the guilt and shame are too much for him to deal with. But in reality, it’s probably just cold indifference that repels his gaze from me.
His name is Tucker Jacoby. He very nearly derailed my entire life, back when we were fifteen. And it’s abundantly clear that Emerson has no idea.
“Yeah...” I finally manage to say, my voice barely audible. “Just getting some food.”
“You guys know Abby, right?” Emerson says to the trio. I can feel my skin starting to crawl with every passing moment they...he lingers beside me.
“Sure. Yeah,” Steve nods, “You do all those cartoons in the school newspaper, right?”
“Right,” I say shortly, my hands shaking violently under the table. “That’s me.”
“I liked the one with the duck,” Roger puts in, “Didn’t really get the joke, but—”
“I’m starving,” Tucker cuts in. The sound of his voice is like an ice pick to my composure. “Let’s get a table. See you, Tank.”
He turns away without acknowledging me, just as he’s done for the past couple of years. Emerson raises an eyebrow at his retreating back before glancing over at me. He freezes as he catches a glimpse of my upset expression, taken off guard by the extremity of my discomfort.
“See ya, Tank,” Roger says, turning toward the table that Tucker’s claimed for them. “Think you’ll swing by my place tonight?”
“Yeah. I’ll get back to you on that,” Emerson says, his eyes still fixed on my troubled face. The sudden concern clouding his handsome face is enough to make my own eyes prickle with hot tears.
Roger and Steve trundle away after Tucker, leaving Emerson and I alone again at last. Our food has yet to arrive, but I’ve lost any trace of my appetite. The air in the Crystal Dawn feels poisonous now. Contaminated. I’m finding it harder to breathe with every shallow gulp of air I can manage to force down.
“Abby, are you OK?” Emerson asks, reaching for me across the table.
“I. I need...” I gasp, struggling to form the simplest words. “Can we go? Please?”
“Of course we can,” Emerson says, his voice soft but firm. He rises to his feet and offers me a hand as I stand, shakily. I feel the comforting weight of his arm as he drapes it over my shoulders, holding me snugly against his muscled side. Usually, I’d be all butterflies and giddiness to be this close to him. But in the midst of my anxiety attack, all I can feel is icy panic. I can’t help but glance over at Tucker as Emerson leads me out of the diner. I should be used to the uncaring expression he saves just for me by now. I shouldn’t let the mere sight of him unravel me like this.
But I’m just not strong enough to not give a shit. I never have been.
After what feels like a decade, I settle into the passenger seat of Emerson’s Chevy. As he rounds the car, sinks into the driver’s seat, and slams the door shut behind him, the bubble of my fear and apprehension bursts. Shame and relief crash simultaneously over me, rendering me speechless as Emerson turns to take me in. His look, infused with compassion, undoes me completely. Fat tears roll down my cheeks as I stare straight ahead, wishing that I could actually be as small as Tucker makes me feel. If I was, it would be easy enough to slip through the cracks and disappear forever.
“Abby,” Emerson says quietly, “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
I draw in a deep, ragged breath, trying to muster the strength for words. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Abby, is it OK if I hold your hand?”
His simple request acts as a life preserver, saving me from going under in this rush of emotion. I look over at him and nod silently. Without pause, Emerson reaches for the hand that is currently gripping my thigh, uncurls my fingers, and laces them with his own. I cling onto him like a drowning woman, amazed that he took the time to ask me if I wanted to be touched. I remember, through my thick fog of misery, that he must have plenty of practice being the comforter. How many times has he sat with Deb as she descended into a depressive stupor?