

Not Today, But Someday – Prequel

Lori L. Otto

Not Today, But Someday ©2012 Lori L. Otto Publications

www.loriotto.com

Photographer and Cover Designer : Christi Allen Curtis

Photography Assistant : Katrina Boone

www.christiallencurtis.com

Smashwords Edition, Fourth Edition ©2017, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

## DEDICATION

for the readers who demanded more Nate

# PREQUEL : THE BEGINNING OF EMI AND NATE

1995

## CHAPTER 1 - EMI

I was upset to wake up on Friday and not Saturday. The disappointment lingers. I could have sworn I'd been through this same charade five times already this week, but I'd miscounted. It was only four.

My brother doesn't bother to knock on my bedroom door before entering. "You're going on Monday. If I have to drag you there, you're going."

"But I'm sick!" I tell him with a glint in my eye.

"What was your temperature this morning?"

"One-thirteen," I explain. "I had to put the thermometer in the fridge for a few seconds to cool it down. It was a toasty one-hundred-three by the time Mom saw it."

"You don't think she's got enough to worry about, Emi? Without your fake mystery illness?"

"I don't care," I tell him. "Can you get me a spoon?" I call out to him before he has a chance to leave. "I dropped the one Mom brought between my bed and the wall." When they set up my furniture, the movers had left only enough room to make it impossible for me to retrieve anything from the crevasse. If I was stronger – or maybe just less lazy – I'd get up and attempt to move the bed.

"Another day, another pint," he says, giving me his most judgmental look as he discovers the container of pistachio ice cream in my hand. Fifth day, fifth pint, fifth new flavor. I had to find a new favorite flavor. I'd never eat chocolate again.

"So?"

"Get out of bed and get your own spoon." He rolls his eyes before running down the narrow stairway to the first level of our new apartment.

"Have a good day, Chris!" I yell to him, making sure my voice sounds strained in case my mother hears me. I don't want to see her again this morning, because I do care. I do feel guilty, but I don't want to go to a new school. I shouldn't have to.

I hate my father.

The ice cream container is already soft when I squeeze it. If I don't go now, my breakfast will become soup.

Sliding out of my bed and into my fuzzy slippers, I make my way downstairs toward the kitchen. I peek into the room first, looking for my mom. I'm relieved to see she's not there.

I have to pull open three different drawers before I find the one with the silverware. Does nothing make sense here? I feel so lost in this place.

I hate my father.

I start to walk away with a knife before I realize what utensil I'd grabbed. I swap it out for a spoon and start to go back upstairs.

"You should take a shower, Em," Mom says from behind me, her voice hushed. "You might feel better if you do."

"I'll try that later. Right now, I just need something to soothe my throat," I tell her as miserably as possible, keeping my back to her so I don't have to perpetuate my lie to her face.

"Okay, well, Dad will be here in a half-hour to pick you up."

I stop walking and turn around slowly. She's got the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder and is already moving back toward her bedroom before I can confront her. I follow her quickly.

"What?"

"He's on the phone," she whispers. "I just asked him to come get you." Mom swings around and holds out the phone, offering it to me. I take three steps back, as if it was infected with the vile disease I've been faking. "Your dad's really worried about you, Emi. He set up an appointment for you with Dr. Parson." Mom cocks her head, smiling, and I can tell she's challenging me. I knew five days was pushing it.

I have a half-hour to get ready and get the hell out of here.

"I feel much better now," I tell her, turning around on my heels. "Have a nice day, Mom. See you after school." Going through the kitchen, I stop only to put the ice cream back in the freezer and the spoon back into the drawer.

A drawer.

It's not the right one, but I don't care.

I hate my father.

I manage to catch Chris before his car leaves the driveway. "I'm coming today," I tell him.

"Like that?" he asks, paying particular attention to my house shoes.

"No, of course not. Can you give me fifteen minutes?"

"Em..." he hesitates. "I don't want to be late. You can catch a city bus... or it's just six blocks, you could walk. We don't both need to be late."

"Seriously?" I ask him. "I don't want to go in alone. I don't even know where to go," I whine.

"I'll go check in to first period," he says, glancing at his watch. "And then I'll meet you at the entrance at nine. Do you think you can make it by then?"

I frown, but nod my head at his compromise. Mom's on her way to work as I go back inside. She hugs me and wishes me luck, locking the door behind her. I have time for a quick shower after I mope for a few minutes, but that's about it.

"Nice hair," Chris says, staring curiously at the wet strands when I finally run in the front doors at three minutes after nine. Not having time to dry it, I'd brought some gel with me to try to make it somewhat presentable. So much for first impressions. I just need to find the ladies room. "Didn't you sleep in that shirt?"

I did, but he's the only one who'll ever know.

"I had to get out of there. Dad was threatening to come over."

"What for?" he asks, annoyed.

"To take me to the doctor," I say, "also known as Mom's manipulative way to get me to go to school."

"You underestimated her," he chuckles. I nod in agreement.

"What class are you in right now?" I ask him.

"Physics," he says.

"God, I hope I don't have to take that next year."

"It's an elective."

"Nerd," I tease him.

"Freak," he comes back, the same insult he always gives me. As different as we are, we've always been close, all our lives. The recent split of our parents has only made us more reliant on one another. "Here's the office." He holds the door open for me, but doesn't follow me in. "Meet you here after school?" I turn around and walk back toward him, suddenly nervous and not wanting him to leave.

"Unless I go home early," I say, faking a cough and trying to get a little more sympathy from him. I barely smile, and I know he can see the anxiety on my face.

"You'll be fine, Em. It's not that bad." He hugs me quickly before leaving me standing alone in front of three girls my age. They all have nearly the exact same haircut, with bouncy curls that I can only imagine would be crispy to the touch. I think about my own hair, though, realizing I have no room to judge them this morning. Only one girl – the blonde one – smiles at me, welcoming me up to the counter. The other two whisper back and forth to one another, holding a small slip of paper in front of their mouths. Way to be subtle.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm new," I tell her simply.

"Is that your name?" one of the chattering ones behind her asks. I glare at her momentarily, trying not to get discouraged.

I hate my father.

"Emi Hennigan," I talk only to the blonde. "It might be under Emily."

"Oh, so that's your brother?" the girl with black hair perks up immediately, twirling a long strand. She stands and walks toward me, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Chris Hennigan?"

"Yes." And I'll make sure you never have a chance with him.

"I'm Amelia." She holds her hand out, showing off her long, red fingernails, in an effort to introduce herself. I wrote her off ten seconds ago.

I smirk and nod, looking back at the one friendly girl. "I'm late to class."

Taken aback by my disinterest in polite introductions, she hands me the piece of paper with my schedule on it without a word.

"Thanks."

"Did you need help finding your class?" she asks softly.

"No, but your friend might." I grin cheekily, fluttering my eyelashes as all three girls stare at me, shocked. I turn quickly to make my exit.

That wasn't such a bad first impression after all.

## CHAPTER 2 - NATE

Every day for three months, we'd leave the building at lunch time. Before I got my license in November, she'd take me to one of the many parked buses at the back of the lot. She liked bus 37 the best, although she never told me why. For the first week, I was almost too afraid we'd get caught to be able to perform. Almost. She could coax any guy to give her what she wanted, though.

When I turned sixteen and passed my driver's exam, I got my convertible. Even the seats of my small car were more accommodating than the benches on the buses. And at least I knew the leather was clean.

I take a long drag on the cigarette, trying to take the edge off in one of the few ways I can in the middle of a school day – without her. Our mid-day meetings had become a habit, and the abrupt halt of them left me very unsatisfied at lunch time. I remember how her brown hair would tickle my bare chest as she'd lean over me. Her fingernails left marks on my skin. My lips left marks on hers. And her lips... the filthy things those beautiful, full lips would say, and do.

As soon as I finish one cigarette, I pull out another. I wonder if I could find another girl who'd have lunch with me every day. Not lunch in the cafeteria, where older women slop government-approved food on a tray and tell you to have a good afternoon. I need the kind of lunch she once gave me. It didn't matter to me that sometimes I went to fourth period hungrier than I was in third period. I was sated in the way I wanted to be. I was full. My desire for her was quenched, and I'd be in an altered state for the rest of the day, high on her.

I could try to have an average lunch – a lunch like everyone else – but instead, I choose to smoke. With the clouds overhead delivering tiny flakes of snow at their whim, the heated puffs feel even more comforting in my lungs. Leaning against the parking lot gate behind a row of evergreens, staring at those traitorous buses across the lot, I think I'm far enough away from the school to have some time alone, but I'm wrong. I hear laughter first, then other sounds that are only too familiar, the memories of those sounds too fresh and raw. And then I hear something else.

I can't even enjoy the last few drags of my cigarette. I throw the butt down hastily, stomping it with aggression, imagining Clark beneath the heel of my favorite worn work boot. It only takes hearing that one word to convince me to go to class.

Misty. Said in between grunts and groans coming from some car nearby. His car, I'm sure, that piece of shit Chevy that he had to 'fix up' every weekend. The same Chevy that half of the cheerleading squad could describe the interior roof of, where the fabric hung down seven inches, keeping Clark from seeing the road behind him through the rearview mirror.

What kind of girl sleeps with her ex's friend anyway?

Misty.

I guess Clark was her friend first, and he certainly isn't my friend anymore. I really didn't have any until she came along. It wasn't easy transitioning to a new school in the tenth grade.

I knew she was that type of girl when I started dating her. Why I thought I'd be the last guy she dated, I'm not sure. She's not in it for love. Fuck, I wasn't either.

I wasn't until I fell for her.

"Mr. Wilson, class started ten minutes ago," the vice principal warns me as I try to sneak in through a side door. "You weren't smoking, were you?"

"No, not at all," I tell her with a warm smile, trying to convince her to believe me. I know the smell of my new leather jacket isn't enough to cover the offensive tobacco odor, and in fact, probably makes it worse, but I lie to her anyway.

"I didn't think so. Did you need a note?" she adds.

"That won't be necessary." I breeze past her, knowing that I can charm my art teacher just as easily. I'm her favorite student anyway. Plus, Ms. Martin has smoked with me behind the gym on occasion.

I open the classroom door quickly, letting it shut loudly behind me, not caring if the noises distract my classmates.

"Thanks for joining us," my teacher says. I nod and grin in her direction as I head to my seat. Two rows before I get there, I see this diminutive girl sitting in the chair next to mine.

I've always been one of two students lucky enough to get their own workstation in art. I'd earned that seat, having honed my talent since I was a kid. I needed the space to spread out, to be messy.

I stop in my tracks, staring at the girl in the chair at my table.

"We took a vote at the beginning of class to see where our new student would sit. Without you here, it was unanimous," Ms. Martin says. I want to turn to her, to glare at her, but I can't look away from this fair-skinned girl who sits quietly with her head rested on folded arms. Even though we're talking about her, her gaze is straight-ahead and distant. She doesn't bother to look at me, which gives me ample time to stare at her mesmerizing green eyes. Light sage. Cucumber. Honeydew. I can't figure out what word best describes the color of those eyes, but they're unique and clear and enchanting.

I finally start moving again as some of my classmates laugh quietly at my reaction to my new neighbor. I grab my easel and a blank canvas from the side counter before I sit down. She has no supplies in front of her. I'm not sure her position or demeanor would change if she did.

She looks so sad.

I set up quickly, adrenaline coursing through me to start a new project. I pull out the sketch I'd drawn over the past couple of days. I'd started plotting it last week, but only got the inspiration to paint today. I glance over to the girl every few seconds, wondering if she's going to participate in class. Maybe she got put into art because all the other electives were full. I doubt it, though, judging by her hair and clothes. Underneath an oversized black coat, she's wearing a concert t-shirt that I actually own. I went to that show last summer. I had to sneak in the bar to attend, so I assume she did, too. And her reddish-blonde hair looks messy, but intentionally so. She looks artistic. I know from experience it doesn't mean she is, but she does look the part.

After preparing my paints on the wax-paper palette the school provides us – so cheap and temporary compared to the nice wooden one I use at home – I start to paint with a large brush. Heavy, dark strokes coat the edges. It's going to take forever to dry, but I don't care. This is how I feel and this is how it should look.

"I don't think they have enough black paint for both of us." I turn my head quickly at the sound of her voice. Her words were mumbled because she didn't lift her head from her arms to speak. Although I understood her the first time, I want to hear her again.

"Sorry?" I set my brush down and give her my full attention.

"I said I don't think they have enough black paint for both of us." Her eyes finally focus on something. They focus on me, and I immediately feel my heart start to pound in my chest.

Who is this girl?

"I'd share," I tell her as I push my tube of black paint a few inches closer to her. "You need a canvas or something. Did you want me to–"

"No, I can't paint," she says, finally lifting her head. She moves her hands to her lap, but she maintains her slumped posture as if she's caving in on herself.

"But you just said–"

"I know what I said. I was joking. If I was going to paint, it would just be smudges of black. That's all."

I totally understand. "Like this?" I ask, gesturing to my own work and smiling at her.

"Kind of," she huffs.

"Show me," I suggest, handing her my brush.

"No, you have, like, structure and order and a plan. I have chaos."

"Art can't be planned. Art is felt."

"Then what's that?" she asks, pointing to my sketch.

I crumple up the paper and toss it toward the trash can at the front of the class, missing by a few feet. "That was how I felt yesterday," I tell her as I get up to retrieve my trash and place it in the recycling receptacle.

When I return to my chair, the girl is holding my paintbrush tentatively in front of the canvas. "And how do you feel today?" she asks, moving her wrist as if practicing the motion.

Ten minutes ago I felt the same. Four minutes ago, even. But right this very second, something in me changes. I don't have the words to describe it, so I answer her vaguely. "Different."

I turn the canvas on its side, and with a pencil, I draw a line down the center. The girl smiles and starts painting on the half closest to her. I pull another brush out of my bag, as well as some more colors. I'm drawn to a tube of cadmium green I'd never used before. I start mixing it with white, trying to recall from memory the color of her eyes without having to look back. When I finally think I've mixed the two pigments correctly, I engage her in conversation again to compare my creation with the real thing.

"You picked the best seat, you know. You're lucky. You're sitting next to the best artist in school."

"And who gave you that title?" she scoffs, barely looking at me... barely giving me the opportunity to look into her eyes. There's a tiny bit of blue, I think. I pull out another tube of paint.

"It's just a fact."

"Lucky? I'm not sure I will enjoy sitting here, actually. Already, you're a little too arrogant for my liking."

"Arrogant, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Some women like men with confidence."

"Well, if you call that confidence, this girl does not."

"Sorrrr-yyy." I'm not at all offended. I just can't wait to hear more, and try to egg her on.

"My dad's arrogant," she mutters.

"Well, they say girls are attracted to guys who remind them of their fathers."

"You like to speak in generalities, don't you?" she asks. She continues before I can respond. "Again, not this girl. My dad cheated on my mom. That's why I got to transfer to this fucking school in Jersey mid-year." She stares into my eyes, long and hard. I expect tears, after hearing that news, but I only see anger. She's waiting for me to talk.

"Well, hello, Fiesty. There's the red-head I was hoping to meet."

One corner of her naked lip turns up into a grin. "And who are you?"

"Nate Wilson."

She nods and turns her attention back to the painting. She doesn't talk to me anymore during class, even when I try to get her name out of her.

"So should I just call you Fiesty, then?" She chuckles a little, but rolls her eyes. "Chaos?" I suggest. When the bell rings, she sets down the big brush she'd been using and picks up the small one I had just set aside. Light green paint with a tinge of blue still coats the bristles. In the bottom corner, she scrawls three letters, signing her work.

emi

She pushes her chair back and hands the brush to me before picking up her worn Hello Kitty backpack. It looks odd with her destroyed denim jeans and black combat boots, but everything about her makes me smile.

"Nice meeting you, Emi." She keeps walking until she exits the room, at which point she turns her head quickly, her once-pale skin entrenched in a deep, red blush. Dimples press far into her cheeks as she grins back at me.

## CHAPTER 3 - EMI

Bad timing, again. It's the story of my life. Was he flirting with me?

If I believed in fate and happily ever after and – hell, even love – I might be excited about this. He's just my type... except for that whole arrogance thing. How does someone like that get to be so cocky, anyway? Sure, he's cute, but he's not all that. He's too skinny to be all that. But his hair is cool... dark brown with reddish highlights. I don't think that's his real hair color, though. Hovering over his eyes are brows that are much lighter. The fuzz on his chin is almost blonde, too. And he has nice skin. And that smile. My stomach feels queasy, remembering his smile as I left the art room.

He smelled like cigarettes, though. I'm sure he thinks it looks cool. So, he's just my type – except for the unexplained cockiness and the smoking. Already I'm lowering my standards.

I look for Nate Wilson in the rest of my classes, but it seems like art is the only period we share. Nate Wilson. Such an unassuming name. It's not the name of someone with charisma and charm. Nate Wilson sits in the middle of the class, hoping no one calls on him. Nate Wilson doesn't strike up conversations with girls who are trying to be as unapproachable as possible. Maybe it's not his real name. I laugh under my breath at the way my imagination is already setting expectations for this guy I just met. Even if I wanted a boyfriend, this poor guy wouldn't have a chance in hell. Nate Wilson doesn't have girlfriends. This time, an audible giggle escapes, and a few people turn to look at me as I walk alone down the hallway.

My typical instinct is to focus on the ground as I walk, but I'm in a new school where no one knows me. Chris was trying to 'reinvent' himself here, and judging by the interest of some snotty girl named Amelia, he was achieving that. He'd encouraged me to do the same – if nothing else, to test our acting chops. We were both in drama at our old school. Neither of us signed up for the class here. We'd both seen enough drama for one year.

I look up, but can't quite get the courage to look people in the eyes, so I look beyond them all, down the hallway. A girl in a sequined red top stands at the end, nearly blocking my view of him. She's talking to an uninterested Nate Wilson, his gaze focused across the hall. Another girl puts things in a locker as a guy sneaks up behind her, putting his hands beneath the hem of her shirt and snaking his arms around her body. As I walk closer, I can see Nate narrow his eyes, watching the couple intently. His hand forms into a fist as his body tenses. I stop walking so I can try to process his reaction.

When the girl at the locker finally turns around, the other guy backs her into the wall, kissing her hard and fast. The expression on Nate's face turns to one of disgust. The blonde in the sequined top puts her hand on Nate's shoulder, as if she's trying to comfort him. He shrugs her off quickly, walking with purpose in the opposite direction.

Maybe Nate Wilson does have a girlfriend. Or did.

I immediately feel bad for him, and start to follow him. I'm too far behind to catch him unless I run, and I'm not chasing any guy. I don't know what I'd do if I caught up to him anyway. I'm not really sure why I want to. All I know is that since I left Jamie and Amelia in the office this morning, he's the only other student who's talked to me today. I never expected people to be nice to me here anyway. I wasn't looking to make friends.

But maybe I'll make one.

Nate Wilson needs a friend.

Someone taps me on the shoulder to get my attention. "You didn't hear me?" my brother asks, stepping in my sightline.

"Huh?"

"I was calling your name. I thought you must have your headphones in."

"No, I guess I'm just zoned out," I explain. "I'm not used to being up for seven consecutive hours. I need a nap," I joke with him.

"You made it through your first day. How was it?"

My answer is a simple shrug of my shoulders. "Some teachers gave me a bunch of homework from the past week. I thought we'd just start fresh today, but apparently they were expecting me Monday, and now I have to make up that time."

"Of course you do," my brother laughs. "Anyone offer to help you?"

"With what?"

"Your homework."

I scoff at his suggestion. "No one even talked to me today. What, did you make friends on day one?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Maybe you're not trying hard enough."

"I can guarantee that's it," I respond to him, my nostrils flaring. "I'm not trying at all."

"Em, this will be much more difficult if you keep up this wall. Just let your guard down a little. People here are nice."

"Oh," I remember the girl from this morning. "Whatever you do, don't ask out a girl named Amelia."

"Amelia Jones?"

"I don't know. Black hair? Witchy fingernails?" My brother laughs at my description and nods. "She was a bitch to me this morning."

"She was very nice to me my first day," he counters.

"Shocking!" I say sarcastically. "Promise me?"

"You're using your veto power early on. You know we agreed on one person every six months. We just started a new year."

"I am. Amelia is officially vetoed."

"She was the first person I met."

"You'll meet others."

"Well, I'll make sure to veto the first guy you meet... just to be fair."

"Don't waste your veto," I remind him. "Guys are cheating assholes. I don't want anything to do with them." I bite the inside of my lip, angry again. Chris puts his arm around me and starts to lead me out of the school building. "I hate our father," I tell him softly.

"I know," my brother responds. "I do, too. But you know, he's already done enough damage. Don't allow him to do any more. Don't give him that control."

"She loved him. With all her being, she loved him and would have done anything for him," I blurt out to Chris. "How does a man take that affection – that adoration – and still look elsewhere? For more? It will never make sense to me."

Love is complicated, Emily. That was my father's explanation to me, but I disagreed with him. It shouldn't be. It should be easy and effortless. Lust complicated it. Betrayal. Selfishness. Those are all things I thought were independent of love.

But they aren't. Dad taught me they can all live together in the black heart of a deceitful man. If it could happen to my parents – if it could happen to a man who'd been a constant husband to a beautiful and faithful woman for twenty-four years and a good father to three kids – it could happen to anyone. It could happen to anyone without any warning. How could I ever trust any man? If not Dad, who can I trust?

I hate my father.
CHAPTER 4 - NATE

I miss the turn to my neighborhood on purpose, flooring the gas pedal and moving to the innermost lane to try to avoid the people driving too fucking slow on the narrow drive. I didn't get this car for its looks, although it's a beautiful car. I wanted it for the engine, and for its ability to get me anywhere I want to go as quickly as possible. If Mom hadn't been feeling guilty about starting to date earlier in the year, I'd never have been able to convince her to buy me a convertible for my sixteenth birthday.

"Come on!" I yell loudly as I approach two cars going the same speed as one another, spreading across both lanes of the highway. I just want to get the hell out of Basking Ridge, on to an open road. Looking for a way past them, I glance to my left, wondering if it's safe to cross the double striped line to pass these idiots. I don't see any cars, and push my Ferrari to its limits as I steer into the empty lanes of oncoming traffic to get past the slower vehicles. One of the cars honks as I blow past it. I wave in response, cranking up the volume to the radio as I move my hand back to downshift.

I hear the siren before I see the police car. Fuck. I could outrun him, I'm sure, but being the son of Donna Wilson makes me pretty recognizable in this county. That, and I've already pulled over twice in my car that's not even two months old yet. And there aren't a whole lot of Ferrari convertibles around here. With everything working against me, I waste no time pulling over to the shoulder. The passengers of one of the cars I'd passed laugh at me out of the window. I fight the urge to flip them off with the officer parking his squad car behind me.

The wind whips harshly against my skin after I roll down the window. Denying myself the cigarette I need, I steady my breathing, trying to figure out a story to tell the cop.

"Step out of the car, sir." The officer is still ten feet from my convertible when he yells this at me. This isn't good. I turn off the engine and pocket my keys in my leather jacket.

"Is there a problem, officer?" I ask him, not realizing how cliché the question sounds until it's too late.

"You joking with me, son?" he asks, not at all humored by me. His accent is strange. His voice has Jersey nuances, but some words sound elongated, as if spoken with a southern drawl. His pace is slower than that of most local cops, and I notice he's wearing black cowboy boots.

"No, sir."

"License and registration," he says as he encroaches on my personal space. I'd back up if I wasn't already leaning against my car. As soon as I touch my wallet, I feel a tiny sliver of hope. My motions obvious, I search my wallet for the identification forms he requested. "You're not trying to bribe me, kid, are you?" he asks quickly, seeing all the bills folded beneath the money clip.

"What? No," I answer, my hope immediately dashed as I tuck the billfold back into my pocket.

"Didn't think so. Stay here," he says in a commanding tone as he returns to his squad car. I wonder how many laws I broke. Speeding. Crossing the solid line. If he finds my cigarettes, I'm sure he'll find a way to tack that on. They're sitting on the passenger seat. Panicked, I take one step toward my door before the cop jumps out of his own car, yelling at me to stop. When I turn around, he's got his hand on his gun.

I raise my hands up, scared out of my mind. "I was just–" I stutter.

"You're Nathaniel Wilson?" he calls out to me, taking his hand off his gun and walking toward me.

"Yes, sir."

"Son of Charles and Donna Wilson?"

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering what info they have in that database. Do they know about my parents? My dad? "Yeah."

"Charles Wilson, who died after driving his car into a tree?"

My nostrils flare. How the fuck does he know that? "Yeah," I say softly. He's returned to my car, once again standing a mere foot away from me. He's a few inches shorter, but that doesn't make him any less intimidating.

"You remember what your daddy looked like in the casket that day, kid?"

"No, sir. It was a closed casket service–"

"Damn right it was. Know why?"

"Because my mom didn't want to remember him that way," I tell him, suddenly feeling ten years old again, feeling every ounce of loss that I felt that day.

"That may be what she told you to protect you, son, but I was the first officer on the scene that night. To this date, it's one of the worst accidents I've seen and I will never forget what he looked like when we found him. You're old enough to know that your dad didn't make it out of that car in one piece. Those Jaws of Life retrieved pieces of a dead man, Nathaniel."

I stop breathing briefly before the urge to throw up strikes me. I've had nothing to eat all day, so I dry heave, finally falling to my knees in weakness, spitting out saliva and bile. When my stomach finally stops convulsing, I pant, trying to get air back into my lungs. I feel a hand on my back, but I don't look at the policeman. "Why would you tell me something like that?" I mumble to him angrily.

"Stand up," he says, now patting me on the back three times. I push against the concrete, forcing myself into an upright position, but I still feel light-headed and empty. I glare at the officer, waiting for him to answer me. "My records tell me that this is the third time you've been stopped for a traffic violation in a little over a month. Is that correct, Nathaniel?"

"It's Nate," I tell him, "and yeah."

"This time, I got you for speeding, crossing into oncoming traffic, rolling that stop sign back there, and... do I smell smoke?"

"Yeah."

"My records also say that you got off with warnings both of those other times, is that correct?"

"It is." Both of the other cops had asked to see my car up close. One even got in the drivers seat and checked out the instrumentation panel.

"I'm gonna do you a favor today." I breathe a sigh of relief. "I'm gonna write you up a ticket for all of your offenses. How's that sound?"

"It doesn't sound like much of a favor," I tell him honestly.

"No?" he asks. "Because I could take you down to the station. I could have your mom come bail you out of jail. How do you think she'd like that?"

"She wouldn't."

"No, she wouldn't. You know what else she wouldn't like, Nate?" he says, punctuating the end of my name with a little spittle. I wipe my cheek. "She wouldn't like me coming to her house and telling her that her only son's remains are down at the morgue. She wouldn't like having to come identify your body. Would she?"

"No, she wouldn't." I try not to think about what he's said. It would kill my mother. I can't imagine her that way. My body feels suddenly leaden, and I lean against the car for support.

"You better watch yourself, Nate," he says as he starts to write down my violations on a slip of paper. "Next time, we're taking you in, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And impounding that one-hundred-thousand-dollar car." One-hundred-thirty-thousand-dollar-car. I don't correct him. "And that will be the lucky outcome, right? Jail or the morgue. It'll be one or the other."

I swallow hard and take my license and insurance card back from him. He walks up to my door and opens it, leaning across the seat and grabbing the pack of cigarettes. "I love the smell of new cars," he says, handing me the ticket. "Don't make me visit your mom, Nate," he says, his cockiness suddenly gone. "Don't do that to her."

"Yes, sir," I whisper. I wait until he drives off to get back in my car. I reach under my seat and pull out another pack of cigarettes, my hands shaking as I open it. I depress the cigarette lighter and realize I'm sweating, despite the below-freezing temperatures outside. I shrug out of my jacket and light my cigarette as soon as the lighter's hot. I inhale slowly, in hopes of regulating my breathing.

I imagine my dad's mangled body and close my eyes. That won't make the image go away. I don't want to know this. I never needed to hear it, and yet I'm curious – and ashamed that I am, too. I wonder if my mom knew what he looked like. I could never ask her. She didn't identify the body, though. Grandma and Grandpa did... and they're not around anymore to ask.

Think of something else! Mom, answering the door, greeting the insensitive cop who's only there to deliver the devastating news of my death. I try to shake that thought away, too. Misty. Fuck! I don't want to think about her, either. Finally, I start the car and pull into the nearest parking lot to turn around. I need to go home. I need to clear my mind. I need to paint. I need to get it all out, and that's my outlet. I think about the piece of art I'd sketched. Why'd I throw that away? It was good.

For her. I threw it away to make a point to her. To impress her. Emi. With her clear, calming honeydew eyes. Before I know it, I'm half way home, the cigarette is out, my heart rate is finally back to normal, and there's a smile spread across my lips.

As was predicted earlier in the day, snow starts falling steadily just as I pull into the private road leading to our house. I park in the attached two-car garage so I won't have to walk in the snow, even though Victor normally takes that spot. He can get his shiny patent leather shoes wet with snow and mud.

My mother opens the garage door as I step out of my car. "I thought that was you," she says. "You can tell by the sound of that engine," she says.

"It is fairly distinctive," I agree. "Sounds very different from the Mercedes sedan we paid for."

"Nathan," she says, her tone warning. "Victor has been a huge help to us. He's not just my business partner – he contributes to this household, too," she says of her co-worker who spends much more time at my house than I think is normal. He's closer to my age than hers, and the thought of them together makes me cringe. She denies there's anything personal going on between them, but I still don't believe it. "He cares about us," she reminds me. He sticks his nose into my business. That's all he's ever done for me.

I smile warmly at her, the image of my dad's body still prevalent in my mind. I wish I'd never known, and I hope Mom never finds out. The thought of something like that would destroy her, reliving that day, imagining what he went through, alone. I can only hope it happened quickly; that he didn't feel any pain. The morgue or jail. His words still haunt me. I couldn't do that to her, not with all she's already lost. "Hi, Mom," I tell her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I love you."

"Oh, Nathan, that's so sweet," she says, squeezing my arm. "I love you, too. I don't tell you that enough."

"You say it all the time," I laugh.

"Oh, maybe it's you that doesn't say it enough," she teases me. I'm sure she's right, though. "I love you, Mom," I tell her again. She reaches up to ruffle my hair, her smile bright and genuine.

"Anything exciting happen today?" she asks.

"Yeah," I answer. "But I need to get to the art room." She doesn't ask any more questions, always understanding that I need to paint when I get the inspiration. Painting is my therapy. I'd been dabbling in art since I was a toddler, but I didn't use it as a healing device until my father died. In the end, it was the only way I could get over the lingering anger and betrayal I'd felt.

She's always encouraged me, for as long as I can remember. She built the art room for me. It's probably my favorite place in the world. It's not just the room I learned to become an artist in. It's the room that taught me how to feel. It's the room where I discovered who I was.

"Can I come see what you're working on?" she asks.

"Yeah, but give me an hour." I've never denied her entrance into the room whenever she likes, but she always asks first anyway. Her creativity and support has been something that's motivated me; it's something that drives me to better myself. I do love my mom.

I'd never want to hurt her.
CHAPTER 5 - EMI

On the bathroom floor, I finally start to unpack the box of beauty products. It had been sealed tight since the week before Christmas, but I want to wear lipstick today. Joey's coming today. I find the darkest red color I can find – and the matching liner – and paint my lips like my sister taught me when I was twelve. It was one of the few useful things Jen had taught me.

Discovering an opened package of small barrettes, I find a couple that don't match and pull my bangs back into two very small pigtails. Adding a little more mousse to my hair, I think it finally looks perfectly messy.

"Emi, come on! Other people need in there." My brother bangs on the door three times to make his point.

"Go use Mom's!" I whine to my brother. I hate having to share a bathroom with him. And meanwhile, Dad's in our old four-bedroom-four-bath house, all by himself. Well, he does have the stupid cat. They deserve each other.

"She's still asleep," he pleads with me. "I don't want to wake her up."

"Fine," I say, throwing open the door and averting my face as I try to side-step him.

"Did you put on makeup?" he asks, then laughs.

"No," I snarl at him. "My lips are chapped."

"Sure they are." He shuts the door, but makes sure to recite the lyrics to a song loud enough for me to hear.

"And if I seem to be confused, I didn't mean to be with you."

"Not funny!" I yell as loud as I can.

"Oh, Joey, I'm not angry anymore!"1

My brother cannot sing, so his attempts at belting out the Concrete Blonde song are very poor. I can hear him laugh over the running water of the shower. I'm glad he can't see my reaction, because it is kind of funny. It wasn't so funny last year, but I can laugh about it now.

I'd had a crush on my brother's friend since I was in the sixth grade. In fact, he was the reason Jen taught me how to put on makeup in the first place. My first crush. Joey spent a lot of time at our house, mainly playing video games with Chris. I'd become pretty good at some multi-player games myself, just so I could get more time with him.

Joey, though, didn't like me in return, no matter what I did. He always saw me as Chris did, as a little sister – even though Joey was only a couple months older than me. So when he asked me to go to the movies last year, it was a complete surprise. It was a little strange that Chris didn't know about it before I came home from school that day, walking on clouds, but I didn't care. When my brother asked his friend what was going on, Joey just asked if he could keep it between me and him. I started practicing writing my new last name that afternoon. Emi Amons. Mr. and Mrs. Joey and Emi Amons. Joseph and Emily Amons. And we lived happily ever after.

Right.

Joey had a hardship license, which I thought was so cool. My mom, caught up in the excitement, bought me a new outfit and helped me get ready for my first date. Chris had left the house early that afternoon on his bike, feeling uncomfortable with the situation all of a sudden. I didn't know that until later. His loyalty had been tested, and he'd chosen wrong. Again, I'd find this out that evening.

His friend showed up a little before six. He came up to the front stoop and rang the doorbell, and I'd let my dad open the door for me. Of course my parents knew Joey already, and thought he was a good enough kid, so they didn't do the typical grilling that I'd seen them do with all of my sister's suitors. I was over-dressed, compared to what he was wearing. I'd let my mother talk me into a skirt and a silk blouse, but Joey was wearing what he typically wore: blue jeans and a t-shirt with a cartoon character on it. I felt a little silly, but I wanted him to know that I thought he was special. I should have turned that logic around, and realized that he was letting me know that I wasn't that special to him. It would have saved me from certain embarrassment that was to come.

When I got to the car, there was another girl in the backseat. She appeared to be a little younger than us, wearing jeans and a button-down blouse.

"Emi, this is my step-sister, Mariah," he'd said as he climbed into the driver's seat. I was still standing on the curb, hoping he'd open the door for me. "It's unlocked."

Why I didn't just turn around and march back into my house, I'm not sure. I was still holding out for hope, I guess. I climbed into the front seat and said hi to Mariah, still not understanding what was going on.

"Thanks for coming with me," she'd said as we got near the theater. "I really wanted to see this movie, but none of my friends would go." Joey didn't respond. I couldn't believe she was going with us to see this movie – that my first date would be accompanied by another girl. I looked ahead and smiled.

When Joey got to the mall, he pulled up beside the box office window. "Curb-side service," he said. I thanked him as I got out, as did his step-sister.

"Are you going to park the car?" I'd asked him.

"No, I'm meeting my friends at the arcade. I'll see you in two hours."

I held on to the edge of the door, getting ready to slam it, but he drove off before I could. I stared at the tire tracks his car left as he peeled away.

"This is gonna be so fun!" Mariah said, touching my arm to try to direct me toward the theater. I tried to smile at her, but I wasn't sure what my expression actually looked like. It confused her, too, based on her reaction.

The movie was a comedy, but I cried most of the way through it. A year later, I still hate Jim Carrey by association.

And yet, I don't hate Joey. I let Mariah go home with her step-brother, but I called my house and asked for someone to come pick me up. While I waited for my mom, I sat inside, eating Raisinettes and counting the checkerboard tiles in the lobby. There were two-hundred-twenty-nine.

I didn't fawn over Joey much after that either, though. I didn't appreciate what he'd done, but my lingering – albeit dwindling – affection made it difficult for me to be as angry with him as I should have been. He used me.

Chris was much angrier than I was. He was the most upset with himself, though, because he knew about the setup the day before it happened and promised not to tell me. He swore to me that night when I came home with tear-streaked makeup and chocolate stains on my new blouse that he would never let a friend come between our relationship again. It took my brother a month to forgive Joey... and he only did it after I begged him to.

Now, Joey's a little piece of home to us. He's familiar, and for that, I like that he's coming over today. I also want him to see my new hairstyle and my tight-fitting jeans and sweater. A late bloomer, I was finally starting to appreciate curves that he might find attractive some day. I wanted him to regret what he'd done. Not that I'd ever give him another chance. I wouldn't, especially now that I've seen how love can destroy people. Surely it's better to be alone than to be cheated on and lied to after devoting your life to someone. And already, I couldn't trust Joey.

"Why are you and Chris fighting?" My mom's tired voice startles me.

"We're not," I assure her. "Were we too loud?"

"You were," she says. "It's before ten on a Saturday. New rule. No yelling before... noon on Saturdays."

Mom had been making a lot of new rules lately. She was trying to find the good things about being single. Not having to get up to make breakfast for her pig-headed, cheating husband was one of them. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Your sister called last night. She's coming down for dinner."

"Which guy is she bringing this time?"

"Someone named Josh," she says, shaking her head. Josh was probably the twentieth 'serious boyfriend' Jen had been with since she started dating at fifteen. In fact, if this was a new guy, this would be Josh number three. Or four. I can't remember anymore.

"Can't I go out with Chris and Joey instead? I think they're going for pizza."

"She wants to spend some time with you," my mom says.

"With Josh?"

"He draws, or something. She thinks you'll get along."

"I'm sure we will," I answer, rolling my eyes. "She doesn't even know what I do, Mom. She's never even asked."

"You should tell her. Just try to get along with her, Em, okay?" The tea kettle whistles from the kitchen, and Mom smiles as she leaves my room to tend to it.

I should tell her. I laugh to myself. When have we ever talked about me? Every conversation we have is so Jen-focused that I'd learned way more about my sister than I ever wanted to know. The only good thing about having her as a promiscuous older sister was that she told me things about sex that my parents wouldn't talk about. Most of those conversations, I couldn't imagine having them with Mom, or especially Dad. Especially now.

At school on Friday, my English teacher gave me a copy of the Canterbury Tales to read. In a week, I have to present a tale and provide commentary on its narrator to the class. She had thoughtfully assigned each character to a student– at least that's what she'd told me. She had assigned the task on Wednesday, and she'd admitted she was worried when I didn't show up to class this week. She'd assigned me the Knight, and expressed to me that he was her favorite character.

Waiting for something to happen today, I decide to start the book to kill some time. The Knight, by description, sounds like the perfect man; the kind of man that doesn't really exist in modern society. Up until a few weeks ago, I believed he did. I believed my dad exemplified the chivalrous and faithful traits of a good man, but he proved me wrong. Accepting that life in Chaucer's time was likely more pure, with more structure and fewer adulterous temptations, I accept this Knight in his shiny armor and read on.

I'm not too far into the story when I figure out why she gave me this particular tale. I'd wondered, since she'd never met me, how 'thoughtful' the assignment could be. It was very obvious, though. The young, fair maiden in the story was named Emily.

I would have rolled my eyes, had they not been glued to the pages. The Knight was the first pilgrim to tell his tale, and his story had drawn me in from the start. Of course I was curious about Emily, who had been introduced as the heroine. Reading on, the Knight continued a tale about two young prisoners who each fell in love with Emily when they saw her out of their prison cell window.

Love at first sight. Another concept that doesn't really exist. I try to remove my cynicism and general disappointment in love as I continue the story. My imagination allows me to get caught up in the romance of it, the poetry of Chaucer's words giving my mind a new playground to explore.

I hear Joey and Chris downstairs, but I want to finish the story, now that I've started. It's not often that a book draws me in, but there's something about this one. I continue reading until I hit one passage that takes me out of this Old English world and slams me back into reality.

A man must love, even if he strives against it; he cannot escape love, even at the cost of his own life. It may be love for a maid, for a widow, or for a married woman. It does not matter. Love is the law of life itself.2

Love should create rules, and abide by them. The vows exchanged in front of families and friends and God should dictate behavior. It should encourage two people to always honor what they share. Love. Stupid book.

I grab a scrap of paper from my dresser – a ticket stub– and stick it in the book as a placeholder. I wanted to like this story. Now I don't even want to finish it.

Finally deciding to join my brother and his friend, I head downstairs into the small living area next to the kitchen. My mom has made sandwiches for them, and is cleaning up by the time I find a place next to Chris on the couch.

Love is the law of life itself.

What does that even mean?

"Earth to Emi," Joey says. I hadn't realized anyone was speaking to me.

"Hey, Joey." When I finally look at him, his warm smile greets me and he stands up to hug me. I embrace him quickly, noting silently that my heart isn't racing like it used to. I thought I was over him, but I needed this test to make sure. It makes me smile wider.

"Feeling better? Chris said you were sick." He cocks one eyebrow, and I'm sure he knows the truth.

"My mom knows," I tell him. "I'm fine. Well-rested."

"Your apartment's cool."

"Not really," I argue. "It's tiny and sharing a bathroom with him is the most disgusting thing in the entire world."

"Shut up," my brother says, throwing a napkin at me.

"Proof," I say, retrieving the messy paper cloth from the floor.

"Yeah, and you left it so tidy, with all that makeup," he says sarcastically. "Why're you wearing makeup today, huh, Emi?" My eyes stay on my brother's, not daring to look at Joey, who I know is staring at me, making assumptions. I'm sure he thinks it's to impress him, but it's really just to make him understand that I'm not a little girl anymore. He's always had this image of who I am, and I've grown up a lot since then. I've grown up more in the past month than I'd really wanted to. In a way, I want some of that innocence back. The world was familiar and safe before. Now, I know some of its ugly truths, and I don't like them.

"You look hot," Joey says, shrugging his shoulders. "Not that I want to go out with you or anything, I'm just stating the facts."

"I know I do," I tell him, trying to put off an air of confidence and wondering if anyone can see through my own self-doubt. If they can, they don't show it. "Not that I'd ever go out with you anyway." I punctuate my statement with a smug smile.

"Glad we're on the same page."

"Yep," I say. "How's everyone back home?" I ask, happy to catch up on the gossip I'd missed. Joey tells us about everything that happened over Christmas break, admitting that the most newsworthy thing to happen was us, moving away so abruptly. It figures.

As the afternoon wears on, the three of us squeeze into Chris's tiny bedroom and play video games on a television that was made for a room twice the size of this one. My dad bought it for my brother for Christmas. He wrapped his guilt up in extravagant wrapping paper for each of us. Jen got a new computer for school. I got a new stereo with top of the line headphones. I needed them because you could hear everything in this apartment through its paper-thin walls. When I first unwrapped the gift– Dad wasn't even there Christmas morning to see us – I'd decided I wouldn't use it. I thought about pawning it, not wanting any reminder of him.

My brother had set it up in my room, though, while I was getting ready, and started playing my favorite CD on it. It would have been too troublesome to disassemble everything at that point. And it was really nice. He'd felt really guilty. As he should.

My sister shows up around four o'clock. The three of us join her, her boyfriend, and my mother downstairs for a little bit, but Chris and Joey only stay for an hour. Chris had told me earlier that they were going to check out a local pizza place, but Joey let it slip that they were going there because Chris had heard that it was a popular place to pick up girls. I think the groan I let out was the same one my mom did. After they left, I'd wondered if my brother had asked my mom to make sure I didn't come along. I know if I had asked, he would've said yes, not wanting to hurt my feelings.

A few minutes after Mom left us to cook dinner, Jen followed her into the kitchen, leaving me alone with her boyfriend.

"Jen says you like to draw," he says eagerly. He leans forward, as if anxious to hear my response. A medallion swings from a heavy gold rope chain as he moves. It sits atop the neckline of his t-shirt, but I can still see thick, dark hair from his chest. Every once in awhile, he runs his fingers through slicked-back hair, and I just wonder what in the world my sister sees in him.

"I don't," I tell him simply. "I like to create things. Collages, stationery, CD covers, stuff like that."

"Well, that sounds interesting. Tell me about the best thing you've done."

I shrug my shoulders as if I can't decide, but I know my response immediately. "I did the program for our school play a few months ago."

"What was so good about it?"

"It was hand-assembled. We used really nice paper on the inside, and the outside of it was, like, almost fabric. I designed all the pieces, and the whole cast had a party assembling them one night before the performance. No two were alike." I enjoyed the project not just for the piece that I produced, but the lock-in with my brother and so many of our friends had been one of the funnest nights of my life.

"Do you have one?"

"I have about ten. Did you want to see?"

"Maybe later," he says. "Is that what you want to do after school?"

"What, glue together paper? I'm not sure that's a career."

"Sure it is!" Josh says. "Graphic design. You get to do all the things you mentioned you like to do."

"But I can't draw."

"You hire people to draw. Or you teach yourself. It's not that hard."

"What are you studying?"

"I studied advertising," he says. "I graduated two years ago. I work on Madison Avenue."

"You make commercials?"

"I sell the airtime," he says. "I'm an Account Executive."

"How'd you meet Jen?"

"At a bar," he says with a laugh. "She spilled her drink on me while she was dancing with her friends."

"That sounds like her," I smile.

"I care about her a lot," he tells me.

"Well, good." They all do, for the few months that they date her. Then she gets bored or finds someone better. I decide not to tell him what he has to look forward to.

"My parents are divorced," Josh informs me, minutes after neither of us has anything to say.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"It gets better." I glare at him before getting up and leaving the room. I ignore the apology he gives as I walk upstairs.

"Emi," my sister says, barging into my room. "Why can't you just be normal?"

"What? He started talking about how his parents aren't together. Sorry, but that's not something that interests me."

"Well, sometimes people talk about things you may not like, but you don't just stomp up to your bedroom and avoid it entirely. He was just trying to be relatable."

"I can't relate to that guy. He looks smarmy."

"Well, I love him."

"Right."

"I do, Emi. He's asked me to marry him."

"What?!" I ask, completely taken aback. Two months ago, she was with a different guy. "Why, are you pregnant?" I ask sarcastically. Her eyes shift slightly, briefly, but she can't recover from her innate response. "You are?"

"Emi, do not tell Mom yet. We're going to break the news to her gradually."

"Are you going to finish school?"

"Eventually," she says.

"Dad's gonna kill you."

"Nope," she says. "I already told him. He's going to pay for the wedding."

"Even though you're pregnant?"

"Can you keep it down? This apartment's tiny and I don't want Mom to hear that part. Not tonight."

"Because you know she will kill you."

"I know she's not going to be happy about it... and I know she doesn't need anything more to stress her out right now. I want to give her a few weeks to get settled here... give you a few weeks to stop being a little spoiled brat and making her worry needlessly because you have to throw your silent tantrums."

"I don't do that."

"Yes, you do. Try to make this work, Emi. Do it for her."

"I want Dad to know how much he's ruined my life," I tell her. "I don't want to make it easy on him. He doesn't deserve it."

"Well, Mom doesn't deserve what you're putting her through. If you want to make Dad's life miserable, go move back in with him. Then you can go back to your little group of drama-freak friends and act out all you want."

"I have no desire to see him again."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, little sister, but you will have to see him again–"

"Not if I can help it–"

"Then you'll miss out on my wedding? And lots of things between now and then, because I plan to have him in my life."

"Why?" I ask her, disgusted.

"Because I've talked to him about Elai–"

"Do not say her name in this house," I warn her.

"Well, I've talked to him about her, and I honestly believe that he loves her."

"He was supposed to love Mom."

"I think he did. And I know you have some romantic notion of love–"

"Not anymore–"

"But sometimes, feelings wane."

"I guess if anyone would know that, you would."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I glare at her, knowing that she knows exactly what I mean. "I just hadn't found the right person yet."

"And that slick guy downstairs is the right person?"

"Yeah."

"Today, anyway," I add sarcastically. "Feelings wane," I repeat her words to me.

"I believe you can love more than one person in a lifetime, Emi. That's all I'm saying."

"Then it's not true love."

"You are so idealistic. Wait until you graduate and go off to college and start experiencing life outside your little bubble. I hope reality smacks you hard. You've always been so judgmental of me–"

"You bring it on yourself! What kind of example do you set for me? Oh, wait, are you making all the mistakes for both of us? So I don't have to? Well, then I guess I should be thanking you."

"Bitch."

"Whore."

"Screw reality," she says, moving toward me quickly and slapping me across the face. I push her away hard, and she stumbles back, putting her hand over her stomach. I can't hit her. As much as I want to, she has a baby growing inside of her, and I can't hit her.

"What's going on?" Josh asks, coming to Jen's aid. I hold my hand up to my cheek, still in shock that she actually hit me.

"We're just having one of our regular conversations," my sister says. "This is how it always goes."

"Your sister is not a whore," Josh tells me angrily. "How dare you say that, you little smart-mouthed drama queen!"

"Get out of my room," I seethe to them both. I'm even angrier, realizing that my sister has been talking about me to her new boyfriend behind my back.

"I'll tell Mom you're feeling sick again," Jen says. "Don't you dare come back downstairs."

"I'll wait until you leave to tell her your fantastic news."

"Don't you dare tell her. It's not your news to share, Emi, and I will never forgive you."

"You think I care?"

"You should," she says. "We're family. Don't do it for me. Do it for Mom. Can you just try to give her a few weeks of peace?"

I don't answer, instead choosing to pick up my book to make my point that I'm done with the conversation. Josh shuts the door quietly behind them. Frustrated, I throw the Canterbury Tales hard against the wall. Curled up on my tiny bed, I stare at the second hand of the clock across the room. It's not even six o'clock on a Saturday. Normally, I'd be out with a group of friends. Instead, in a small New York town an hour away from here, that same group of friends is moving on without me.

After ten minutes, I decide I won't be confined to my bedroom tonight.

Standing up, I go to my closet to grab my coat and slide into my warmest boots. I pick up my purse and shove the book inside. As quietly as I can, I descend the stairs, pausing at the small landing to listen for my sister and mom. I can hear them both in the kitchen, so I keep going until I hit the bottom floor. Josh must be with them, so I'm able to sneak out the front door, unnoticed.

## CHAPTER 6 - NATE

The streets still slick with ice, I drive the family SUV, fitted with chains on the tires. After painting for twelve hours straight, sleeping for only six, and then getting up to paint for an additional six hours, I need to get out for some fresh air. Even though the art room is well-ventilated, I still get headaches from time-to-time. I wasn't certain if they were caused by fumes or intense focus – or in this case, hunger. I'd forgotten to eat today. Normally, I could rid myself of the headaches without any medication by just stepping away from my art for a few hours.

At the pizza place, I nod to a few people I recognize from school before finding an empty table in Lauren's section. She waves from across the room. She looks so different in her work uniform than she did in that red sequined shirt yesterday. For a few seconds as she lingered at my locker while I watched Misty and Clark, I'd almost accepted her offer to go to her house after school, left unattended by her still-vacationing parents. I could almost see myself with her as she flirted with me. She'd been hinting at it for weeks, even while I was still with Misty. When she brought her lips to my ear, though, whispering to me what she wanted to do with me, I lost interest. I could smell the liquor on her breath, even though school had only been out for fifteen minutes. I could not have been less attracted to her at that moment.

"What'll it be?" she asks. "I get off in fifteen minutes."

"I'm busy," I lie.

"What, the painting again? God, get a life, Nate! You're young. Enjoy it."

"I am," I tell her, confused. I don't think anyone my age can really understand what it's like to be truly passionate about something. Something other than getting wasted or getting laid. I don't know how I fell into this group of friends. They're nothing like me, but I guess misfits tend to flock together, even without having much in common.

"Cheese and mushroom?" she sighs.

"Yeah. And water, please."

At the table in front of me sits two guys. One guy with dark hair has his back to me. The other – the one facing me – looks strangely familiar, but I don't think I know him. Initially, I wonder if he might be someone I went to school with before transferring here, but I can't place him. I try to ignore their conversation, but the music in the restaurant isn't quite loud enough and even with his back to me, the guy in front of me is a noisy and opinionated New Yorker.

"If you guys hadn't moved away, I think I'd ask her out."

"Yeah," the guy facing me laughs. "I hope she'd be smarter than that. You blew it. I wouldn't let that happen."

"You'd cock-block me?"

"Shut up, she's my sister."

"She's lookin' good, though. She's starting to look like a woman."

"What, just because she decided to wear makeup today?" He laughs, pushing his reddish-blonde hair out of his eyes.

"No, although that doesn't hurt. I think I see something happening up here," he says, bringing his hands up to his chest and curling his fingers into crude little cups.

The other guy drops his slice of pizza and pushes his plate away. "Either you stop talking about Emi, or I get a cab home."

Emi. Red hair. Sister. I study his features quickly. His eyes are a muddy brown, nothing like her crystal clear green ones. Maybe it's a coincidence. I look harder, using my artist's eye to examine the fine details of his face. I only saw her briefly the day before. His skin is pale, like hers. That's not enough to make a convincing connection, though. I wish I could see her again.

Lauren brings my food and drink, then stops by the table next to mine, asking if they want refills. She flirts with the guy facing me in what is likely a wasted attempt to make me jealous. As she walks away, his face flushes red and he smiles. I see her dimples in his cheeks. They have the same smile. I'd know that smile anywhere.

I can't help but eavesdrop now, but as I eat my pizza, they don't talk about her anymore. They talk about people they obviously know from another city. I'm sure it's the city where she lived before she was forced to move here. Still waiting for a little more evidence, I finally get it when this guy – whose name I've learned is Chris – starts talking about his parents imminent divorce.

The friend lights a cigarette, undoubtedly used to what's acceptable in New York. Lauren promptly lets him know that he can't smoke in the restaurant in our small town. Instead of putting it out, Chris and the other guy decide to leave.

I pull out a few bills and throw them on the table as I get up to exit the restaurant. The two guys are still talking by the door when I get outside.

"Hey, uh," I interrupt, "do you have another one of those?" I gesture to his cigarette, shivering in the cold.

"Sorry, man," he says.

"Joey, damn it, give him one. It's freezing, come on."

"No, it's alright," I say, backing away.

"Come back," Joey says, reaching into his pocket. He hands me both the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. I take one out and light it, thanking him as I hand them back. I take a few steps away to the other side of the entrance. I'm not sure what compels me to stay and listen, but I do, trying to look like I'm intently focused on something across the street.

A car pulls up, and an older man and woman get out. "Chris," the woman calls. He turns around, startled. I sit down on a bench and stare at my feet, tapping them to a silent rhythm that only I can hear. As I think about her, I realize the rhythm is my heartbeat.

"What are you doing here?" he laughs.

"Is Emi with you?" she asks, frantic. I can't help but look up once I hear the urgency in her voice.

"No, why?"

"We got into it," the woman continues. "We left her in her room and had dinner with Mom, and when she went to take her some food, she was gone. Her coat, purse, boots are all gone.

"Well, I don't think she'd be here. Wherever she went, it's probably closer to Morristown, because she'd have to go on foot. I doubt she'd take a bus anywhere."

I don't wait to hear anymore, trying to act casual as I make my way to the SUV. Having grown up here, I know Morristown like the back of my hand. I also know good places to hang out on a Saturday night.

The main problem is, I don't know what she likes to do. At all. Would she try to sneak into a bar? Or would she find a coffee shop, settling in with a cappuccino as she listened to a live local musician? I decide to just head to the north end of town, where the residential area meets the shopping strips.

Cars honk at me as I drive well below the speed limit. I laugh at the thought of getting pulled over for that. Would the cops still take me to the station for that offense? Suddenly, it's not funny, and I decide to park the SUV next to a coffee house. I go inside and order a chai latte, needing something to keep me warm while I wander the downtown streets looking for a girl I know nothing about and have only met once. I realize my chances of finding her aren't good, and judging by her despondent mood yesterday, I doubt she wants to be found.

Fifteen minutes later, two streets from where I parked, I see her distinctive hair as she sits with her back to the window. She's alone in an ice cream shop. Literally, there are no other customers.

A tiny bell notifies the staff of my presence. Two women greet me, one likely in her twenties, the other closer to my age. "What can we get you tonight?" The older woman glances at the warm beverage in my hand. "You can't bring that in here, sir."

I nod once as I continue toward the counter, and tell them I'd like a chai latte.

"We don't have those here," she says.

"Fine," I tell her. "How about a triple dip sundae in whatever flavors you want," I suggest softly, slipping a ten on the counter, "and then you two can enjoy it and ignore me while I drink my chai latte with my friend over there." I smile, my eyes pleading with them. "I don't think my coffee will drive away your customer, okay?"

"Okay," the younger woman says with a quiet giggle. She starts to take the money, but the older woman stops her, picking up the bill and handing it back to me.

"Just this once," she says.

"Thank you." When I turn around, I have to do a double take. Is it her? With her red lips and colored eyelids and rosy cheeks, I barely recognize her. When she finally looks up at me, I recognize her eyes. I know them immediately, and feel instantly connected to them. She squints them at me, then smiles.

"Hey," she says.

"Hi," I tell her, acting surprised to see her there. "Ice cream? Tonight?" I ask her.

She nods her head. "I can't get much colder." She wraps her puffy coat tighter around her. I pull my cap off my head, letting my hair fall messily and swiping it out of my eyes. "What brings you here, if not for the ice cream?"

"I, uh," I start, unprepared. "I was just taking a walk."

"A walk," she confirms, as if she mis-heard me.

"I needed some fresh air."

"Oh," she says. She takes a spoonful of ice cream from the pint container and puts it in her mouth, letting it melt on her tongue. I glance down at her book.

"You have Miss Spindler?"

"Huh?"

"English Lit? Miss Spindler?" I pull out the chair across from her tentatively, and wait to see if she has any objections. I hadn't noticed her purse in the chair, but she moves it for me, setting it on the floor. I take that as an invitation and sit down.

"I think that's her name, yeah."

"Me, too," I tell her. "What period?"

"Second. You?"

"None of her classes fit with my schedule, so I have a period of independent study that I use for her classwork."

"That's odd."

"Well, I'm a year ahead in reading," I tell her.

"What grade are you in?" she asks me. I'd assumed we were in the same grade, but now I realize she's a year ahead of me.

"I'm a sophomore."

"You don't act like a sophomore," she says. "I don't know where you get your confidence, but it makes you seem much older. And your eyes look... older, too. You don't have that puppy-dog, pitiful sophomore look."

"Did you think I was a senior?"

"You could pass for one," she admits. "You're definitely tall enough. Do you play basketball?"

"Hell, no," I laugh. "I don't like sports."

"Just art?"

I can feel my cheeks blush a little, as if I'm suddenly embarrassed by what I do. Maybe she likes jocks. Maybe she'll be disappointed to find out that there's nothing more to me than my paintings. "Pretty much," I say softly, looking down.

"Whoa, there went your confidence," she laughs. "What just happened there?"

"Nothing, that's just my thing. I paint. And draw. And sometimes I write poetry."

"And you're ahead in reading. You're starting to sound like a Renaissance man or something. Nate Wilson, the guy who can do anything."

"Except play basketball," I correct her.

"Screw basketball," she laughs. "It sounds like you do all the important things." I can't help but smile. She smiles, too, showing her teeth as they begin to chatter. Should I offer her my coat? Is it too forward? Too obvious? "So what character do you have to profile?"

"The Squire," I tell her. "Have you read that part yet?"

"Just the description at the beginning. You're my son."

"Wait, you're the Knight?" She nods her head. "That's odd. But I guess there aren't that many women in the book to go around."

"Why is it odd?"

"You have to present the character to the class, as the character, you know?"

"No, I didn't know that." She sounds annoyed.

"Yeah, she normally tries to assign characters that aren't too much of a stretch to perform. I wondered who got the Knight. I didn't think there were any guys in that class good enough to play him."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me," I tell her.

"Well, the girl in my story is named Emily, so I guess that's where Miss Spindler is coming from. Emi's short for Emily."

"Ohhh," I comment, remembering the Knight's tale. "This is starting to make more sense."

"So, what, you have to perform for Miss Spindler in private, then? Now if that's not intentional..."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The young squire, who'd do anything for love," she says, her voice suddenly very theatrical. "The cute boy, telling his tale of love to the young, single, lovesick teacher."

"You've got an imagination on you, don't you?"

"It's one of my better qualities." She takes another spoonful of ice cream, but this time she twirls the spoon in her mouth after swallowing, drawing my attention there.

"Did you call me cute?"

"I don't think so," she says, her cheeks growing red. She dips her head down toward the table and pulls her coat tighter again.

"And mine isn't really a story of love," I tell her, letting her off the hook. "It might have been, but it was interrupted unexpectedly. I don't know the ending to my story. The god damn Franklin cut me off," I laugh, and she does, too. "And for the record, I get a pass from my math class to come present for your class that day."

"So you'll see me in shining armor..." she mumbles. "Great."

"That's a sight," I tell her. "No offense, but I don't think you'd be able to stand up straight with full body armor."

"Then I won't waste my money. Maybe I could make a cool breastplate of foil and cardboard."

"That sounds like a better plan." For the third time, she shivers, and this time pulls a hood over her head.

"You do know it's below freezing outside, don't you? I just don't understand why you chose to come here," I question her.

"It's peppermint, though," she explains, as if it all makes perfect sense, "it has some warming qualities... or something..."

"Really?" I ask her. "Here," I say, taking off the lid to my latte, "try this."

"I don't like coffee."

"It's not coffee, it's–

"I can't have chocolate," she adds quickly, pushing the drink back to my side of the table as if it's offensive to her.

"It's not hot chocolate, either," I tell her, looking at her sideways. "It's a chai tea latte."

"That sounds disgusting."

"It's not. Plus, it will warm you up. Either drink some of this, or I'm taking off my jacket and making you wear it. And all I've got on under this is a t-shirt, so you'll probably feel bad."

"Probably not," she says with a straight face. One dimple starts to form though, and she touches my finger with hers as she takes the drink from me. "Oh, my God, that's good," she says, drinking more. "Take some ice cream," she offers, pushing it toward me. "Take it all, please. Because I want this. Can we trade?" She speaks so quickly, and continues drinking at will, so there's no chance for me to say no. "Please?" she asks, her eyes pleading with me. "I'll get you a spoon."

"I don't want your ice cream, but drink up. I'm tired of hearing your teeth chatter."

"Thank you," she says. "If you don't want ice cream, why'd you come in?"

"I saw you from the street, and I thought I'd stop by."

"Why?"

"Well, I was at this pizza place," I start, and she looks at me curiously, "and I think I may have seen your brother. Do you have one?"

"I do. Why do you think that though?"

"His hair was the same color as yours."

"Lots of people have strawberry-blonde hair," she says as she rolls her eyes.

"Well, he was also new in town, talked about a sister named Emi, and mentioned his parents were going through a divorce."

"Was he with a cute dark-haired guy?" she asks.

"No," I answer her. "I didn't think he was cute." She laughs a little.

"So did you actually meet him? My brother, Chris?"

"Not officially," I explain. "But I was close enough to overhear that your family is looking for you."

She averts her eyes and drinks some more of the latte.

"I'm not going to ask questions," I tell her. "It's none of my business."

"Thank you," she says. "I'm not really in the mood to talk about it; nor am I in the mood to go back home."

"I won't make you do either. But this place is closing soon, and I'm not going to abandon you until I know you have somewhere to go. Did you drive here?"

"No, I don't know how to drive."

"Really?"

"My brother takes me where I need to go. Or I take a bus."

I nod toward the front window, trying to get her to look outside. The snow has started to fall heavily again, and with the sun down completely, I'm sure the roads and sidewalks will be sheets of ice in no time. I glance at her feet. At least she has boots on.

"Do you have any friends here? Someone's house you can go to?" She shakes her head.

"You're the only person who's talked to me."

"Well, you were a little intimidating at school," I tell her, remembering how closed-off she seemed yesterday.

"I'm really not," she says.

"I see that now," I agree. "My car's two blocks from here by the coffee shop. Walk with me, I'll get you another latte, and we'll figure out somewhere you can go."

"Okay," she agrees, standing from the table when I do and following me back out into the street.
CHAPTER 7 - EMI

"You mind if I smoke?" Nate asks me as we turn the corner on our way to the coffee house where his car is parked. I crinkle my nose at him in disapproval, but shake my head.

"I don't care."

"Cool. Want one?" he asks as he takes off his gloves, putting them in his pocket.

"No, thanks," I tell him as he lights up. He holds the cigarette in the hand farthest away from me, and blows his smoke in the opposite direction.

"So, I take it you're staying with your dad?"

"No. My mom." The ground slick, one of my shoes slides precariously on the ice. I grab onto Nate's arm for support. "Sorry."

"It's fine," he says kindly, allowing me to hold on to him. "What'd she do to make you so mad? Your dad's the cheater. Why don't you want to go home?"

"I just hate it there. It's a tiny apartment. My room barely fits my new twin-size bed. I have to share a bathroom with Chris. Nothing has a proper place. And when I left there tonight, my sister was there with her new boyfriend who's going to marry her because she's pregnant, and she slapped me–"

"She slapped you?"

I touch my left cheek and nod.

"Why?"

"I called her a whore." He chuckles a little. "She called me a bitch first. And of course I can't hit her back because she's cooking a baby–"

Nate starts to cough, small puffs of smoke and hot air escaping his lips as he laughs heartily at what I said. "Cooking?"

"Yeah," I grin.

"Nice visual. So you don't want to go to your Mom's. Is your Dad's house an option?"

"Aside from the fact that he lives an hour away, I don't ever want to see him again. So, no." He's silent, and his brows are furrowed as if he's deep in thought. "I know I didn't think this through."

"Yeah, what exactly was your plan?"

"Make them worry about me. That was the plan."

"Well, then I think you've done that." He opens the door to the coffee house for me, but I wait for him to lead the way to the counter. I've never been in a place like this before, and after reading the menu, I have no idea what any of it means. "What do you want?"

"I'll get that drink you gave me," I tell him. "I liked it."

"Two chai lattes, no foam," he says. I start to get money out of my purse until I see the stack of bills tucked under a money clip that he pulls from his back pocket. It looks like he can afford this more than I can.

"No foam?" I ask him, putting my wallet away. I've never heard my parents talk about foam with coffee.

"I just like it better like that. Did you want it?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"Give her foam," he instructs the man making our drinks. "It makes it milkier."

"But it's not chocolate."

"No. Is this an allergy or something? Because I can't guarantee that the spoons they use haven't come into contact with chocolate or anything. Your throat's not gonna swell up, is it?"

"No, it's not an allergy." We get our drinks and head back out to the street toward his car. It's a black SUV with dark windows. "This is nice," I tell him as he opens the door for me. Once inside, I look at all the buttons and knobs on the dashboard. This car has everything. Glancing down, I even notice a phone in the center console. Who has a phone in their car? "Are you a drug dealer?" I blurt out as soon as he sits down behind the wheel, before I can even consider what I'm asking. My heart's racing in panic, and I put my fingers around the handle, ready to escape. Why am I getting in the car with him?

"A drug dealer?" he asks. "Why would you think that?"

"I saw all that money," I explain, scooting a few inches away from him until my body is pressed against the door. He puts the keys in a cup-holder, as if assuring me we're not going anywhere yet. I start to take a few breaths as I explain my rationale. "And then you have these dark windows, and a car phone, and you smoke."

He presses his lips together, suppressing his laughter, I guess.

"This is our family car. I took it because it's safer to drive in this weather than my car. Mom's very active in a lot of organizations, and likes to be available at all times, even when people are driving her around. I do smoke – cigarettes, that's all- and 'all that money' was only about a hundred-sixty. That's not drug money." He watches for my reaction, and when all I can do is stare back, he leans over the seat to unwrap my fingers from the handle. "Where do you want me to take you?"

I try to focus on the view in front of me, slightly obscured by frost and snow, feeling trapped – not by Nate anymore, but by my situation. My eyes begin to water, and I swallow the growing lump in my throat so I can speak. "Do you live far from here?" Nate starts the car and adjusts some of the knobs, causing the frost to dissipate rapidly from the windshield.

"Uhhh," he hesitates. It's obvious I'm imposing on him, making him uncomfortable. I blink, forcing two tears to run down my cheeks. "Hey, it's okay," he says assuringly. "I'm about ten miles southwest. I just–" he pauses, sounding nervous. "I've never had a girl over to my house before, that's all."

"It's not like that," I say quickly, realizing I may be giving him the wrong impression. "I just don't have any other options–"

"I know, Emi." He puts his hand on top of mine. I allow it for about three seconds, and then pull mine away, clasping my hands and settling them in my lap. "Sure, we can go to my house."

"Thanks. Will your parents mind?"

"I guess we'll find out," he says. "But once we're there, I know my mom won't want me driving in this again, so we have that working in our favor."

"Do you have an extra room?" He laughs at my question, carefully accelerating when we hit the main street. "Well? I can take the couch."

"You don't need to worry about that–"

"I'm not staying with you–"

"You've already made it clear that's not what you want," he says. "I don't want that either. When you see where I live, you're going to feel very silly, that's all."

"What, is it like a mansion?"

"No," he says plainly. "It isn't like one. It is one."

"So you're rich?"

"I will be when I'm twenty-one," he tells me. "Inheritance. Now do you want me?"

I look at him, shocked, but see by his expression that he's just joking with me. I laugh a little before I process what he's said. "Your grandparents?" I ask him, hopeful that it isn't some tragedy that will make him wealthy.

"Grandfather, yes," he says. "And my dad."

"Oh," I say softly. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. I'm fine."

"Okay." I smile when he glances over to me.

"Your lipstick is distracting," he says to me abruptly. I moisten my mouth with my tongue, surprised the red pigment is still on.

"That was the point, I guess. I was trying to make my brother's friend jealous."

"You're going about it all wrong," he says. "Do you not realize you were blessed with the most beautiful feature I've ever seen on any person? Naturally and unadorned?"

I blink rapidly, taken aback by his compliment. "What?" I say in a quick huff of air. I suddenly can't breathe.

"Your eyes."

I have my grandmother's eyes, apparently, but she'd died before I was born. I'd never met anyone with eyes like mine, but I always thought they were too pale, and strange-looking. "They're weird."

The corner of his lip lifts slightly as he shakes his head. He takes a deep breath and sighs audibly. "You're going to think I'm weird."

"Why?"

"You'll see," he says. "You may want to go home once you find out."

"I'm a little scared."

"Don't be scared," Nate says. "I'm probably the least scary person you'll ever meet."

"I can tell you're trying to look a little rough around the edges," I tell him. "The smoking. Your leather jacket. Your scuffed-up boots. But then I really look at your face. You have a very pretty face."

"Pretty?" he asks.

"That's not an insult," I assure him. "You have these great cheekbones, and long lashes. And your lips are a little distracting, too." We both blush at that admission. "I'm just being factual. I am not hitting on you, by the way. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," he says. "You're an artist, doing what an artist does. Observing. That's all I'm doing, too, so don't think my compliments are anything more than... an aesthetic appreciation."

"Okay," I say with a smile.

"Just remember that when I show you what I've been working on in my studio."

"Okay."

He takes me down a heavily wooded road, marked with mailboxes every so often, but I can't see any houses. Finally, he makes a right turn down an unpaved lane that's lined with tall street lamps. "This is all our property," he says as the drive continues for about a quarter of a mile. We come over a small hill and take a sharp left, and I can suddenly see his house.

"Holy shit." He's silent, continuing the slow drive over frozen rocks and gravel. I count fourteen windows surrounding an entranceway made more stately by four wide columns that rise from the ground to the roof, spanning all three floors. Three floors? "This is where you live?"

"All my life," he says.

"This is bigger than the apartment building we live in. Like, with all the units." He just nods, pressing a button to open a garage door. There are two garages, with four doors total. He drives into the spot closest to the house. A beautiful woman opens the door to the house, her shoulder-length blonde hair perfectly-styled. She's wearing more makeup than I'm used to seeing on women, especially at ten o'clock at night. Maybe she's on a date.

I stay in the car, nervous, as Nate gets out. She doesn't notice me at first, talking to Nate and giving him a hug. He kisses her cheek, then glances at me through the front window of the SUV. His mother – I presume– looks startled. Nate waves for me to get out.

"I'm Emi," I say nervously as I shut the car door a little too hard. The door was heavy, and didn't need all the force I'd put behind it.

"This is my mom," Nate says. She doesn't say anything to me. She just nods and smiles nervously.

"Well, get inside," she addresses Nate. "It's too cold to be out here." Nate waits for me to enter the house behind his mother first, then follows me in. She continues walking ahead, but I stop, waiting for Nate to take the lead. He follows her to another room across the house.

In the kitchen, another younger man sits at the kitchen island with a glass of wine. "Victor, this is Emily," she says.

"It's Emi, actually," Nate corrects her.

"It's okay," I smile, not wanting to offend anyone. "My parents call me Emily sometimes. It's my real name." I walk over to the man and shake his hand. "Are you Nate's brother?"

The kitchen goes dead-silent, and I suddenly feel suffocated by awkward tension.

"Victor is Mom's business partner," Nate says, and I can feel all the color drain from my face. I look to his mother, an apology hanging on my tongue but unable to make its way out.

"It's okay," she says with a slight smile.

"I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be," Nate's mom says. "He's brilliant at what he does, even if he does look like he just got out of college–"

"Mom, can I talk to you for a second?"

"I was hoping you would," she says with a smile in my direction. "Victor, see if Emi wants something else to drink."

"Wine?" he asks.

"Please tell me she's not old enough to drink," his mother says quickly.

"I'm not, no," I answer for my friend, feeling completely uncomfortable. I can tell Nate's mom is not okay with me being here.

"I have my latte, or something," I mumble, holding it up. "It's good."

"Something to eat?" Victor asks.

"I'm good." I start to shrug out of my coat, realizing that beads of sweat are forming on my upper lip. It could be the roaring fire that's six feet to my left, or it could just be the situation. Unsure if I should make myself at home so soon, I leave the coat on, but unzip it all the way.

"Have a seat," the man offers, pushing a chair out for me.

"Thanks." I listen intently, trying to hear Nate or his mother, but I hear no one. They could have gone anywhere in this huge house, never to be heard from again. And I'm left with this man–

Imagination, Emi...

"Can I take my coat off?"

"Of course." Victor stands up, touching the shoulder of my down jacket. "Let me help."

"I've got it," I say, confused. I can take off my own coat. He stands next to me, waiting until I've got both arms out of the sleeves, and then takes my coat from me. It seems awfully late on a Saturday for a work meeting. It's none of my business. But what is he, twenty five?

"Are you Nate's girlfriend?" Victor asks me as he walks back to his glass of wine.

"No," I tell him. "I go to school with him. I actually just met him yesterday," I admit. Was it only yesterday? "It's just... the weather was bad and I couldn't get home, and... well, I hope I'm not getting him in trouble."

"In trouble with Donna?" he asks with a chuckle. "She's the most charitable woman I've ever met. You need a place to stay tonight?"

"I guess, yeah."

"That makes two of us," he says with a sympathetic smile. "I'd planned to leave before the storm, but sometimes we both just get too involved in our work."

"What do you do?"

"Our current project is a fund-raiser for AIDS research. Donna's involved in a lot of organizations, though. It's my job to keep her focused on one thing at a time. She has a tendency to spread herself a little thin. When she learns of someone who needs help, she just can't say no."

"She sounds very caring."

"She is. And that's why I don't think she'll turn you away tonight. She'd give up her own bed if she had to."

"I wouldn't want her to do that–"

"Sweetheart, look around. She has more room than she knows what to do with."

"You really don't think she'll mind?"

He shakes his head. "Make yourself at home."
CHAPTER 8 - NATE

I follow Mom to my bedroom on the second floor of our house. She doesn't speak to me along the way, even though I ask her why she can't stop and talk to me somewhere on the first floor. If I feel this uncomfortable already, I can't imagine what Emi's feeling like.

"Close the door, Nathan," she says once we get into my room. I do as she asks. "Have a seat." I wonder if she's found out about my incident with the cop yesterday. Our town isn't very big. I wouldn't be surprised if someone told her. "I was planning on having this conversation with you tomorrow, but apparently it can't wait."

I raise my eyebrows, surprised by my mother's demeanor.

"I cannot believe you think you can just bring a girl over to my house this late at night. What are you thinking?"

"She doesn't have anywhere to go, that's all. You're a charitable person. We have plenty of room. I thought it would be okay."

"And where did you find her?"

I let out a small laugh, but my mom isn't smiling. "I go to school with her, Mom. She's in my art class."

"And why haven't I seen her before?"

"She just transferred. Her parents are splitting up. She's having a rough time. I wanted to help her. Honestly, I didn't know how, but she asked if she could come here, and I couldn't say no. I couldn't just leave her in the middle of Morristown on her own."

"This is all quite a convenient story, Nathan, but I thought we had a better relationship than this."

"What are you talking about? I'm telling the truth!"

"Were you planning on using these?" she asks as she reaches into my nightstand and pulls out a box of condoms. She empties the contents in her hand: two remaining rubbers. I stand up and grab them from her quickly, putting everything in my pocket.

"No, Mom."

"No?!" she asks, suddenly upset that I'm not planning on having sex with Emi. I realize a few seconds later what she's thinking.

"God, Mom, give me a little credit. Emi and I are just friends. I just met her yesterday."

"So you realize this relationship is moving too fast."

"In your mind it is," I tell her. "We don't have a relationship, Mom. We barely have a friendship. She just needs a place to stay tonight."

"Then why do you have the condoms?"

"Why were you going through my things?"

"Because you smell like cigarette smoke, and I wanted to get rid of whatever you had. I found the pack in your car. I was sure there were more in here."

"There aren't," I start, "and I don't appreciate you invading my privacy. You could have asked me, Mom. That's the kind of relationship we have. Not this bullshit."

"Watch your language."

"Well, it is."

"If it's... that," she says, careful not to repeat my profanity, "then you should have talked to me about what's in your pocket."

"Shit, Mom–"

"Nathan!"

"Sorry, but... I just want to be prepared, that's all."

"So you're not having sex," she says.

"Not actively, no."

"But you were." I shift my eyes ever-so-slightly, and she knows the truth. "Nathan," she says as her eyes tear up. "Baby, you're too young. This is why I was against sending you to public school."

"Mother," I sigh, sitting back down on my bed. "I'm sixteen."

"You're not equipped to make such decisions, though," she half-whines. "And we haven't even had the talk. I never could do it, Nathan, I just wasn't prepared and every time I tried, I'd just imagine your father being here, talking to you. It should have been him–"

"Mom, stop–" I don't want to see any more tears falling down her cheeks. When she gets like this, it makes me emotional, to the point that I have to confine myself to the art room for hours to get it all out in private.

"And then, I was hoping you and Victor would eventually become close enough–"

"I don't need to have the talk with him, Mom, or anyone for that matter. It's kind of self-explanatory. And I took a health class, anyway. I know where babies come from," I say, trying to lighten the mood.

"This isn't funny, Nathan," she says.

"I take it seriously, Mom. That's why I have these," I tell her, holding up the condoms.

"Put those away," she says, blushing.

"You got them out."

"I don't want to see them anymore."

"Fine." I shake my head and step over to the nightstand, shoving the box and condoms in the back of the drawer.

"Was she good enough for you?"

"We're not going to talk about her right now, Mom. There's another girl downstairs who's waiting for you to decide whether or not she will be sleeping in a warm bed or in a patch of ice outside. And she's a nice girl. I want to help her."

"This is not a safe haven for strays," she says. "We don't harbor runaways here."

"She's not exactly a runaway."

"So her parents know where she's at?"

"No," I admit. "But she's going back tomorrow. I'll take her there myself."

"I have to call her parents."

"It's her mom," I tell her. "She just lives with her mom now."

"Well, she must be worried sick, on a night like tonight. She can stay on the condition that we notify her mother, that she sleeps in a room on the first floor – she can stay in the antique room – and she leaves to go back to her house in the morning when the ice melts. And the only reason I'm allowing this is that the weather's too bad for anyone to be out driving in it. I'm putting Victor up in the east room." I glare at her suspiciously. "He can't drive in this."

"Convenient," I mutter.

"Nathan, you're making a fool of yourself. We only work together."

"Whatever. As long as he leaves first thing in the morning, when the ice melts."

"You don't make the rules here, honey," she says, her voice syrupy but her words rather harsh. "I could easily tell her no, because of my own suspicions..." she threatens.

"Sorry, Mom. Forget it. Thanks for letting her stay."

"And you two are not allowed to be sharing a bed for any purpose, do you understand? Or a couch or anything."

"We can't sit on a couch together?" I ask.

"No," she says. I can tell from her expression she realizes it's a strange request, but I can also see that she isn't going to back down, either.

"Whatever you say."

"And you are not allowed to have sex in my house. Ever. Got it?"

"Fine, Mom." Since she works out of the house and has a housekeeper to run her errands, she rarely leaves the premises anyway. The only place I'm ever really alone is in the art room, which is where I plan to take Emi. I guess that room isn't a threat to Mom since there's no comfortable seating at all in there.

I can bring in some pillows.

"Okay," she says, finally wiping the mascara from her eyes. She squeezes my arm before opening my bedroom door and leading the way back into the kitchen.

"Emily," my mother addresses Emi from across the room. I meet her sea-green eyes and she shakes her head, as if telling me not to correct her again. "You can stay in one of our guest rooms, but I have to call your mother and let her know where you are. As a mother, I can't let her worry about you like that, even though I know you–"

"Okay," Emi says, cutting her off.

"Oh," Mom says, a little surprised. "I can call her?"

"I was about to call her myself. Well, I was going to call my brother, but I don't really care who you call. Here's the number," she says, pulling out a slip of paper and handing it to my mother. "Her name is Karen Hennigan."

"I'll show you where your room is," I tell Emi, motioning for her to follow me as my mom makes her way to her office. She picks up her purse and follows me down the long hallway. I point out the bathroom to her on the way.

"What'd she say?" Emi says softly.

"That you could stay as long as we called your mom, that's all."

She smiles and sets her purse down on the bed. "Your mom's cool."

"She's not bad," I tell her. Emi glances at herself in the mirror. She touches her lips thoughtfully.

"It is too much, isn't it?"

I smile a little, happy that she wasn't offended at what I'd said earlier. I couldn't tell by her reaction. She has such natural beauty, without even trying. I can't imagine what horrible woman's magazine would have convinced her to paint herself like that. It must be the same one that Mom reads.

"Can I wash my face?" she asks me.

"Of course. There are towels and soap under the sink. I'll be in the kitchen. I want to show you something, if you can stay awake a little longer."

"I'm not tired at all," she says. "I'm guessing chai tea has caffeine. I'm a little jittery."

"Yeah," I admit. "I'm used to drinking it to help me stay awake. That was my plan tonight. I'm mid-painting."

"Is that what you want to show me?" I nod. "Cool. I'll be there in a few."

Returning to the kitchen, I search the refrigerator for something to eat. "There are some honeycrisp apples," Mom suggests. "Elsa got them at the farmer's market this morning. I know they're your favorite."

"Do we have any ice cream?" I ask her, taking out an apple.

"Cookies and cream," she answers. I shake my head. "But you love cookies and cream."

"I was going to offer it to her." Mom raises her eyebrows. "She has this thing against chocolate. Did you talk to her mother?"

She gives me a disapproving glance. "She was in a panic. They aren't from around here, Nathan. They don't know who we are. I was hoping to ease her mind, but I don't think it worked. I did talk her out of coming out here tonight in these conditions," she adds. "But she has our address. I have no doubt she'll come looking early in the morning if we don't get her home as soon as the sun comes up and starts melting the ice."

"I'll take her first thing."

"We'll get the service, Nathan. I don't want you out there until it's all dry. I worry about you."

I decide not to argue with her.

"Your towels are so soft," Emi says, addressing my mother. Once again, her eyes are the first thing I notice about her, and she seems more familiar to me again. "And your house is... overwhelming. Thanks for letting me freshen up."

"You're welcome, dear. And thank you. I spoke with your mother. You've really worried her," Mom says.

My new friend comes and sits next to me at the kitchen island. I offer her the apple I'd cleaned up for myself, and to my surprise, she accepts it. Mom notices and gets me another one from the fridge. "She's leaving my dad," Emi says. "I honestly don't know how to deal with this." She takes a bite of the apple and chews it slowly, tracing the marble pattern of the countertop.

"I'm sure it's not easy, Emily." Mom leans on her elbows on the island, attentive to Emi. "Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

I don't want to make her uncomfortable. "Mom–"

"He cheated on her. I caught him," Emi continues. I look at her, biting my lip, allowing her to speak. "He took his mistress to this restaurant. I was there with some friends, and this woman's laughter rose above the noise of the entire place," she says evenly. I can tell that emotions lie just beneath the surface, but I admire her strength as she continues. "I watched her for a few minutes, thinking it was sweet how her date was feeding her fruit dipped in chocolate. They had a fondue pot between them. He held a cherry up by its stem, covered with chocolate, and fed it to her. The chocolate dripped down her chin, and he stopped her from wiping it off with her napkin. I was entranced. It seemed so intimate. I was imagining that being me someday. I even nudged my friends and got their attention, showing them what I was watching. And then her date leaned in and licked the chocolate from her face, eventually meeting her lips with his. He kissed her for a long time, and one of my friends said, 'That looks like your dad.'"

Mom has a distinct frown on her face, and she puts her hand on Emi's arm. Chocolate.

"I hadn't even looked at the guy. But my dad has a distinctive mole on his neck... and it was him."

"Sweetie, I'm so sorry," Mom says. I'm glad she speaks up, because I'm at a loss for words. "That must have hurt you so much." Emi nods. I want to know what happened next, but I'm afraid to ask.

"I hate him," she says. It stings to hear her say that. I was angry with my dad when he died. I felt betrayed by him, too, but I could never say that I hated him. He was my dad.

"Hate is such an ugly word," Mom says, now moving to the side of the island that Emi and I are sitting on. She puts her arm around Emi's shoulders. "But you have every right to be angry with him. You need to find an outlet for that anger. Nathan can tell you all about that."

When Emi looks up, the whites of her eyes are red, and the green color I'd seen before is deeper, even more faceted. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to replicate the depth of color in her irises– but it won't be for lack of trying. "I'm sorry," Emi whispers, looking at me. "You must think I'm awful. That I take him for granted."

"I don't think that at all. Mom, I'm going to show her the art room." I wait for her to object, unsure if she'll be okay with us up on the third floor, alone, when she and Victor will be settling into their bedrooms on the first floor at the other end of the house.

"I think that's a good idea, Nathan." When Emi stands up, apple still in hand, she embraces my mother tightly. Mom shuts her eyes and runs her fingers through Emi's straight hair, comforting her as best as she knows how. It's one of the things my mom does best. It's why she's so good with the terminally ill children at the hospital she volunteers at. "And Emily, just try to get a good night's sleep. You'll probably feel much better with a clear head."

"Okay," she says with a smile.

"Nathan can get you some extra blankets, if you need them."

"Thanks. Thanks so much, Mrs. Wilson."

"It's Donna," she says. "Always call me Donna. And anytime." Mom kisses her forehead, making Emi smile and blush. I can tell she already feels better, and a part of me wishes that I could have made her smile, blush... that I could have made her feel better.

Emi follows me up the spiral staircase to the third level of our house. This is considered the entertainment floor of the house. All of Mom's parties take place here. We have a built-in theatre in the east corner. My art room takes up the entire northwest corner of the house. It has a wide balcony where I can take my easel and work, or just sit and enjoy the sunset across the small reservoir and lush landscape of trees. The room has its own fireplace and skylights, both of which provide me with unique lighting. My favorite is natural lighting. It's when colors are the most pure.

"Is this some sort of poisoned apple?" Emi asks, taking another bite of it and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I stare at her curiously, taking a slight detour into the library to grab the nearest box of tissues. "How'd your mom do that?"

"Are you implying she's a witch?" I joke with her.

"Not at all," she laughs.

Emi and I trade – her apple for a tissue – and she tries to compose herself again. "Mom's had a lot of practice."

"With you?"

"Some with me," I admit. "Although I must be immune to some of that. I had to seek outside therapy. She couldn't fix me entirely." I smile and shrug, then realize that I've just told her more than I've told any of the friends I was once close to.

"Why'd you need to be fixed?" I open the door to my art room, motioning for her to enter. "Are these all yours?" she says, eyeing all of the artwork on the walls, on easels, on the floor. The overhead lights are off, leaving only the museum lighting over each of the paintings. This is how Mom likes to leave the room all the time when I'm not using it.

"Uhhh, yeah."

She starts on the left side of the room, looking first at the paintings centered in the wood paneling. What she says about them will tell me if she truly is the artist I've assumed she is. But she's silent, and I watch as her eyes jump back and forth, up and down, taking in every element of each piece of work. On the third one, the largest one in the room, she walks backwards about ten feet. She swipes at tears with the tissue before they have a chance to fall. "It hurts," she says. "That one. That's how I feel. It's so... empty and... and... ugly... and angry."

I turn away from her so she can't see my eyes start to water. "Thanks." I have to clear my voice and repeat the word to make an audible sound.

"I didn't mean it as an insult," she says quickly.

"I'm not taking it as one," I assure her, disguising the unsteadiness in my voice.

"I wasn't always like this," she says. "Empty and angry."

"And you won't always be," I tell her. "I don't think that's who you are, Emi. You can't let what happened to you turn you into someone else. You're in control," I say, remembering the words of my therapist. "Not your dad. Not what he did. You make the choice."

"What made you paint that?" she asks. That piece was an emotional breakthrough for me. I think I was fourteen.

"I had a lot of shit going on," I tell her, standing motionless and trying to sort out what to tell her. She startles me, placing her hand on my shoulder. I turn around quickly.

"Sorry," she says, taking a step back. As I start talking, she walks back over to that painting.

"Dad died suddenly, when I was ten. In a car wreck. He was drunk." I stare as I tell her the last part. She turns her head to look at me, her expression one of pity as she puts one hand over her mouth. I shake my head. "Don't feel bad. That was his choice."

"It's awful."

"When I was ten, it was sad. And I was angry that he died, and even more so when I found out he'd been drinking. But that was just, you know, the typical reaction you have when someone dies. As I got a little older, though, I started blaming myself. Dad and I got along fine, but we were never that close. I mean, it seemed like we were, but when I learned about other dads, and how involved they were, I realized we had a strange relationship. Like, he was a part-time father. And I was content with that, not understanding that as his child, I could have asked for more. I could have pushed for more. Had I been more of a part of his life, maybe he wouldn't have needed to drink as much. Maybe he would have felt the need to stay home with us that night, instead of going to a bar."

"It's not your fault," Emi says quickly. I walk over to her and we look at the painting together.

"I realized it wasn't my fault as I painted this," I tell her. "I know it sounds weird, but I don't consciously remember painting parts of it. Sometimes I just get so focused that... I don't know... I transcend reality or something."

She looks at me seriously, nodding her head. "That sounds a little crazy," she says. Her lips remain in a soft line, but her eyes smile at me.

"Tell me something I don't know," I respond, pushing her shoulder playfully.

"It's brilliant," she says.

"Again," I repeat, "tell me something I don't know."

"Shut up."

"Seriously. Thank you. I see it and think there's something there, but it's a little too avant garde for most people's tastes. It's not a field of wildflowers or an image of lovers on a rainy day."

"What is it, exactly?" she asks. "I mean, is there anything literal there?"

"Sure," I tell her. "It's how I feel. I can't get much more literal than that."

"I guess not." She moves on to the next painting, and then another. I cross the room to the other side, flipping on the lamp I'd chosen to work with this morning. Grey. I think there may have been grey.

"Is this him?" she calls out, her voice echoing. She covers her mouth as she realizes how loud it can be in the art room, with no curtains, carpet or furniture.

I know which painting she's talking about without looking. I tried to paint him, from memory. It was rough, and disproportionate, but Mom loved it. "Yeah, I did that when I was twelve."

"You went from this portrait thing, to that?" she asks, seemingly surprised.

"To what? The empty, ugly, angry thing?" I quote her words back to her.

"You know I didn't mean it was ugly, right?" She crosses the room quickly. "I meant dark, and dire and sad. But I think it's incredible."

"Stop, I'm messing with you." Her posture loses some of its tension. "And yes. Somewhere along the way, I began to see the world differently."

"You're a prodigy?"

"No." I'd never liked that word. "I just found my calling at a young age."

"Some people spend their whole lives searching for this, you know? I mean, is this something you love to do?"

"No," I tell her. "It's something I have to do. It's the only way I feel alive. It's the only way I can process the world around me."

"Prodigy," she whispers again.

"Tragedy," I counter. She squints her eyes at me. "It's how I cope. Some people need medicine. Some people need to see a shrink every week. Some people drink," I say softly, understanding that was my dad's way to deal with things. "I paint. A prodigy could do that abstract thing at six," I explain, motioning toward the ugly painting. "I had to live and die first."

"How are you my age?" she asks.

"What?"

"Everything you say is so thought out and profound."

"I'm not always like that, either," I explain. "I've just been hyper-focused on the art these past few weeks. I've been painting more, reading more, writing more."

"Why?"

"I have nothing else to distract me."

"What was distracting you before?" she asks. I like that she picked up on that. I want to tell her things.
CHAPTER 9 - EMI

I watch him curiously as he prepares some paint on his palette. I know he heard my question, but maybe he thinks I'm prying. Have I really only known this guy for less than thirty-six hours? Already, he seems more familiar than any of my friends from back home. It's easy to talk to him. "Come here," he says.

I walk the expanse of the room over to him. The outer walls of his art room are complete glass, with roman shades rolled up at the top of most of the windows. It's pitch black outside, and I know his house is surrounded by woods, but I still wonder if there are people outside watching us.

Assuming he wants me to look at his current painting, I stand next to him. The entire canvas is covered with light greenish-blue paint, with slight hue shifts. It's nothing compared to all the other work around me. "Just starting?" I ask him.

"I've spent six hours on this."

"Six hours? No offense, but I think I could have finished this in six minutes."

"Said the girl who doesn't paint."

"You don't have to know how to paint to do that. C'mon, Nate," I say jovially, praying he won't be offended.

"It's not finished, either."

"Well, I guess that's good." He glares at me, but then breaks into a smile. He puts his hands on my shoulders and guides me to a spot on the floor closer to the warm lamp. Did I tell him I was cold? I immediately start to feel the warmth across my skin. Nate puts his hand under my chin and tips my head up. "What are you doing?" I ask him as his eyes study mine. He glances from my stare back to the painting, back and forth.

Finally, I understand what he's doing. "Stumped?" I ask him playfully, blinking my eyes quickly.

"I am!" he admits, breaking his silence with frustration. "I have never seen that color before. I'm way off," he says with a laugh. "And I'm good at this sort of thing. I can normally see a color and mix it by memory– and get pretty damn close – but I swear your eyes are never the same color."

"Yes, they are."

"Well, then it's a color I can't comprehend. Yet." His gaze is intense and focused, and if I didn't know any better, I'd brace myself for my first kiss. No, I'd push him away. I don't want that. But his eyes aren't smitten, or even gentle or loving, they're evaluating the tones and shades like only a true artist can. "But, damn it, I will."

I'm fascinated by his persistence. "Why do you care?"

"To capture the essence of that... it would be, like... finding a giant squid. You know no one's ever seen one alive? It's like they're mythological."

I start laughing hard. "The essence," I tease him. "They're just eyes."

"It's the color," he explains. "It's unnatural. That's the thing," he starts, and I can tell by his wild eyes that his mind is working quickly now. "I'm sitting here mixing in colors that I'd traditionally see in people's eyes, but maybe I need to branch out. Maybe I'm missing something." He shuffles pigments around on his workbench until he settles on something that looks silvery, and pearlescent. "Like this," he says.

"That's creepy."

"It's not normal," he agrees. "But I think... maybe... if I could just see your eyes in the natural light, it might help me out. I've never seen your eyes in the sunlight." He says, as if he's just discovered the thing that had been alluding him. "I won't mix this tonight," he finishes, setting the color back down. He inhales slowly, as if trying to regulate his breathing. His cheeks flush pink, but it's barely noticeable on his tanned skin. If we hadn't been under this lamp, I probably would never have seen it.

He turns the light off, though, returning the room to its relatively dark state. The only lights are soft ones that line the walls, highlighting his artwork.

"You get so caught up in it," I say to him softly, still not fully understanding how he works.

He shrugs his shoulders and walks toward the door. "Mom says I spend too much time in my head," he calls back to me, walking out of the room. I stare after him, and eventually follow in the direction of the hallway. He comes back in with cushions before I reach the entryway, setting them against the wall by the door. "I don't know how else to be. I grew up alone. I had a lot of time to myself... thinking about things, reading, discovering things around me. It's just like any other challenge. I work through it until it's solved. Sometimes it's just about the painting. Sometimes it's about something more... something that's going on in my life..."

"So what's been going on the past few weeks that you've needed to work out?" I ask him. It's similar to the question I'd posed before that he avoided.

"Have a seat," he says. "Are you cold?"

"Yeah," I admit. "I could go get my coat."

"No, there's a blanket in the closet here." He opens a door that blends so well with the wall I never even saw it there, pulling out two blankets and handing one to me. "It's the only bad thing about this room. With the windows, it tends to get a little chilly."

We finally sit down on the two cushions – obviously ones he pulled off of a couch from another room. I pull my knees into my chest, leaning against the wall and pulling the blanket tight around my body. Situated next to me, he throws one side of his blanket over me as well. "You can lean on me, if you need to."

"Thanks," I tell him, not needing to yet.

Nate clears his throat. "It was this girl," he starts. "She was my first, uh... well, my first," he settles on the word that leaves no doubt in my mind as to what he's referring. I lean my head on my knees, facing him. I try not to look surprised. I guess, honestly, I'm not. Something about him is admittedly sensual. He clearly has a lot of passion.

"What happened?"

"Three weeks ago, out of nowhere, she dumped me. And the next day, she started dating a mutual friend. Sleeping with," he corrects himself. "Just fucking, really..." his voice trails off into a distant whisper.

"Is that what you did with her?" I ask him.

"I didn't think that's all it was," he says, "but the more I think about it, the more I've come to realize that there was nothing else really there. I thought there was. I truly believed there was. I was wrapped up in her, completely. She had all my attention – all the time, really. When I was with her, when I wasn't. She was all I thought about. Being with her was all I thought about. She was addictive."

I look around the room at the different canvases that still sit atop easels. There are six of them, each with a drop cloth beneath it. I'm guessing these are his most recent works. I can only see the front of three of them from where I sit. "So which one of these is about that?"

"None of them," he says. "I couldn't paint when we were together."

"Really?"

"She consumed me."

"That doesn't sound healthy."

"Really?" he asks. "Because some people would argue that what I typically do isn't healthy. Isn't that what love is about? Being everything to someone?"

"What's the point? So that person can just take advantage of you for years and years, making you think they love you, and then one day just suddenly change their mind? Why would anyone want to do that? I don't ever want that."

"What do you want?"

"I want whatever won't hurt me. I want whatever leaves me whole, and keeps my faith in the belief that bad things don't happen to good people."

"But they do," Nate says. "That's inevitable."

"Well, there's fate that intervenes, and then there's humanity. There are people who fuck up. Who choose to do that. People who make a conscious decision to hurt another person."

"Which one do you think happened to my dad?"

"Fate," I answer quickly.

"No, he fucked up," he clarifies. "But I forgive him."

"But he didn't cheat on your mom," I counter. "He didn't decide to hurt you and your mom."

"But he did," Nate argues. "He didn't think his decision through to the conclusion. Had he thought of the consequences of his actions, he could have saved himself."

"Nate," I say softly. "He probably wasn't thinking clearly... with the alcohol..."

"There were plenty of times when he was sober. Times when he should have been considering those sort of things. By no means was he drunk all the time. He was never drunk when I was around. Never," he says, and I can hear his voice begin to waver.

"I'm sorry, Nate."

"But would I ever say I hated him, or that I wish I'd never had a father because I know what it's like to lose one? Not in a million years." He swallows hard while I try to think of something to say. Words fail me. "What my dad did was so much worse than what yours has done. You still have a father. He may not be the best one right now, but he's still on this planet. And he has a lot of time to make it up to you."

I bite my lip. I can't argue with him. It's not fair to, because he makes a good point. But I still think what Dad did is unforgivable. I don't want to argue with Nate, but I don't think I could ever forgive my father.

"So you didn't paint at all when you were with this girl?" Changing the subject is the only thing I can think to do. He sighs heavily. I hadn't realized he was holding his breath, but he was. He shakes his head. "But since then?"

"All of these." He motions to the easels around the room. "And two others in a closet."

"And have you worked it out?"

"Worked what out?"

"Your feelings. Have you worked through them all?"

He laughs at my question. "I don't think that's possible. They never stop, you know. You get over one emotion, and another comes."

"I guess so," I respond.

"Last night's the first night I wasn't thinking about her. It's the first night I wasn't angry at her. In fact, it's the first night in a long time that I wasn't angry about anything."

"That's good, I guess. What changed? Oh, wait– you met me," I tease him.

He laughs and raises his eyebrows, as if considering it. "Coincidence," he finally says.

"Well, I felt special for three and a half seconds, anyway." I bump his shoulder with mine.

"Have you ever been in love, Emi?"

"I don't think so."

"Then this is a real shame," he tells me.

"What is?"

"You've never been in love. You don't want to be in love. How does one live their life without love?"

"So, you were in love with that girl?"

"No," he says. "I thought I was, but no."

"Then have you ever been in love?"

"I'm not sure," he answers, and his eyes linger on mine just long enough to make my heart skip a beat. "But I want to be."
CHAPTER 10 - NATE

Her eyes get wider momentarily before she looks away. So quickly deflated.

"I'm really uncomfortable," she says suddenly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't–"

"No, I mean, this sweater..."

"Oh," I say, a little taken aback. Maybe I misread her, but I wasn't thinking this. "Ummm..." Neither of us can look the other in the eye.

"It's just itchy," she laughs nervously. "Do you have, like, a t-shirt or something?"

"Sure." I stumble when I make it to my feet, suddenly needing to get away from her. "Yeah, I'll be right back." I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me. Is that adrenaline? I want her.

Fuck. Is she saying she wants me, too?

She looked away. She said she was uncomfortable. She corrected herself, blaming her sweater. She wants to get into something more comfortable. Isn't that a sign? Isn't that what they say?

I close my door as soon as I get to my room, tapping my head against it repeatedly. She doesn't want to be in love. Is that what this is? This feeling? Or do I just want her that badly? I definitely want her. Pushing against the door, I go to my nightstand and pull out the two condoms, pocketing them just in case. I wish I could read her.

I get halfway down the hall before I remember why I came down here in the first place. That would have been embarrassing. Pull it together. I scan the options in my closet, finally settling on an REM t-shirt from their most recent tour. I bet she likes them, too. It's short-sleeved, though. Will she be warm enough? I can warm her up.

Fuck! Pull it together, Nate!

I force myself to take five deep breaths, and realize my heart is pounding in my chest and the blood is pumping vigorously throughout my body. This could be embarrassing. I need a cigarette. I grab another long-sleeved t-shirt to give her options. While she changes, I'll smoke. Unless she gives me a sign otherwise.

One more breath, and I start to return to the third floor. I can read her. I know body language. If I just pay attention, she'll tell me what she wants.

She hasn't moved an inch since I left her. I can tell from the shape of the blankets that her arms are wrapped around her legs, which she's pulled into her body. She really can't be any more closed off than that. I don't think she wants what I want.

Of course she doesn't. She told me that already.

"Hey," I say as I hold the two shirts out to her. I hope I don't sound like the wreck that I feel like.

"Did you go to that show?" she asks, throwing the blankets off and standing up. "I wanted to go to that so bad!"

"Yeah," I tell her, handing her the short-sleeved shirt. "Front row."

"No way."

"Yeah. I got to meet them after the show."

"No way!"

"I swear."

"Take me with you next time!" she says. "Please?"

Anytime. Anywhere. "Sure," I say nonchalantly, balling up the other shirt.

"Can I have that one, too? It's cold. I can wear layers."

"Of course." I smile, giving her the other shirt, as well.

"The bathroom's down the hall?" she asks.

"Second door on your right."

"Thanks." My eyes follow her as she walks away. I definitely want her. I'm glad her back is to me, because my attraction is becoming impossible to hide.

"I'm, uhhh–" I stutter, speaking loudly enough for her to hear. "I'm gonna have a smoke on the patio." I zip up my leather jacket and pull my cap out of one pocket and my cigarettes out of another. One corner of the patio is protected from the elements, so I wander over there, leaning against the wall of the house and lighting up.

The air is freezing, and breathing it in with the cigarette makes my body feel like it's shutting down. I take that as a good thing, because I was getting a little too worked up in the house with Emi. Shit.

The outside motion detector picks up on my movements, and casts the west side of the lawn in harsh artificial lighting. I'm surprised to see how deep the snow is. Five inches, maybe? That's more than the news stations had predicted by morning, and it's still coming down heavily. What if the snow doesn't clear tomorrow? What if she has to stay through the day, or another night? I'm not sure I can even make it through tonight with her here, without doing something I'll probably regret.

Maybe a quick shower would help. I imagine her changing in the bathroom.

"Stop it!" I say out loud to myself. I've never felt so out of control of this... desire, this need. I dab out the cigarette and put it in the enclosed ashtray tucked in the corner behind a plant. Mom knows I smoke, but I don't think she knows how often I like to.

When I get back inside, Emi's standing awkwardly by the cushions I'd set up for her. She's taken her boots off, and is now in socks, her tight jeans, and both of my t-shirts, which are a little big for her.

"Your shirts make me look like a little boy," she says, holding out her arms and looking at her chest. I can't help but laugh at her.

"I apologize. I don't really have girl clothes here. They're not so bad."

She smiles. "Do you ever just slide around the floor in here in your socks?"

"Were you doing that?" I ask, moving the painting of her eye color onto a work bench and setting up a blank canvas.

"Maybe," she admits.

"Away from the easels?"

"Of course." She rolls her eyes at me. "Hey, you know they say that smoking stunts your growth."

"Who says that?"

"The news. Doctors," she explains.

"So when'd you stop smoking?" I ask her, averting my eyes briefly – but purposefully – to her breasts. In her sweater, they looked ample and pretty, but the shirts do reveal just how small she is. I may not have noticed had she not pointed it out herself.

The look on her face is shock. "What are you implying?" she asks loudly, her eyes bright and playful. "I'm proportionate," she says, nodding with self-satisfaction.

"Well, I assume that's where you were steering the conversation. I mean, look at me. Six-two? Does it look like it's stunted my growth?"

"Height-wise, maybe not," she says. "But you're skinny. And who knows what's under that?" She gestures in my general direction.

I raise my eyebrows at her challenging implication to me. "I know," I tell her. "Do you want to?" I move my hands to the top button of my jeans, positioning my fingers in a dare.

"No!" she exclaims, laughing and covering her eyes. "I meant, like, muscles."

I shrug out of my jacket, setting it on the countertop next to the sink, and walk over to where she stands. I remove one of her hands from her face, revealing her still-squinting eyes, and place it on my right bicep. She squeezes tentatively, then moves her other hand down and opens her eyes.

"I guess I've seen worse," she says, trailing her fingers down my arm and over my fingers. I try to catch her hand before it falls, but I'm a split second too late. I don't think she knows what I was trying to do.

"Just wait until you see my back muscles," I tell her in a desperate attempt to impress her. "You use a lot of upper body muscles when you paint."

"Aren't you freezing already?" she asks, her cheeks becoming blotchy, walking to the counter and picking up my coat. "So maybe smoking hasn't damaged everything," she says, handing me the jacket. Her left dimple precedes a sexy grin. I pull the jacket in front of myself quickly, happy to cover up before she sees first hand that smoking hasn't damaged anything. Misty was very complimentary. I don't know if there was any truth behind it, but I have no reason to think otherwise. She never really lied to me. She just moved on.

And suddenly, as I had questioned how easy it was for her to leave me behind, I see how it doesn't have to be difficult when someone else is there instead. She has Clark. Maybe I can have Emi.

"Tired yet?" I ask her.

"Maybe a little. You?"

"Not at all." Paint before sleep. The routine was ingrained in me. I can rarely sleep without painting first. My mind stays occupied with thoughts until I can empty them out on canvas. Most nights, I'd get between four and six hours. Typically, I'd spend Sundays catching up on my sleep. I decide I can stay up all night, if she can. I'll have all day to rest. "Mind if I turn some music on?" I ask.

"What do you have?"

"My CDs are over there." I motion to a large cabinet door. "Pick something."

She slides over to the far wall in her socks and opens the heavy doors, revealing the stereo and hundreds of albums. "Wow!" She starts shuffling through them, looking at covers and immediately splitting them into two different piles. I'd spent a few hours last weekend arranging them by genre, then artist. I guess she sees no rhyme or reason in my organization. "What do you want? Something ethereal? Pop? Rock?"

"My vote's Radiohead," I suggest, remembering the clothes she wore yesterday.

"I love them!"

"I know. You had the Mercury Lounge shirt on yesterday," I admit. "I was there, too."

"You went!?"

"I figured you did, too. How'd you get the shirt?"

"My sister got in with her boyfriend."

"Fiancé," I remind her.

"No, that was someone else. Rich," she says.

"That concert was only two months ago..."

"I'm aware."

"Interesting," I comment.

"She's kind of a slut." She takes out the CD and puts it in the stereo, hitting the play button first, but then forwarding through tracks until she settles on one of my favorites. Very ethereal. I love to paint to this song.

"Do you like anyone in your family?" I ask, watching her as she returns to the cushions. She'd taken a handful of CDs with her, and as she settles back in beneath the blankets, she starts to take out the sleeves, opening them up to read lyrics.

A beautiful girl can turn your world into dust.3 Suddenly, there's life in those words. A meaning I've understood, by sound and sentence structure, but I've never truly felt what they mean. I start arranging my paints hurriedly, anxious to translate these emotions into art.

"You're not even listening to me." Her voice startles me. I hadn't forgotten she was here, but I hadn't realized she was talking, either.

"What were you saying?" I ask, still visualizing what my first stroke will be. I finally look back at her when she doesn't answer. "Sorry?"

"You asked me if I like anyone in my family." I had forgotten that I asked her that.

"Right. And?"

"I like my brother. And Mom, for the most part, but I hate seeing her like this. Still, she'd do anything for my dad. After all he did, she'd take him back in a heartbeat, and that drives me crazy. Like, have some self-respect," she rambles.

I think about Misty, realizing last week I'd decided I would take her back if she still wanted me. Tonight, I wouldn't. Tomorrow, I wouldn't. I can see better opportunities now. This girl in front of me has shown them to me. "Her time will come, Em," I say. "Can I call you that?" I ask, realizing I'd shortened her name, and liking the sound of it. I like the familiarity. Already, she feels that familiar.

"Em?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Cool. You know... just put your life in someone else's hands, just once, Em, and I think you'll see that things aren't so cut and dry. You can't turn it off. I think love is greater than us all," I tell her with a smile. "Sometimes, it traps people, and holds them, frozen in time... for weeks, or months, even years."

I hadn't noticed she'd retrieved her purse, but she must have when she went to change. Suddenly, she's digging through it until she produces her copy of the Canterbury Tales. She opens the book to a bookmark– a ticket stub, it appears – and reads aloud.

"He cannot escape love, even at the cost of his own life."2

"Is that part of your story?" I ask her.

She glares at me, as if the words have offended her. As if they've left a bad taste in her mouth. "Yeah," she answers tersely. "I hate it."

"I thought it was beautiful," I try to engage her in conversation.

"It's just not very timely for me."

"Or it's just timely enough," I suggest. "That knight's a pretty smart guy. I think he knows what he's talking about." She rolls her eyes at me. I wish there was more light on her face. I want to see her eyes again. "Is that as far as you've read?"

"Yeah. But I've read these two pages about forty times. I just can't focus beyond that."

"Try. You should read on. Aren't you curious to see who you end up with, at least?" I ask, referring to the heroine in the Knight's Tale as her.

"I hope I end up alone," she says. "I presume I do. These guys are in jail."

"Read," I tell her, this time more sternly. "Although it's kind of humorous how similar you are to the fair Emily."

"So pure, and beautiful," she nearly sings. I laugh.

"She wishes to remain a virgin, a servant to Diana," I tell her.

"I never said I was a virgin," she corrects me.

"You're not?"

She hesitates, but finally answers me. "No, I am."

I smile at her response without making a big deal out of it and continue with my thoughts on our assigned reading. "Diana. Goddess of the moon and chastity. Twin of Apollo, leader of the Muses and god of music and poetry..." I see Emi yawn, her attention focused once again on a CD insert, "...and some other things," I mutter to myself, realizing how pompous I must sound to her. I've bored her, anyway.

I start painting, listening to the music and glancing in her direction every once in awhile. Eventually, she curls up on her side, still lying on the cushions and tucked tightly beneath the blankets, and falls asleep.

The sun seems to come up earlier, making its presence known more brightly as it glistens on the snow that covers everything outside. Quietly, I open the two shades that are still down, wanting to let in as much light as possible. A few hours ago, Emi had awoken, confused momentarily by her surroundings. I'd offered to show her back to the guest bedroom, but she just groaned a little, rolled over, and pulled the blankets over her head.

"Where's–"

"Shhh!" I try to hush my mom as quietly as I can. I nod to the pile of blankets. Mom looks hard, trying to make out the shape, and then shakes her head, walking toward me.

"She slept there?" she whispers.

"Yeah. She dozed off, and didn't want to move, I guess."

"So that's where the chaise pillows went." I smile and focus back on the painting. "Nate, this is stunning." She puts her arm around my waist and leans her head into my arm. "You were up all night?"

"I couldn't stop." I glance down just to see the reproachful expression I know she has across her face. "I can sleep today," I rationalize.

"Don't you have homework?"

"A little. But I can bang it out in an hour."

"That lit project?"

"No, I finished the book. And I know what I'm going to say in class. I just need to get props, but that'll be easy enough."

"Okay. It's warming up, and the snow's melting fast. I called the service. The car will be here in an hour to take her home."

"It's so early," I argue. "She may not even be awake."

"We'll wake her up. Her mother called first thing. She wants Emily home."

I stare across the room at her, biting the inside of my lip in thought.

"She seems like a nice girl, Nate."

"She is."

"She also seems very vulnerable. It sounds like she really needs a friend right now."

"I know."

"Don't complicate things," she says as she pats me on the back. I look at her as if I don't know what she's talking about.

"I wasn't planning on it."

"No? So those are hers?" she asks, pointing to something on the floor. The two condoms. Mom squeezes my forearm as she walks away from me. I pick the condoms up and stash them in my back pocket. Beginning to remember why I brought them up here, I decide now would be a good time for a shower. God, I hope she didn't see them.

I ride in the town car with Emi as the driver takes her back to her house. I'd wanted to spend more time with her, and I wanted to know where she lived. I hope this won't be the only time I'm allowed over here. Mom suggested I wear something nicer than the paint-stained t-shirt I'd dressed in when I got out of the shower.

"You'll probably meet her mother, and she probably doesn't like you very much right now," she'd said.

"All I did was help her," I had argued.

"You were a perfect gentleman," she says. "Go show her mom who Nathaniel Wilson is."

I scratch the back of my neck, the starched collar uncomfortable, so close to my hairline. I think Emi's watching me fidget, but I can't tell. She's got her hood over her head and sunglasses on. She was very self-conscious about her hair, and she said she was getting a headache.

"Thanks," she speaks up, having been silent most of the way. "I really appreciate what you did."

"You're welcome. If you ever need to get away, our door's always open."

"Except at night, when Donna doesn't want girls over," she says with a smile.

"Right," I agree. "But there are always ways to work around things with Mom. I don't know if you figured this out, but I'm a little spoiled."

"No, I did," she laughs. "You can tell she loves you."

"What choice does she have?" I tease, blowing off her comment.

"Hey, do you want to come with me to this costume shop near the city on Tuesday? It's the best one around. We can get stuff for our presentation."

"Sure."

"Okay, what time can you pick me up?" she asks. She bites her lip before speaking again as I glare at her in mock disbelief. "I told you I don't drive."

"Fine. Why don't we just go after school?"

"This is me," Emi speaks up louder to the driver. "Sounds good," she says to me as I look out the window. The apartment building is newer, and the units look more like town homes. The car pulls up to the curb, and the driver steps out to open the door for Emi. I get out on the other side. "What are you..."

"I just want to make sure you make it in alright," I tell her with confidence, hoping she won't try to change my mind. She doesn't say it's okay, but she doesn't stop me either.

Emi takes out her keys and opens up the blue door to her unit. Three people stand up from the living room furniture, looking at us.

"What were you thinking?!" her mom says as she rushes to her side and hugs her tightly.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Emi," the other woman, who must be her sister, says. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," I think I hear Emi mumble.

"You," her brother says as he looks me over. "You were at the pizza place, right?"

I smile and offer him my hand. "Nate Wilson. I have a class with Emi." Chris looks at me sideways, but finally shakes my hand.

"Chris Hennigan," he says.

"Mom, Jen," Emi says after clearing her throat and tucking her finger under her lenses to wipe her eyes. "Nate's in my art class at school. He found me wandering last night and his mom let me sleep in a guest room," she says. It's a tiny lie, but I'd prefer it that way.

Neither of the women approaches me. Instead, they both stare at me, looking suspicious.

"Nice to meet you both," I say.

"She's never allowed to do this again," her mom says.

"I'm sure my Mom will say the same thing about me," I assure her. "I'm just glad she had somewhere to stay." I start to walk backwards toward the door, feeling a bit unwelcome.

"I'll walk you out," Emi says. Her mom doesn't let go of her hand. "I'll be right out front, Mom. Just a second." She finally releases her. Emi opens the door for me and guides me out.

"I'm okay," she tells me.

"I know."

We look at one another, and just as I start to take a step toward the car, she stands on her tiptoes and puts her arms around my neck, putting her head against my chest. Stunned, it takes me a couple of seconds to hug her back, but when I do, it's tight, and I hope it feels as comforting to her as hers does to me.

"See you tomorrow in art," she says, the sound muffled in my jacket's sleeve. I can't wait until art. I can't wait to see her again, and I smile as I hold her, until she finally pulls away.

"Wait, Emi?" I stop her, my voice quiet. "Can I..." I don't finish my question, but instead lift my hands to her sunglasses, removing them from her face slowly. I step to the side, removing my shadow from her face. She continues to look up at me, and she swallows hard. I study her eyes, trying to understand every facet in the few seconds that I have. I'd been waiting for this moment all night.

"I don't want to," she whispers. "I think you're great, but this isn't what I want."

I lift my eyebrows at her, wondering what she thought I was going to do. When I catch on, I just start shaking my head and smiling. "I am not that confident," I admit to her, putting my thumbs on her eyebrows and trying to open her eyes a little wider.

"Oh, god, I feel so stupid–" she says.

"Don't," I stop her from continuing. "I wouldn't be a healthy teenage guy if I said I didn't want to, but that's not what I'm doing."

"Okay... because I don't want to," she repeats.

"I understand. I'm not going to. I just wanted one glimpse of these eyes in the sunlight. They're, like, the color of the sea in Indonesia. It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen," I tell her.

"Oh," she says, biting back a smile. "Well, then, thank you."

I nod, satisfied, not at all feeling awkward. "You think I'm great?" I ask her.

"A little," she says, scrunching her nose. I put her sunglasses back on her ears.

"Well, I like you, Emi."

Her smile is sweet, and happy. It's the first time I've really seen her happy. She starts toward the door, turning back once she gets to the steps.

"Like ya, Nate!" she calls out to me casually.

I wave to her, in somewhat of a daze. I don't think I've ever felt this happy.

## CHAPTER 11 - EMI

"Are you okay?" my mom asks as soon as I shut the door.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Why'd you do that, Em? That was stupid! We were looking all over for you!"

"I just needed to get away," I explain, still standing in the foyer. Everyone else is standing, staring, and I don't feel like I have anywhere to go. "I'm feeling that way right now, actually."

Jen is the first to sit down. She pats the couch cushion next to her, offering me a seat. Reluctantly, I go to her, dropping my purse on the floor and sinking into the sofa. Chris takes the recliner seat and Mom grabs a chair from the kitchen table, setting it across from me.

"This place is so small," I say. "It's claustrophobic. I used to be able to go to the game room, or the other living room, or outside, but now, I can't go anywhere. I go in the bathroom, someone wants me out. I stay in the living room, some guy I don't care to talk to invades my privacy. I go to my bedroom, my sister barges in, uninvited. I hate it here."

"I know it's not ideal," Mom says, "but it's the best we can do right now."

"Why'd he get the house? There's more of us."

"Because I don't want it. She's been there. That woman was in my home, and I don't want to be there anymore." I didn't know that. "It's just a year and a half, Em. And then you'll go to college and have all the freedom in the world. And next year, it'll just be me and you," she says. "That'll give you a little more space." I know she's trying to be helpful, but being without Chris scares me. I smile to be polite.

"I want to learn how to drive, Mom. I want a car."

"Well, we can enroll you in lessons this summer, but you're on your own with the car."

"But you got Chris a car."

"Your father and I helped Chris get a used car so he could work last summer. But that was before all of this happened. I'm not sure we can afford it now... and you'd have to get a job to help pay for it."

"I could, over the summer. I just want to be able to go places."

"I understand. I'll look into the lessons. But with a car, you definitely can't just leave without telling someone where you're going. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mom. I was just angry."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just grateful Mrs. Wilson called us. I was just about to go to the police."

"I would have called you myself," I tell her. "I'm not that inconsiderate."

"Did you meet up with that boy?" Mom asks, squinting her eyes as if the answer might be difficult to hear.

"Not intentionally. I just went to this ice cream shop. I was reading for my lit assignment. He just showed up."

"He was at Nino's when Joey and I were there. He was out front when Jen pulled up," Chris says. "Was he eavesdropping?"

"I don't know," I tell him honestly. "He overheard you somehow, because he told me you guys were looking for me."

"He's in your art class?" Chris asks. "So you met him Friday?"

"My seat's right next to his, so yeah."

"Why didn't he just bring you home?"

"Because I told him I didn't want to come. He tried to."

"And what did you two do?" my mother asks.

"Nothing," I groan. "I went to sleep. I was exhausted."

"Where'd you sleep?" Jen asks.

"Not that it's any of your business, but they have a mansion and I slept in a guest room." I want them to know I was safe, and alone. I don't want them to be threatened by Nate. I don't want to ruin my chances of hanging out with him again.

"A mansion?"

"Yeah, his mom is very wealthy."

"Are his parents divorced, too?"

"No, his dad passed away." My mom nods. "Do you think it would be okay if we could do this third degree thing after I take a shower? I want to get out of these clothes." The last thing I wanted to do this morning was put my scratchy sweater back on when Nate's t-shirts had been so soft and comforting– and they smelled nice, too.

"Yeah," Mom sighs. She stands as I do. "I'm just so happy you're okay."

After I bathe, I find my sister making my bed.

"Did you sleep here?" She nods. "With Josh?"

"No." She frowns a little. "He left."

"For good, I hope," I mutter, pulling the towel tighter around my body as I go into the closet. Finding a soft sweatshirt, I remove it from the hanger, then look around for some jeans. I find a worn-in pair folded on top of a short tower of cubby shelves. "Mom did my laundry for me?"

"She was up all night, Emi. Please don't ever do–"

"I got it!" I interrupt her. "I won't, alright? This is easier for you. You've been out of the house for three years."

"It doesn't make it easier, seeing our parents' marriage fail."

"I don't mean that. The living situation."

"Can you get over that, Emi? Can you try to realize what's important? Who gives a shit that you had to get rid of your queen size bed, and that you had to keep your summer clothes at his house? I don't care. They don't care. Dad was the only man Mom ever dated. Do you realize that? Can you imagine being her age with three kids, faced with putting them through college? She's been a housewife all her life! She has to get a job! Someday, she'll have to start dating–"

"Well you can help her with that."

"Why are you so mad at me, Emi?"

"You can do better than Josh," I tell her. "You can do better than all the guys you bring around us. They don't respect you. You don't even respect yourself." I glance at her shirt– more specifically at the deep V neckline that leaves little to the imagination. "Look how you dress–"

"That's enough." She throws down the pillow she had been gripping.

"You asked."

"I didn't expect you to say any of that," she admits.

"I could lie. They all probably do–"

"I said that's enough!" Her shout startles me. I take a step backwards toward my closet. Jen stares at the floor, nervously taking her heel out of her stiletto and setting it back down, over and over again.

"I need to get dress–"

"I dumped him, alright?" She finally meets my eyes. I blink at her in shock. Just last night, she delivered news of an impending marriage and baby, and now she broke up with the guy who was giving her this future?

I close the door, assuming she didn't tell anyone else her news last night. "What about the baby?"

"This all happened so fast," she whispers, sitting down on the bed she just made. I lean against the bedroom door so I can listen for Mom or Chris. "I'm just a few days late," she says. "We went out to dinner the other night, and he said he wanted to talk. And I panicked. I didn't want him to break up with me, so I told him my news first. I just wanted it to be something that kept him around while we worked through some of our fights. I didn't expect him to propose."

"Why'd you say 'yes?'"

"No man has ever asked me that before," she says. "I said what I thought I was supposed to say. And if I'd said anything other than 'yes,' it would have been another fight, and I'm so tired of those fights. He says awful things..." She starts to cry. "He said awful things last night."

"I'm sorry, Jen." Ignoring the cold from wearing nothing but panties and a towel, I sit down next to my sister. She grabs my hand with hers and holds on tight.

"I stood up for you," she says, her throat tight with choking sobs. "I stood up for you, and why? All you've ever done is judged me–"

"You broke up with him over me?"

"I broke up with him for a million reasons, but that was what pushed me over the edge."

"What'd he say?"

"I won't repeat it," she says "It was horrible. And he said it in front of Mom, too. If I hadn't dumped him, she may have killed him," she chuckles lightly.

"What could be so bad?"

"Remember that word you asked me about last year?" I'd overheard a guy call some girl at school a name in the hallway. I'd never heard it before, but I could tell by the reaction of the teacher nearby that it was not an appropriate word, even for an insult.

"He called me that?!" I can't imagine how I offended him so much to warrant such a name.

"Yeah, but the context was even worse. Emi, I don't want to say anymore, but it was completely disrespectful, and I can't be with a guy who talks about my family that way. Especially my little sister."

"Jen, I'm sorry I called you a whore," I tell her as I put my arms around her. She hugs me back.

"I know in your mind, I must be. I date a lot of guys, but Em, I don't sleep with them all. I swear," she says, as if she has to justify her behavior to me. "But I like their attention. They make me feel good about myself."

"You should feel good about yourself on your own, though," I tell her. "You're pretty, and smart... when you try to be, anyway." She has a way of acting ditzy around guys. It's always driven me crazy, because she really isn't. It's rare that anyone gets to see the girl I grew up with. I know she's there. I like that girl. I'm proud to call that girl my sister. "You don't need a guy."

"I might now," she says, pulling away and putting her hand over her stomach.

"Not even for that." I shake my head. "You know Mom and Dad would help you. They'd be mad at first, but they would help. You know how Mom is around babies anyway," I tell her with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. Jen smiles just a tad. "How late are you?"

"Five days," she says.

"Sometimes I'm that many days late," I say. "And I've never had sex."

She nods her head at me. "I'll pick up a test. Maybe Chris can drive me to the train station. We can stop on the way."

"Did you tell him?"

"No. And maybe I won't have to," she says, standing up. "You should put some clothes on, sis. I don't want you to get sick."

"Okay. I'll be downstairs in a minute."

"You know, Em?" she asks, pausing in the doorway. "I really hope this is a false alarm, but if there's anything I'm certain of... it's that I know you'll be a good aunt someday. You're a bright girl. You've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Thanks," I tell her.

"Don't ever let a guy tell you any differently. Even cute ones in leather jackets who put you up for the night without taking advantage of you–"

"I wouldn't," I try to stop her.

"He didn't take advantage of you, did he?" she tacks on quickly.

"No. Nate was just being a good friend."

She smiles sweetly. "You should keep it that way. For awhile, at least."

"I plan to, don't worry." She shuts the door softly and leaves me to get dressed. Is Nate a good guy? Because aside from my brother, I'm really not sure any exist. Josh is just one more confirmation of that.

That afternoon, when Chris takes Jen to catch her train back into the city, Mom joins me in the living room as I'm watching MTV.

"Can we talk, sweetie?" I sigh, but I knew it was just a matter of time. I turn off the TV and set the remote down, pulling my knees into my chest. Mom taps my shoes lightly. I kick them off, not wanting to get her new furniture dirty.

"I didn't have sex with him, Mom. I don't want to. Don't worry."

"Well, good."

"That's it?" I ask her, breaking her silence.

"No." She smiles sympathetically and settles into the couch. "While I'm elated you didn't have sex with that boy–"

"Nate," I correct her.

"Nate," she amends, "there will be a boy someday that you do want to have sex with."

"I don't think there will be, Mom." I shrug my shoulders, staring at the dark television set.

"Or a girl?" she asks.

I roll my eyes at her, staring at her incredulously. "If I were to choose one or the other to love, Mom, I'd choose guys, but since I don't really believe in love anymore, I don't even see the point in talking about this."

"That's my sweet Emi," she says. "While it makes me happy that you see such a strong correlation between sex and love, that's not always how it works."

"Obviously."

"Right," she says with somewhat of a frown. "I hope, for you, that you will love him before you sleep with him. I do. But if you really don't believe in love anymore, you'll have two options: chastity or being with someone that you don't love. I'm not sure, but Sister Emi doesn't have much of a ring to it."

"Sister Emily, then."

"So becoming a nun is something you're considering?"

"You don't have to be a nun to stay a virgin. Maybe I'll just die an old maid."

"Even old maids have sex, you know?"

"Are you trying to talk me into it? I thought it was the other way around! I thought you'd be happy that I have no desire to be with anyone like that."

"I am, sweetie, but I also know that you're very angry... and I don't like that. Six months ago, you'd come home with little pink and red hearts all over your book covers. You and your friends would whisper about boys in your class. You went to dances. You liked love songs... There were posters of actors and singers on your walls."

"I'm growing up," I explain with a shrug. "Plus, nothing will fit on the walls here. Nothing will fit in the apartment, period."

"I can't keep apologizing for where we ended up, Emi. This isn't my fault. Your dad chose someone else. I have to move on."

"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Tell me why you're so mad."

"You know why I'm mad!" I rant. "He cheated on you, Mom! And I caught him! And he didn't even try to work things out! What kind of example is that for us, huh? How can I ever trust any man, when the one you devoted your life to went and did this to you. You waited until you were married to have sex. You told me yourself, you wanted to give him that 'gift,'" I say the word mockingly, because it still sounds cheesy. "And what'd he do with it? He used you for twenty-four years to raise his children while he went behind your back and lied and cheated and–"

"Not all men are like that," she says.

"I don't know that. You don't know that. Maybe Jen has the experience to confirm or deny it, but if I was gonna guess, Mom, I think she'd probably think they're all scum."

"Your sister needs to have higher standards. At this point, she might agree with you. But again, there are good men out there, Emi. And one day you might find one that you deem worthy to give your gift–"

"Please don't say that. It sounds so stupid," I tell her. "Just say virginity, Mom. I can handle it."

"Okay, your virginity," she says, then swallows. "I just want you to be able to follow your heart, Emi. Because even after all of this, the years I spent loving your father, the years that he loved me, were the best years of my life. This hurts," she tells me, putting her hand over her heart, "but it will pass. Every day seems a little better. And the moments when it feels worse are the moments that I remember what it felt like to love him, unconditionally."

"You still do," I remind her. "I don't know how, but you do."

"I wish I could turn it off, Emi. I do." I remember Nate saying something similar last night. "But I have love to give, and it seems a waste right now. It would be great to erase what happened and get back to our lives together, but you and I both know that's not going to happen. I just hope that, someday, I'll be able to share what I have with someone who appreciates me."

"But how could you ever trust someone again, Mom?"

"You have to have a little faith, Emi. And once you've been in love once, you'll want it again, and again. I promise you that. All other feelings pale in comparison to love. I just think that, next time around, I won't take anything for granted."

"This wasn't your fault," I tell her.

"No, it wasn't," she agrees. "But I'll be more aware of my actions, and of the actions of whomever is with me. Maybe there were things that I could have done differently. Maybe there were signs. I wasn't looking for either, because I never imagined this would happen."

"He's a horrible man, Mom."

"He was once a good man. What he did to our family is horrible. Those are two different things, though."

"Not in my mind," I tell her. "He's ruined my life."

"Oh, honey," she says, putting her arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her. "He hasn't ruined mine... so I won't believe that he's ruined yours. He's just made it more real. He's teaching you lessons you may not have wanted to learn, but maybe it will just prepare you for things, later in life."

"I don't want to ever have to be prepared for a man to cheat on me, Mom. That's why it will just be easier to stay single."

"You are my stubborn child," she says. "I just hope you don't expect me to stay single forever."

"I don't," I tell her. "I want you to find the most handsome, richest, smartest man in the world... and I want your wedding to be broadcast on every news channel in America so Dad has to watch it... to see what he lost."

"I think he already knows, Emi. I know you don't want to hear this, but this wasn't an easy decision for him to make."

"No, I'm never going to feel sorry for him, Mom. Never. I wish you wouldn't, either."

"Like I said, you can't just turn feelings off. I would have done it already if I could."

"I know, Mom. I think you're amazing, though. And we don't need him. We don't need any man."

"Well, it would be nice if someone would fix the leaky faucet, and your brother has been no use," she jokes with me. "Sometimes, they are just nice to have around."

I think about last night, how well I slept even though the cushions were quite hard on the wood floor. Nate has a calming effect on me. He was definitely nice to have around. "I can see that."

Later that night, the phone rings as I'm laying in bed, decidedly not wanting to read this love story. "Emi, it's Jen!" Mom calls out from downstairs. I pick up the cordless phone on my night stand.

"Well?" I have no doubt why she's calling. "Mom, I got it!" I yell down to her, having not heard her hang up. I grip the comforter in anticipation, wondering how I should react. I blew it last night. I can't do that again.

"No baby!" she says loudly as soon as we both hear the click of the phone. I know she's happy by the jubilant sound of her voice.

"Thank God!" I breathe a huge sigh of relief. It's my natural reaction, and a good one, I think.

"No kidding. Because that man should not procreate," she laughs.

"No, he absolutely shouldn't," I agree.

"I'm going out to celebrate," she tells me. "I'll call you later this week, okay?"

"Okay. I love you, Jen."

"Love you, too, sis."

"Jen? Be careful, 'kay?"

"I will," she says. "I promise."
CHAPTER 12 - NATE

Halfway through my cigarette, I check the time. Twenty minutes until art. I just hope I can hold it together. I hope it's not awkward between us. I hope she can't read what's been on my mind non-stop since I left her on her doorstep yesterday morning.

Still sleep-deprived– three hours isn't enough since Friday night – I realize I'm not thinking clearly. I'd painted nearly non-stop, trying to focus, to get the frustration out, but nothing had worked. Taking one last drag, I hope it calms me enough to act normal for the next hour and a half.

Since the lunch period is still on-going, I don't have to sneak in, and go in the side doors to the cafeteria. I see Emi first, and just as jealousy spikes in the pit of my stomach, I realize she's sitting with her brother. The two of them sit across from one another at the end of a table, deep in conversation. She's laughing, which is a welcome change from the sullen girl I met on Friday and the angry one I'd spent my Saturday evening with. This is the Emi I left on the steps. The one that called out to me that she liked me.

Her brother had not been so welcoming Sunday morning, and I decide to try and talk to him. Fingernails digging into my hand stop me on the way to their corner of the room.

"Hey, Nate." Lauren greets me wearing a smile and a nearly-sheer dress. A very short one.

"Hey," I tell her, politely removing my hand from hers and shifting my books in my hands to give them a purpose. "You look, um..." I'm speechless. She looks sexy, and this is exactly what I don't need to see right now. "Nice dress."

"Thanks," she says flirtatiously. "I was going to wear it Saturday night, if you'd have come over."

"Yeah, it almost does look better-suited for a bedroom," I tell her, my voice quieter. She holds the hem of the dress delicately in her fingers, lifting it just enough to make my imagination go crazy. I lower my books below my belt. "Listen, I've got to catch up on some homework with a friend," I say, needing to get away from her before I do something I'll regret.

"Maybe some other time?"

"Yeah, maybe," I agree, looking her over once more as I walk away. I don't stop at Emi's table. In fact, I barely smile at her when those green eyes find mine. I have to keep walking. I either need to get laid, or I need another cigarette. Knowing I can only have one right now, I find the nearest exit and have one more smoke. Ten minutes later, I realize it's not helping like I need it to. I decide to head up to the art room early and pull out my history book, reading about the revolutionary war. Nothing sexy about that.

"Get some sleep?" I look up to see Emi smiling down at me, kicking her work stool back with her boot. "Because you look like hell."

"Thank you," I tell her, touching the bags under my eyes. "And not enough."

"Why not?"

"I can't stop painting," I admit. "I did three paintings yesterday."

"Suddenly inspired?"

Suddenly inspired to take you out of this room, find a back hallway and kiss you like you've never been kissed before in your life. Has she been kissed before? I stare at her lips, imagining them on mine.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says, rolling her eyes and sitting down. "You're weird sometimes."

"Sorry," I apologize, knowing how awkward that moment was. "I'm just tired," I lie. "Did you get in trouble?"

"Not really," she answers, pulling a manilla envelope out of her backpack.

"Good."

"Does Mrs. Martin have any, like, glue or rubber cement?" she asks me, now emptying the contents of the envelope onto her desk. Hundreds of small scraps of paper spill out. She corrals them all to her side of the bench. "And some poster board?"

"Yeah, just a sec." I get up to go get a canvas for myself and grab supplies for her on my way back. "What are you doing?"

"I get these art magazines, and they had this typography project that was really interesting. I wanted to try it. My cousins have this band and they're putting together a demo. They need a CD cover. I think this would be cool."

"So you do graphic design?"

"I guess, so. Yeah."

"That's really cool," I tell her. "I hear there's a lot of demand for graphic designers. Much more demand than, say, for a fine artist."

"I'd trade my talent for yours in a heartbeat," she says. "You saw my painting last week."

"Yeah, I painted over that yesterday. Sorry."

She smiles and gets a wild look in her eyes. "How cool will that be? Someday, they'll be dissecting your four-hundred-year-old painting and find some crap underneath it. They'll always wonder... who's Emi? Damn. If only I could be around for that," she laughs.

"Maybe you'll be famous in your own right. Maybe we'll become famous together, and they'll always mention us in the same sentence. Nathaniel Wilson and Emily Hennigan. Can't you see the headline?"

"Yeah, right. You hear about world renown graphic designers every day."

"Andy Warhol," I suggest. "That was what he studied. He just made it into fine art."

"Well, no one knows him," she says, picking out small letters from the pile of paper. I stare at her until she looks up at me. "Kidding," she says, kicking me playfully under the table.

"I was just about to end our friendship."

"Over Andy Warhol? Now that's just dumb. End it over betrayal. Lies. Finding better friends. Don't end it over Andy Warhol. What, then, did he live his life for?" she asks passionately. She stares into my eyes and continues. "No, Andy Warhol wouldn't want that," she says so seriously that I'm afraid to laugh. I can't hold it in, though, and eventually let out a quiet chuckle at her statement. She finally starts laughing with me.

"Nate? Emi? You two should be working."

"Sorry, Mrs. Martin," I say, looking at the blank canvas in front of me. Emi ducks her head close to the table, trying to shield her pink cheeks as she continues to laugh. This time, I kick her shin. She kicks me back, suddenly looking up with this innocent expression on her face as she applies some fixative to the back of a large letter "P."

"You're crazy, Em," I whisper, starting to mix colors on my palette.

"Then I'm perfect for your weird. I see the beginning of a long, crazy, weird friendship."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," I laugh again.

Half-way through class, she speaks up again. "Did you figure out the color?"

"You know, I didn't work on it anymore. I mean, without you there to compare it to... I didn't see the point. I guess you'll have to come back over."

"You don't have to ask me twice," she says. "Although if I do, I may not want to hang out with you. I might just want to spread out... get comfy... that type of thing."

"I don't mind being used."

"Cool," she says. "What do you think?" She holds the poster board back about two feet so I can see her work. I can see a few words in the letters she's arranged, and the shape is beautifully curved and distinct, formed with these scraps of paper into thick and thin lines.

"Okay, so now I'll admit you're an artist. I wasn't sure until now."

"You like it?" I nod, still staring at it. "When it's done, I'll make copies of it to reduce the size, and then draw over each letter with ink pens."

"You'll draw over those letters..." I can't imagine how many hours that would take.

"Yeah."

"How tedious is that?"

"A little," she says, "but I like it. I like the precision. I like the finished piece."

"It seems so confining. I couldn't do that."

"Well," she says, "I couldn't do that." She nods at my painting. "That is beautiful, Nate."

"You like it?"

"I love it. Who knew there were that many shades of red? And, like, still... I wouldn't call a single one of those pink. It's incredible... how you do that."

"Thanks. You can have it... when it's finished, and dry."

"Really?"

I've been thinking about her non-stop since I started this painting. It already belongs to her. It is her. "Yeah, if you really want it."

"I'd love it." She looks to be in awe of it, staring at it as I would stare at her, if I could. She puts her hand over her heart. "I love it." It makes me euphoric to know that I am the cause of that expression on her face. That gentle smile. That look of wonder. She is so beautiful.

I think about what I've just promised her. This painting that represents her, and the feelings she's stirring up inside of me. This painting that I want to possess as my own. I've just given it to her, with no objection. It's as if I know that I can't have her. But I want her. I've never wanted anyone like I want her.

After school, I have a smoke behind the school with my eyes on the parking lot. I finally see Emi and Chris, walking to his car. I'd hoped to see her smiling again. I'd hoped that she'd still be thinking of me, like I have been of her, but she's just biting her lip... silent... following a few steps behind her brother.

I drive the speed limit all the way home, and even wave to the cop who'd been sitting on the side of the road, radar gun in hand. Mom isn't there when I get home. She has left a note, letting me know they had a fundraiser and wouldn't be home until late. She left me instructions on how to heat up the eggplant parmesan Elsa had prepared earlier in the day. Not having eaten lunch, I make an early dinner so I can spend the rest of the evening in the art room. I can turn the music up as loud as I want, broadcasting to all the speakers in the room, and hopefully get all of this pent-up discontent out of my system and onto canvas, for good. It was producing some amazing artwork, but it was inhibiting my sleep, my thoughts... it's been consuming me for days.

After I eat, I head up to the third floor and open two of the french doors. Maybe the cold air will help, too. I change into one of the paint-stained t-shirts that I keep in a bureau, throwing the shirt I'd warn to school into the corner. I hadn't had a chance to reorganize my CDs yet, but it was easy to tell which pile contained the music that Emi liked. I decide on one from that pile– Nine Inch Nails– feeling that it suited my mood perfectly. I skip through Closer the first time through, not knowing if I can keep myself from abandoning the painting and heading down to my bedroom. Maybe I just should. What the fuck am I waiting for?

I stare at the painting in front of me and I have my answer. I'd mixed the pearl-color with the blue, green and white I'd already created and think it's pretty close. Two strokes into it, I angle the canvas toward one of the open doors so it can bask in the sunlight. Small flecks from the added paint reflect the light, and I remember how Emi's eyes had glistened as she gazed into the sun's rays the day before. It's definitely close. I keep painting.

What I do isn't for Emi, though. I don't think it is, anyway. The truth is, I've never been so inspired as I've been the past few days. Maybe it's her influence, her energy. Whatever it is, I like what I'm doing. I can recognize that each painting is better than the last, and I'm afraid that changing any of my routine will break the spell... will hinder me from doing this.

I keep painting.

As I start to lose the sun, I abandon that painting once more. It needs the brightness of daylight. I wonder if she'll come over after school one day this week so I can study those eyes a little more. So I can finally perfect this color and paint something masterful with it.

Finding a different painting I'd started yesterday, I mix some colors and start adding details with a small brush. The song I'd been avoiding comes on again, the CD on a continuous loop. I try to paint through it. A part of me wants to skip it again, but another part, a feral part that needs release, forces me to listen to it. To every beat, rhythm, lyric, until I'm pretty sure I'm going mad. I drop my paintbrush on the drop cloth and go downstairs to my bedroom.

Unable to avoid these feelings any longer, I pick up the phone and the slip of paper with her number on it. I hesitate, but only for a second. I need this.

"Hey, it's Nate," I tell her, and I'm sure she can hear the urgency in my voice.

"What's up?" she asks.

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah, my family just left. Why?" I can hear the smile on her face.

"Can I come over?"

## CHAPTER 13 - EMI

Which knight would I want? The one who'd pray to Mars, asking to win the battle so he could have me? Or the one who prayed to Venus, because he loved me so much? What did Emily say to Diana? If you have to give me to someone, give me to the one who loves me best.

Which one is it?

I turn the page, finally intrigued and wanting to get to the end. If Nate and I are going to the costume shop tomorrow, I need to be finished with the story so I know what all I need. Or he can just tell me the ending. He seems to know the story well.

Was that the doorbell? I set the book down and open my door, listening for the sound to happen a second time. I'm not sure I've ever even heard the doorbell at our new apartment. Was it?

I walk down the stairs, noting the darkness through the windows outside.

Looking through the peephole, I'm not surprised by who I see. I thought Chris and Mom were acting strangely before they left. This makes sense.

The doorbell rings again. "Go away!" I call out to my father.

"Emi, honey, I'm not leaving until you open up."

"Well, then, get comfortable." I stomp away, hoping he can hear the aggression in my steps as I walk up the stairs. The front door opens behind me. "You can't come in!"

"Your sister let me borrow her key."

"I don't want you here! Get out!"

"Emily, come down here and talk to me."

"No!"

"I brought you dessert. It's your favorite," he says as I make it up to my room.

I smile sweetly, pretending like he's won me over. He can still see me from the bottom of the staircase. "What is it, Dad? Chocolate cake from Marie's?"

"Yes, it is." He smiles proudly, as if he's the greatest dad in the world for bringing me something to eat.

"Well, stick it up your ass, Dad, because I don't like that anymore and I don't want you here!"

"Emily Clara Hennigan, you get down here right now. You will not talk to me like that."

"I will... and I did." I shut my door, for the first time realizing there's no lock on it. All of my furniture is too heavy and permanent to move in front of the door, so I sit against it, locking my knees and lodging my legs against the dresser. I hear him coming up the stairs. "I'll call the police! You can't be here! This isn't your house!" I wish I had the cordless phone near me. It sits across the room, next to my pillow.

"I have permission to be here. Your mother asked me to come." He attempts to open my door, but I put all of my weight against it, which isn't much compared to him. I can tell he's not trying too hard, because I have no doubt he could open it if he wanted to. As I listen intently, I hear him settling behind the door. "I'll just have the cake right here," he says, his voice at a regular speaking volume.

"Fine, I don't want it." He actually does start eating it. I'm sure he thinks it will lure me out, but he's ruined chocolate for me. He's ruined everything. Ten minutes go by without words being exchanged. I decide to get up and grab my book, returning to the door to make sure he doesn't come in.

"Doing homework?" he finally asks.

"Yep."

"Anything I can help you with?"

"Nope."

"What is it?"

"I'm reading the Canterbury Tales."

"Don't think I've read that one," he says.

"Maybe you should have," I counter. "This knight seems to be a nice, upstanding man... respectful of the people around him. You could have learned something."

"I don't expect you to understand this, honey."

"Good."

"But I want to talk to you about it. I want you to try."

"Why does Mom get to talk to you through a lawyer? Why don't I get to do that?"

"Because you and I aren't the ones getting a divorce."

"Well, I want that," I tell him. "What's the father-daughter equivalent?"

"There isn't one. And if there was, I wouldn't let you."

"What about emancipation? That's a thing, right?"

"If you want to hurt your mother even more, sure. We can talk about that." Of course I don't. I don't respond to him, and eventually open my book back up. I read the same sentence about twenty times before he continues. "Emi, please open the door."

"I don't want to see you."

"That's fair, Emi. That's perfectly acceptable for you to feel that way. But I'm your father, and you're going to have to see me. You and I have some things to work out."

"If we can't work them out, can I not see you anymore?" I can make sure we never work things out.

"Sure, Emi. I won't let that happen, so sure. Open up?"

"You can't come in," I make one more condition.

"That's fine." I finally stand up and open the door. He's seated in a folding chair he must have grabbed from Chris' room. "I wish I could hug you," he says.

"I wish I could trust you," I say back to him, sitting on my pillow with my back against the wall, as far away as I can get from him.

"Everything I tell you tonight, Emi, is going to be the truth. You should be able to trust me. I don't think you'll like everything I have to say, but I want to be honest with you. You're sixteen. You're our baby, but you don't need us to censor what this is for you. I don't think I handled it right the first time around."

I stare at him coldly, waiting.

"I don't want you to think that I've been living some great lie for the last twenty-four years. I loved your mother. I still love her–"

"Love is complicated, blah blah blah," I interrupt him. "You already told me that. It's a cop-out."

"It's just not a black and white situation, honey. I have the utmost respect for your mom–"

"That's why you cheated on her."

"Emily, I need you to let me talk. I never meant to ruin your life," he says, becoming so overwhelmed with tears that he can barely get the words out. I've never seen him cry. "I have to think there's some way for me to fix it."

I start to feel my own throat tighten up at the sight of him crying, but I don't want to let him know. I clench my teeth and dig my fingernails into the back of my hand until it hurts. "You can fix it by getting back with mom," I say.

He shakes his head. "I am in love with another woman, Emi. I love her. I have a connection with her–"

"Gross, Dad. Just save it–"

"An emotional connection, honey, that I've never felt with anyone else. Ever. I never knew it was something I could even have. But now that I've experienced it, I don't want to be without it."

"You didn't even try to have it with Mom, though."

"It's not something you 'try to have,' honey. It's either there, or it's not. And with your mother, it's not there."

"She thinks it is," I argue with him.

"I don't think she knows this feeling," he says plainly. "I know we didn't have it, though, Emi."

"You could go to counseling, Dad," I tell him. "They could help fix this."

"You're not listening to me, Emi. Me getting back with your mother is not going to 'fix' anything. It will make me unhappy. It will make your mother unhappy. You kids will be in the middle... it's not a good example I want to set for you."

"But divorcing is?"

"Not divorcing, Emi."

"Cheating?"

"Certainly not cheating. I should have done everything differently, Emi. I should have told your mother first, as soon as I developed feelings for Elai–"

"I don't want to hear her name."

He clears his throat. "Elaine," he says anyway. "I'm not censoring anything, honey. I already told you that. I regret not doing that. I hate that you were the one to discover us. That's why I think it's the hardest on you. I wish that never had happened."

"What if it hadn't, Dad? Would you still be with Mom? Would I still be living in the house, and not this tiny apartment?"

"You can come back and live with me anytime."

"And Elaine?"

"Yes."

"Never," I tell him.

"And to answer your question," he continues, seeming to ignore my petulance, "I was planning to tell your mother after the holidays. I know how much she loves Christmas, and I didn't want to ruin that time of year for her. So if you hadn't found out about us, she would know by now. I never wanted to hurt her. I care about her."

"If you cared so much, you wouldn't have done all of this behind her back."

"Honey, there's not protocol for falling in love with someone. There's no game plan to tell you when it's appropriate to do certain things, say other things. I've never done this before. I don't expect to ever do it again," he says.

"But who can say? Maybe you'll have an even greater emotional connection with someone else later!"

"I wish I could explain to you how this feels. But I don't think words do it justice. And I don't think you could truly understand until you feel it yourself some day. And I hope you're lucky enough to. Just like I hope your mom is lucky enough to someday."

"Stop acting like you care."

"I do care," he says quickly. "We had some wonderful years together, most of them revolving around you and Jen and Chris. You're the best things that happened to either of us. And we were obviously supposed to be together to bring you three into this world. Watching you grow up has been the greatest joy of my life. I regret nothing when it comes to your mom. I just wish I felt this way about her. And I feel like you kids are old enough now to be able to accept this."

"I'll never accept this, Dad. You were my Daddy. You were everything to me. All I ever wanted to do was to make you proud of me."

"You'll always be Daddy's little girl–"

"No! I won't! For one, that little girl is gone. Her world crumbled right in front of her in the middle of a freaking chain restaurant on Main Street. You showed me what ugliness is. You stole my rose-colored glasses, Dad. And I want them back. I want that world back," I start to cry. "I want to be able to come home from a bad day and get one of your bear hugs that makes me feel so safe and loved that I know I can face anything. But I can't have that anymore. Because the thing I can't face now is you! No one can make that better. I can't feel better anymore. I have no one to fill that role."

He's still got tears in his eyes when he stands up and holds his arms out. "Let me try."

"No," I tell him softly. "I don't have a daddy anymore," I cry. "Just a father. A father that I really don't want to see anymore."

He drops his arms and nods. "I love you, Emily. You're my baby girl. And I'm not giving up." He picks up the chair and takes it back to my brother's room. "But I'll leave you to your homework tonight. Your mom will be home soon, and she doesn't want to see me."

"That makes two of us." I can barely force the words out. I know how hurtful they are. Saying them makes me cry even harder, to the point that my father is just a blur as he descends the steps. I hear the front door close and lock, and then there's silence again.

When I finally can breathe normally, I try to call two of my closest friends back home. Neither Casey nor Rebecca answer, and I assume they're together, at rehearsal. I stare back down at the phone and scan through the recent calls in the caller ID. Donna Wilson. I hit the call button and pray that Nate will answer. He doesn't. Instead, a recording requests me to leave a message. I consider hanging up, but I think he'll call me back. I think he might actually care about me.

"Nate, it's Emi," I say, unable to stave off the tears. "I just needed to talk to someone." My voice is almost a tiny squeak, and I suddenly wish I hadn't decided to leave a message. I clear my throat. "If you're not too busy, can you call me?" I hang up before the sobs erupt again.

Chris comes to check on me when he gets home. I haven't moved an inch, still curled up on my bed, cradling the phone, the pillow soaked with tears.

"Wanna talk?" he asks. I shake my head. "If you change your mind–"

"I know, you're three feet away," I say sarcastically. "I'm going to sleep."

Mom stops in and kisses me on the forehead, apologizing quietly in my ear. "We'll get through this." I start crying again, wishing I could stop. My head hurts and I just want to sleep. After an hour, my eyes heavy, I finally put the phone back on its dock and crawl under the covers.

At lunch the next day, Chris and I both catch up on homework that didn't get done the previous night. I finish my portion of the book, and have my list ready for the costume shop. I've been looking forward to my after-school plans all day. They've kept my mind off my dad, thankfully.

I feel a little nervous, though, seeing Nate. I wonder why he never called me back last night. Maybe he doesn't care as much as I thought he did. Maybe he thinks I'm a complete freak. Maybe his mom hates me, and didn't give him the message. I just hope it's not awkward in art class. The first bell rings, and Chris and I both pack up our books.

"Remember that I don't need a ride after school," I tell him, starting to walk out of the cafeteria.

"Remember I vetoed him!" he calls out to me. I turn around, curious.

"No you didn't."

"The first guy you met. I told you I would."

"And I told you it was a waste," I respond, shrugging my shoulders. "We're just going to get props for class. We're just friends. So veto him all you want, I don't care."

He smiles mischievously at me. "Call if you're going to be later than seven. Don't make Mom worry."

"Fine." As I walk to art, I look around at the students passing me, looking at all the guys with a critical eye. If I had any desire to have a boyfriend, Chris really did waste that veto. Nate's harmless compared to most of these guys. I can see it in their eyes.

I'd grown used to the smell of leather and tobacco, and miss it ten minutes into class. He was that late the first day, so maybe he just got tied up. Surely he'll be here. We have plans. I concentrate on inking the letters, using a light box that had been collecting dust in a back closet. Mrs. Martin was happy to see someone using it. I'm glad she has it, even though the bright light and the smell of ink are making my still-lingering headache worse.

And Nate never shows up. I consider asking our teacher if she's heard anything, but I don't. I just hope I can catch Chris before he leaves, or else I'll have to walk home.

What if he's avoiding me? What if I'm the reason he didn't come? Because he felt I was too needy, and he wanted some distance? I feel so stupid, and find it impossible to concentrate on any of the lectures the rest of the day.

In gym, we're doing sprints. At least for short bursts of time, my focus is on not falling flat on my face in front of everyone. Somehow, I actually win a couple of rounds, and some of the girls are congratulating me. Some are actually friendly. By the last half-hour, I'm chastising myself for worrying so much about him. He's just a guy I met Friday. Why do I care?

Because I thought he did.

In the locker room, I hurry to get dressed so I can attempt to find Chris. I shouldn't have taken a shower. What's the point, if I'm just going home anyway?

"Thanks, Misty, for letting someone else have a shot with him." A girl's voice echoes through the room. "He's everything you said he'd be."

"I don't lie about that," another girl says. I peek from behind my locker and see the two girls that had been in the hallway with Nate on Friday. I listen more intently, realizing they know Nate and remembering the visceral reaction he had to this Misty girl when she kissed that other guy in front of him. "In fact, I'm having second thoughts about dumping him. Clark's tiny compared to him. Sometimes I'm not even sure he's in." I look away quickly, embarrassed to be overhearing this conversation. Surely they're not talking about Nate.

"Who wouldn't be?" the other girl says. "He's huge!"

"And I taught him everything he knows," Misty brags. "Are you gonna see him again?"

"I hope. He didn't come to school today, though. Maybe I wore him out," she says with a laugh.

"Doubtful," Misty says. "He's insatiable."

I sit down on the bench to put my shoes back on, all the air in my lungs rushing to get out. Did he sleep with that girl? He didn't even mention he was interested in anyone. There's no way he slept with her. I glance at both of the girls once more, watching the one who's not Misty as she alternates between smacking her gum and applying lipstick. Her ratty blonde hair makes her look a little slutty. But I don't think he's like that.

I take a deep breath, feeling certain it's just a coincidence. When I put my watch on, I realize the bell must have rung already, signaling the end of class. I grab my backpack and slam my locker door, walking quickly past the girls, keeping my eyes averted.

Running through the halls after the final bell, I find my brother at his locker. "Hey, I need a ride home after all. He wasn't here."

"See? Already he's completely unreliable," Chris comments, arranging some books in his locker.

"Or, he's sick," I defend my friend.

"Already making excuses for him."

"Shut up," I say with a slight laugh. I still hear the two girls in my head, and it still bothers me. "You have homework?" I ask him in an effort to get my mind off of him.

"Physics and Chemistry," he says, shutting his locker and heading toward the exit. "They like homework here."

"That's what you get for taking all the advanced classes. If you weren't such an overachiever, you'd have some free time, like I do."

"You should apply yourself more," he says.

"The way I see it, I'm just right. You're the brain, Jen's the partier... and I'm somewhere in the middle. We all have our place." I smile up at him as he shakes his head in disapproval of my answer.

"Need me to take you to the prop shop?" he asks as we enter the parking lot gates.

"I don't know," I answer. "I can probably just throw some stuff together. I was really going to help him find things." Really, I'd asked him to take me so we could have some time together. I like spending time with him. He makes me feel normal. He makes me feel happy.

An obnoxious dark-green sports car revs its engine beside me as Chris tries to say something. I try to outpace it, but the driver is keeping up with me. I glare at him to show my general disapproval.

"Hey," Nate says, rolling down the window all the way.

"Hey," I return, curious. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought we were going to the costume place. Wasn't that today?"

"You weren't here," I shrug. "I figured you were sick."

"Is that your car?" Chris asks him. Nate simply nods. "That's a 355, right?"

"Yeah," Nate says, this time with a proud grin.

"You have no idea how much I'd love to drive one of those someday."

"Probably as much as I did before I got it," Nate says. "It's amazing."

"I bet."

"We'll go for a spin sometime," Nate offers. "But I promised your sister a ride to the city first. Maybe this weekend?"

"Should I tell him now you vetoed him?" I whisper to Chris. "Or wait until after the weekend?"

He laughs a little. "That would be awesome," my brother says. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all."

"So, I guess I don't need a ride after all," I tell him, snapping in front of his face to get his attention. "Tell Mom I'll be home later?"

"Yeah," he says. "Wear your seatbelt," he mumbles to me. "That thing can go fast."

"I will." I walk around to the passenger side and get in.

"We'll see you later," Nate says to my brother.

"Hey, uh," he says. "Be careful, she's my little sister."

"I'll drive the speed limit," Nate says. "Scout's honor." He revs the engine once more, now looking at me. "Seatbelt?"

"Right. How fast can this thing go?" I pull the belt over my lap and buckle it.

"One-eighty?" he says. "Although I doubt I'll ever be able to prove that."

"Not with me in the car," I tell him. "One-twenty's my limit."

"Oh, is it?" he laughs, pulling out of the lot. "In your brother's Pontiac?"

I glare at him, noting the cute smile on his face. Once we're on the road, I'm surprised at how quiet the car actually is. Nate's listening to Nirvana, marking time with his index finger on the gearshift. "Tell me about last night," he says, turning the volume down.

"You got that message?"

"Yeah, but it was too late to call. I thought about it, but I didn't want to wake your mom."

"Next time, go ahead. Maybe she'll eventually get me my own phone line."

"You can work that out with her," he says. "I think I'm already on her bad side. So, what happened?"

"Dad came over to talk to me. He tried to justify everything..." I remember him standing at my door, waiting for me to hug him. The look on his face when I didn't makes my heart hurt. "It just didn't go well."

"I'm sorry, Emi. How are you feeling today?"

"Tired," I answer.

"About your dad..."

"Tired of it." He nods his head with a sympathetic expression. "Let's talk about something else. Where were you today?"

"At home."

"Painting?"

"Anything but," he answers. "But I think I'm close with your eye color. I worked on it after school yesterday... it's gotta be close."

"I'd love to see it. So if you didn't paint, what'd you do today?"

"Slept, mainly," he answers. "I needed it."

"Late night?" I ask him, remembering Misty – and more importantly, the blonde girl.

"Yeah. A lot of pent up energy..."

"So you painted last night?"

"Not much."

"What'd you do?"

"Went for a drive," he answers. "Nothing in particular."

"Cool," I say, unsure if I should say anything. I don't think he'd care if I asked, but I think his answer might change my opinion of him. Why it matters to me, I'm not sure. As intriguing as he is, I still don't want a boyfriend. I really just want a friend. I want a good friend, though, someone who knows me as well as I know myself. I find it so easy to talk to him. I really think he could be that friend. "So I finished the Knight's Tale at lunch."

"Were you happy with Emily's fate?"

"Fate's a good word," I say. "I think she got the right guy in the end, but what a horrible thing to suffer through. Finally finding the man who can win over her heart, accepting his affections after all her doubt, and he dies. That sucked. I think, had she had a choice herself, she would have picked Palamon over Arcite."

"You think?"

"He prayed to Venus. I think he loved her more."

"But Arcite prayed to Mars... the rule was, the winner of the battle won Emily. The rule wasn't who loved her best. And who's to say Arcite didn't? He just prayed to the god who would help him win the battle... to be the rightful suitor. To win, fair and square."

"I don't know. I hate to think something like war determines a woman's husband."

"I think it's romantic, that a man would fight for a woman. What was it that the knight said?"

I find my book in my backpack and read one of the lines that was already highlighted in the book. "To fight for a fair lady," I answer him, "that is the height of bliss."

"And that it's the meaning of knighthood, right?"

"That's what he said. So you'd fight for a girl?"

"I hope to meet a girl someday that I would do absolutely anything for."

"You haven't yet?"

"I'm not sure," he answers, a distant look in his eyes.

"Nate, what was the girl's name that you dated? The one that broke up with you."

"Why? I certainly wouldn't do anything for her."

"No, I was just wondering if she was in any of my classes. I could see what type of girl you go for."

"She's a sophomore, so I don't think you'd have any classes with her. And I don't think I'd necessarily peg her as my type. She had something to offer that I wanted at the time."

"Her name..." I press him.

"It was Misty," he finally says casually. I get that distinct feeling of being punched in the stomach for the second time today. I pull my knees toward my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. I don't even care that my boots are on his tan leather seats. Fuck his stupid leather seats. "You okay?" he asks. I never was good at hiding my feelings.

"Is she that girl that was kissing that guy across from your locker the other day?"

He glances at me with a look of surprise. "Yeah," he answers.

"And who was that other girl? The blonde one next to you."

"Just some girl named Lauren. No one special."

"Cool," I say, realizing my teeth are clinched so tightly that the word sounds funny. "Yeah, I'm in gym with them." I watch his reaction, seeing him swallow hard and blink nervously.

"Yeah?" he asks, his eyes focused on the road.

"Yeah," I say. "The good news is, I think I got confirmation in the locker room today that smoking hasn't stunted your growth... anywhere."
CHAPTER 14 - NATE

My foot slips off the gas pedal, but I'm quick to recover. "Misty can't keep her mouth shut," I tell her, turning the volume down.

"Oh, it wasn't Misty. It was the other one. Lauren, did you say? The girl that's no one special." I can hear judgment in her tone. She's closed herself off many times since we met, and is about as tightly wound as she could possibly be right now.

"What did she say, exactly?"

"Did you sleep with her last night?" she asks me bluntly.

"No!" I tell her quickly, the word practically falling off my tongue. I shake my head in adamant denial. "Wait, why?"

"Just something she said," Emi states softly. "It implied... that... I guess. Maybe she was talking about something else, I don't know."

"No, why does it matter?" I clarify.

She quickly shifts her attention to the landscape outside the passenger window so I can't see her face. I don't like it when she hides from me this way. "I mean... I guess it really doesn't," she says. "I just thought it didn't sound like you. Or at least who I think you are. But I don't really know you."

"You know more about me than anyone else I know." And the truth is, I'm happy she doesn't think it would be in my character to do that. That's not how I want her to know me. "Emi, there's something between us. Don't you think?" That finally gets her to look at me.

"Yeah. I don't normally open up to strangers like this."

"I don't either. Like, I never have. I've never told people I considered friends most of the things I've told you."

"I think sometimes, there are just some people you're meant to meet," she says. "I need to know you right now."

"I know what you mean."

"But, Nate, I've never really had a boyfriend. And I'm not looking for one right now."

"No, I know," I say quickly. "I could use a friend."

"I could, too," she says with a slight blush.

"And I think I could use some distance between relationships," I tell her. "I don't like how it went with Misty. I certainly don't want that again. There's got to be something better."

"I'm sure there is," she says positively. "But take your time. You don't have to be like my sister, going from one person to another."

I don't have to, but I want to. I remember the ache and need I felt last night, the feelings that drove me to Lauren's. I also remember how I felt this morning, regretting the time I'd spent with her. I was so disgusted I couldn't get out of bed. I hated myself. And there was absolutely no solace to be had in painting. She destroyed my motivation. I couldn't concentrate on anything but the poor decision I'd made.

And the ache and need are still here. What we did wasn't even enough. It wasn't enough because she isn't who I'm aching for. She isn't who I need.

"Hey, you alright?" she asks. "You have this horrible scowl on your face."

"I'm fine," I answer, wondering if I truly am. Wondering if all guys go through this, or if there's something genuinely wrong with me. I wish my father was around for this. I wish there was someone I could talk to. "The sun's just in my eyes."

"Oh, wait." She pulls her purse up off the floor board, digging through her things until she produces a pair of aviator sunglasses. "Look at me."

"I'm driving," I laugh.

"Look at me. Just a second." I glance over and she quickly arranges them over my eyes. "Better?" I check myself in the rearview mirror first. "You look good, don't worry," she says flippantly with a smile on her face.

Her compliment produces a wide grin of my own. "The best," I answer her. This may be the most complicated relationship I've ever had. I imagine if this is how it'll always be. Me wanting her. Emi wanting a friend, but flirtatious and cute and doing things that make me think she wants more. I can see myself having a hard time hiding my own feelings. Maybe I should tell her first. Maybe it would be easier if she had all the information.

Or maybe it would make things worse, and scare her off. Telling her isn't an option. Especially if I'm not willing to tell her the truth about everything. And I'm not. I'd rather live up to the person she thinks I am. I'd rather be that guy anyway.

When we finally get to the costume shop, she grabs a basket and asks me to stay away.

"What? I thought we were doing this together! We're both knights!"

"If you need my help, I'll help, but I have an idea, and I don't want you to talk me out of it. It's a little non-traditional," she explains. "So don't follow me."

I stare at her, and she must feel my eyes on her as she walks away, because she turns back around. "I think everything you need is on aisle two. Or that guy up front can help you," she says with an almost pleading tone. "Or I'll be over there in ten minutes. Don't look so sad! You're a big boy. At least that's what I heard," she tacks on, shrugging her shoulders and moving away from me at an even quicker pace. What the hell did Misty and Lauren say? Does she know I'm lying anyway? Is this a test?

I think about returning to my car and calling Lauren while Emi shops, but I have no desire to talk to her. The way we left things, I'm afraid she'll think I want more from her. I may have told her I love her. I don't. She didn't need to hear it, but the words came out anyway. It pretty much killed the mood for me.

Resigned, I head to aisle two without Emi, picking up random plastic props that look like body armor and shields. There's no way in hell I'm wearing this shit in class. I have a shirt at home that will serve the purpose. Picking up the most ornate sword I can find– which still looks cheap – I take it to the counter with a belt to put it in.

At the register, I check for small bills in the wallet, and finally count out thirteen dollars for the two items. When I unzip the change pocket, my last condom falls out. I pick it up before the sales person notices it, keeping it in my palm as I return my billfold to my pocket.

Get rid of the temptation, Nate.

I look around for Emi, but she still must be shopping. Finding a bench at the front of the shop, I sit down and try to plot my speech for Friday. Maybe I can pay one of my classmates to cut me off right after I start. It'll make a point that my story was never finished. The end. I have a feeling my English teacher won't find much humor in that.

"Go to the car," I hear her tell me. She's standing in front of her cart, blocking the items from my view.

"What, did you find a black steed to ride home on?" I ask her sarcastically.

"Please go wait in the car?" she begs.

"You won't let me see your armor?"

"No," she laughs. "I want it to be a surprise."

"Well, you better not have copied my sword," I mumble to her. "Or we shall duel."

"I am an honorable knight, who hath put down his sword," she explains, sticking her small nose up with an air of superiority. "Run along, little squire. I'll be right there."

"Yes, milady," I say to her as I bow. "Your chariot awaits... or something." I leave the store, and as I pass a nearby trashcan, I flick the condom into the receptacle.

I can be honorable, too. I will, for her.

When I get to my car, I take the opportunity to call Lauren on my car phone. I consider disconnecting before she picks up, but she answers immediately.

"I was wondering when you'd call," she says, her voice hushed, but silky.

"Listen," I start, a little impatient. I don't want to talk to her, but I know I have to. I also don't want Emi to catch me on the phone with her. I don't want to explain this to her. "I don't know what you and Misty were talking about in gym today, but I don't appreciate–"

"What'd Misty tell you? It was all good, Nate. Trust me. I had no complaints–"

"There were other people around," I tell her. "Last night was a mistake, Lauren. I really didn't want everyone to know about it."

"How do you go from 'I love you' to 'it was a mistake' in twelve hours?"

"Lauren, you know what last night was about."

"I didn't say it, you did."

"I didn't mean it... you know that, Lauren. It just came out."

"Who was eavesdropping, anyway?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter. It got back to me, and I'd appreciate it if you were more discreet the next time you decide to talk about us."

"And you think there will be a next time?" Being with her didn't help like I'd hoped it would.

"No," I tell her. "I don't."

"I'm not some whore, Nate. You can't just do this to girls, you know?

"Lauren, I'm sorry. I just needed someone last night, and I thank y–."

"Save it." She hangs up on me. Just as I return the phone to its cradle, Emi comes out of the store with two large bags. I hop out, opening the small trunk for her.

"So, dress rehearsal at my place tomorrow after school?" I ask her as she settles in, buckling her seatbelt.

"Rehearsal, yes. Dress, no," she answers. Her response conjures up an image that is less-than-honorable.

"I suppose that could be arranged," I tease her, earning me a slap on the arm.

"I just hope my mom can alter the outfit," she says. "It's a little too big... but I think I can make do."

"I'm not sure body armor was meant to show a woman's figure," I say, smiling and looking at her out of the corner of my eyes as we get back on the road, heading home.

She grins back at me. "So," she starts, "are you, like, looking for a girlfriend?" she asks. "Would you consider going out with this Lauren girl? Or someone else?"

"You're not offering," I state, but wait for her answer.

"Don't mess this up, Nate," she warns me, her eyes pleading with me.

"No, I think girls are more trouble than they're worth right now. And the distraction seems to take all of my creative energy," I admit. "I don't like that feeling of being completely complacent and uninspired. It makes me anxious."

"Well, I haven't taken away that creative energy," she says to me. "Have I?"

"No, that's why you're different." She is different. She inspires me. For the first time in my life, I understand what people mean when they talk about artists having their muses. Maybe she's mine. "You're different, Emi, and I don't want anything to change between us."

"Good," she says. "I don't either."

"Good."

"Nate, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Do you think anyone has the capacity to cheat? Even good people?"

"I'm sure there are circumstances that would cause people to. Good people included. I can't believe that every person who's ever cheated is evil, you know?"

"What circumstances?"

"I don't know. Alcohol? They're with the wrong person to start with? Revenge–"

"Well, those people are evil," she interrupts.

"Not necessarily. Misguided, maybe. Maybe they were hurt first, and that was how they sought to get even."

"Do you think you could ever cheat?"

"I've never really thought about it. I hope that, if I was with someone and thought about cheating on them, I'd talk to that person before I acted on anything."

"Could you be with someone who cheated?"

"I think that would depend on the girl."

"How do you think people end up with the wrong person?" she asks me.

"Is that what you think happened with your parents?"

"That seems to be what Dad is saying."

"Maybe they settle. Maybe they don't really know what else is out there. Maybe there's a fear of being alone that keeps two people together who shouldn't be. It could be a mutual understanding. There could be a child involved. I think there are an infinite number of things to consider. But in the end, Emi, I do believe it could happen. As much as it might hurt to admit that, it's certainly a possibility. But only time will tell. Maybe your Dad really feels that way... or maybe he's just making excuses for his actions. He's the only one who knows, and right now, there's no way he can convince you one way or the other.

"But he'll try. If he loves you, he won't give up."

"If he loved me, he wouldn't have done this to us."

"Em, it may seem selfish to you right now, but this is his life. He can only live once, and if he wasn't happy, would you want him to continue pretending to be? Because, honestly, that's a little selfish." I brace myself for her response, understanding this is a touchy subject for her. She remains quiet. "Just give it some time. I have no doubt, if your dad could have found happiness without hurting you, he would have done that first. But it's obvious he couldn't have it both ways this time."

"Do you think you'd forgive your dad, if he had done something like this?"

"Of course. I forgive him already for much worse, Emi. He could cheat with twenty different women, and I'd still forgive him and accept him as my father. As long as he was around for me, that's all that matters."

"But that twenty-first woman?" Emi asks playfully.

"Nope, that's taking it one woman too far," I joke with her. "My limit's twenty." We both laugh a little, but silence settles over the car again.

"I think my limit's one," she says softly.

I look over at her with a small frown, understanding that she's unwilling to forgive him.

"Maybe you should at least consider doubling it," I suggest. "If what he says is true – if she's the woman he's meant to be with – then he won't do it again." I glance over at her, watching her stare out the front window of the car. "Right?" I ask, touching the tip of my pinky finger to her leg to get her attention. She simply shrugs.

If nothing else, I've given her something to think about. No one should hate their father. I wish I could show her how it feels to live even a single day without one. The painting was a good start, but the depth of some feelings can only be hinted at. The only way one could truly understand would be to live it themselves.

And although it's a part of life nearly everyone will experience, it's still not a feeling I'd ever wish on anyone.

"So..." I start, trying to cut through the tension in the car. "Do you want to stop and get something to eat?"

"Sure," she says with a gentle expression. "Oh, there's this great burger place not far from here. Oh, my god, the bacon they put on them is so crispy, it's the best thing in the world. I swear, you will love it."

"I swear, I will not," I tell her. She looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Ewww," she says, joking. "Why'd you do something like that?"

I laugh at her reaction. "If I describe the news program I saw when I was little in explicit detail, as it was presented to me, I can guarantee you'll be one by the time I'm done. Ready?"

"Please don't spoil bacon for me," she says quickly. "They have salads, too."

"Ever had sushi?" I ask her.

"Ummm... no."

"Would you like to try it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why not?"

"Raw fish? It's not safe."

"The way they prepare it is safe. Plus, it's not all raw."

"You'll eat fish?"

"It's not all fish, either. It's decided. We're having sushi."

"Naaate," she whines. "What if I hate it?"

"If you hate it, I'll..."

"Go try the bacon cheeseburger?" she suggests.

"No, I can't do that. Plus, it would probably make me very sick," I tell her. "Although I don't think you'll hate it. I'll help you find something good."

"Does any of it have bacon?"

"No," I tell her, chuckling.

"Will you stop smoking?"

I look over at her sideways. "As a consequence?"

"Yeah, if I hate sushi."

I consider this option, again realizing it's probably unnecessary. On the off chance that she hates it– or stubbornly states she hates it even when she doesn't, which kind of sounds like something she'd do– quitting smoking would be a healthier choice than eating red meat and pork. "Sure. If you hate it, I'll try to quit smoking."

"You have to really try," she says.

"As long as you really try to like sushi," I tell her. "Let me help you order. I don't want you ordering octopus and eel just so you can hate it."

"They have octopus and eel?" she asks warily.

"Yes."

"Is it good?"

"Vegetarian," I remind her in a slow whisper.

"Right," she says. "So it could be wonderful! Maybe I'll try it."

"Mmmm," I hedge, "again, let me help you find something that's not so out there."

"Alright, alright," she finally agrees. I start planning her menu as I drive to the restaurant, determined to convince her to like something at my favorite restaurant.

## CHAPTER 15 - EMI

"Can I join you two?"

Startled, I look up to see Nate standing at the edge of our table. I've never seen him eat lunch in the cafeteria before. He looks tired.

"Have a seat," I say, moving my bag off of the stool next to me and onto the floor. "Where's your lunch?" I ask him.

"I don't typically eat lunch here," he mumbles as he slumps into the seat. He puts his elbows on the table, and then holds his head in his hands.

"Why not?"

"I don't trust the way they prepare food here," he admits, "and my mom was never one to pack a lunch."

"What, you can't make your own lunch?" I tease him.

"I value my sleep too much," he says, gripping at his hair.

"It looks like you're dying over there," Chris says to Nate.

"Massive headache," he says, glaring at me.

"Ohhh," I say, catching on. "Nate has to quit smoking."

"This is bullshit," he says with a slight laugh.

"What's going on?" my brother asks.

"Remember I said we had sushi last night?"

"Yeah," he starts, then turns his focus to Nate, "I can't believe you got her to eat that!"

"Chris," I start, trying to get him to shut up.

"I'm actually anxious to try some of it."

"Chris!" I say louder.

"Wait a minute," Nate interrupts. "Did she say she liked it?"

"Most of it," Chris says.

"I told you I liked some of it," I explain to Nate. "But I hated some of it, too."

He shakes his head at me. "How did I lose this fight?" he asks.

"Because, you said you'd try to quit smoking if I hated it."

"But you didn't."

"I hated some of it!" I repeat.

"Ugh, that wasn't the deal," he says. He knows there's no point in arguing. We'd done it the whole way home from the restaurant. "I feel like you're taking advantage of me," he says, sounding utterly pitiful.

"It's for your own good," I tell him, patting him on the back. "Want some aspirin?"

"You have some?" I nod, digging the bottle out of my purse and handing it to him. "Here." I push my soda toward him, too.

He swallows the pills, giving my drink back to me. Chris looks at me, astonished when I take a drink out of the can. I never drink after people. He narrows his eyes at me, then glances back and forth at me and Nate. I subtly shake my head.

"You had to order the octopus," Nate says with a sigh. "I was never going to win."

"No," I tell him. "But you'll thank me someday."

"I doubt it. I'm not sure you'll live until that day," he says as he shoves me gently and laughs. "I don't like you very much today, Emi Hennigan."

I smile, a little bit proud.

"I have those days, too," my brother says.

"They pass," I explain cheerily, taking a bite of the sandwich I'd ordered.

"I hope you're enjoying your mechanically separated chicken. They scrape off every last piece of flesh from the bones of chickens and make a paste out of it–"

"I'm not listening–" I say loudly, dropping my food on my plate. He pulls my hands away from my face before I can cover my ears.

"They add ammonia to it to kill bacteria and bugs and stuff, and then dye it so it doesn't look like the bloody mess it is. Then they shape it into a perfect, bun-sized circle for you to enjoy." He lets go of me when he's finished.

My stomach turns as I completely lose my appetite. Chris wraps his sandwich back up in the foil and gets up to throw it away. I pick my soda up off of my tray before he takes mine with him. I drink the rest, hoping the carbonated beverage washes everything down for good.

"That was mean," I tell him.

"You're not so nice yourself," he counters with a smirk.

"Hey, what I'm suggesting is good for you!" I argue.

He raises his eyebrows at me. "And eating ammonia-laced animal flesh with chemical dyes added is so good for you."

"Shut up," I tell him, wishing I had more to drink. I grin, realizing he had some of my soda. "I bet there were little chicken bits in my soda. Backwash and all," I say, shrugging my shoulders apologetically.

He glares at me. "Want some water?"

"I do," I tell him. We both grab our things and head to the beverage line. My brother has already had the same idea, and is chugging down a full bottle of soda before he's even paid for it.

"You're an ass," Chris says to Nate. My friend looks at me quickly, his expression concerned.

"He's messing with you," I assure him.

"I'm sorry," Nate says. "I should have saved that for art class. I made it up," he adds.

"Seriously?" I ask him, slapping his back. Chris is paying for his drink, his attention elsewhere.

"No, it's real," he says only to me. I take the cap off of my water and start drinking immediately. The bell rings while we're still in line. "Hey, Chris," Nate calls out to my brother before he heads to Chemistry. "If you don't have plans on Saturday, I'll swing by and let you drive the car..."

My brother's smile is quick. "Yeah, you owe me. Sounds good."

"Yeah, I do," Nate says, waving goodbye to Chris.

"My brother's totaled two cars before the Pontiac," I tell Nate.

"No he hasn't. Wait, really?" he asks, his eyes wide.

I shrug my shoulders again as he pays for our water, keeping his eyes on me, waiting for a better response. "He doesn't like to talk about it."

"Emi," he pleads with me.

"Like ya, Nate," I state pertly, walking away. He catches up quickly, grabbing my hand to stop me. "Not in that way!" I joke with him, staring at our hands as we stand in the middle of the hallway. He lets go, then slings his arm around my neck and starts to guide me toward art class.

"If I didn't know you better," he says softly, his lips close to my ear, "I'd say you were a bit of a tease, Emi."

"Well, come to think of it," I start, turning my face toward him. My lips are only inches away from his. We're both smiling, but our eyes both challenge the other's. "You really don't know me that well at all."

"Right," he says, obviously disputing my statement.

"Watch it!" I hear the words just before someone slams into my left shoulder, knocking Nate and me apart. My bottle falls from my hands, spilling water on the tile floor. "Nice job, new girl." Bewildered, I turn around and see Lauren and Misty staring back at us. Nate's hand wraps around my forearm, pulling me forward.

"C'mon," he says, urging me away from their provocation. "You're better than them." He's not purposefully projecting his voice when he says this, but it's loud enough for both of the girls to hear.

"I know," I say as I smile at him. He lets go of me as we walk down the hall together to class. "Do you think they did that on purpose?" I ask him.

"I wouldn't put it past them. Especially Lauren."

"I thought you were friends, though," I suggest, trying to dig a little deeper into their relationship. He never really answered my questions about her last night.

"Once," he says. "I wouldn't call her that anymore. It's hard to be friends with someone who's friends with your ex."

"So you're not over Misty?"

"No, I'm over Misty," he comes back quickly. "I'm way over Misty. It's not that I just don't like her anymore... I, like, genuinely don't like her," he tries to explain.

"Thanks for clearing that up," I tell him sarcastically, leading the way into our classroom.

"As a person," he adds. He walks past me as I take a seat at our worktable. I get out the thick envelope that contains the project I'd been working on out of my backpack. He places a canvas, face-down, in front of his chair. "Or as a girlfriend," he clarifies, taking a seat. I scoot past him and grab the light-box from the side counter. He stands once more, taking the cord from me and plugging it in to the outlet underneath the table.

"Thanks," I tell him, flipping on the light. He squints, shielding his eyes. "The aspirin isn't helping yet?"

"Not yet."

"Want the sunglasses?" I offer.

"I'll be fine," he groans. "Ready?" he asks.

"For?"

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine." I laugh and narrow my eyes at him.

"On the count of three... one, two, three–"

I pull the thick paper out of the envelope and lay it out in front of me as Nate flips over the canvas. I stare at his painting, marveling at what he's done. As I look at the canvas, I feel him watching my reaction. "It looks close in this light," he brags, and I realize he's been looking at my eyes.

"You added some colors," I tell him, studying the color-block work he's created. "I recognize them all," I say with a smile. The green color of my eyes makes up most of the painting, but he's surrounded it with a creamy pale pink color and accented a few places with a soft, light orange.

"They're very complimentary," he shrugs. "It came naturally."

"Can I have that one, too?" I ask him, greedy, already a fan of his art.

"No," he tells me definitively. "This one's mine." I frown playfully as he nods at the beginnings of my CD cover. "You did all that yesterday?"

I shrug and nod. He picks it up, squinting to take in the intricate details. "You've got an eye for this," he says. "The spacial alignment is... fantastic."

"I know," I tell him.

"You know," he repeats, looking at me incredulously.

"Yeah, I know."

"Nate," Mrs. Martin interrupts up.

"Yes?" We both look up.

"Do you know how she got so much done yesterday?"

"I, uh..." he starts, shaking his head. "Because she had no one to distract?" he asks.

"She had no one to distract her. Let the girl work," our teacher instructs him. "Not everyone can whip out a masterpiece in thirty minutes. We're not all prodigies."

"Prodigy," I repeat her term, remembering the night I called him that, remembering how he denied it. His cheeks blush pink as his attention returns to his own workspace.

"Yes, ma'am," he mutters quietly.

"Didn't I tell you that you were a prodigy?" I whisper as I get back to work, stippling some of the letters in pink.

"Didn't she tell you to get to work?" he says back quietly.

"I think she told you to leave me alone," I clarify, looking up at him and blinking my eyes innocently.

"You don't want that," he says, looking at me, hard. It's as if he's doubting himself.

I shake my head. "No, I don't." He grins, then pulls out a sketchbook and a pencil and starts to jot down some notes.

After art, I walk him to his next class, mainly to make sure he doesn't go outside to smoke. When I leave him at the stairway by his history room, I realize he's in much better spirits than he was when he found me at lunch. I have full confidence he can quit smoking.

"Hey, Em?" he calls after me.

"Yeah?"

"I'll swing by the gym after school."

"Sounds good," I tell him with a smile.

"Don't let them get to you," he adds, turning and walking into his class. Worrying about Misty and Lauren hadn't even occurred to me. Now it's the only thing I think about the rest of the afternoon. When it's time for my last period, I take a deep breath before going into the locker room to change. Both girls are at Misty's locker, whispering to one another. Aside from a dirty look or two, they leave me alone.

After showering and getting dressed, I take a little extra time fixing my hair and putting on a little powder and gloss. Peer pressure sucks. Sometimes I feel completely inadequate after seeing all the girls around me. I know I'm not ugly, I just look... different. Weird eyes. Fine hair. Pale skin. Flat chest. I was grateful that my hips were somewhat defined. I like the curves I can see in the reflection. I start to put on the sweater I'd worn all day, but decide to keep it off. I like the way my shirt looks without it.

Just before I leave, I pull my hair back into two low pigtails. Slinging my backpack on my shoulder on the way out, I smile at Misty and Lauren. He's mine, girls.

No, he's not. I try to shake the thought out of my head as I exit the locker room, but I run smack into him, my mind obviously elsewhere.

"Whoa," he says, taking me by the shoulders to help steady me. "You okay?"

"Great," I tell him quickly. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he says as he turns toward the door. I follow two steps behind him through the crowd of classmates. He feels like he's mine, though. And I definitely don't want those girls near him. I doubt that it's fair to want him to myself like this, if all I want is a friendship.

That's all I want.

Yes. That's all I want. I think that's all I want. He holds open the door for me, then follows me into the brisk air outside.

"You know, that sweater might not be a bad idea," he suggests.

"What? I'm fine," I tell him, my words coming simultaneously with the goose bumps. It's freezing out here. "Where'd you park?"

"Far enough out that the sweater might not be a bad idea," he repeats, removing the backpack from my shoulder. I roll my eyes obstinately, covering my arms with the soft, thick cotton. I feel much better, but I'm afraid he won't pay attention to me like I want him to, my figure hidden under the huge sweater.

Okay, this is getting really confusing.

"So, I will pay you fifty dollars if you let me have one cigarette on the way home," he says when we get to his car. He starts to reach for his own door handle as I reach for mine, but stops me in the process. He runs to my side to open the door for me.

"Thanks," I tell him, slipping into the car and buckling myself in. He hands me my backpack before shutting the door and returning to the driver's side.

"So what about it?" he asks as he settles in.

"Fifty bucks?" I clarify. I could buy some CDs that I've been wanting for fifty dollars.

"Yeah."

"You're gonna pay me fifty bucks to endure your second hand smoke?"

"Did you want it first-hand?" he asks, producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from under his seat. "I'll let you have one."

"Really?" I ask him. "You say it calms your nerves?"

"Yeah. You nervous about something?"

"Not at all," I lie. "You don't have to pay me a thing, if..."

"Here it comes," he murmurs, backing out of his parking spot.

"If you let me have one, and if this is the last one."

"Ever?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Ever for you, right?"

"For both of us."

"You want me to quit cold turkey?" he asks, handing me the cigarettes. I wait until he looks at me to nod my head. "No, I'd rather pay you. A hundred," he tries to bargain.

"We don't have to smoke any right now. Or ever. In fact, I could throw them out the window..." He tries to grab them from me, but I manage to move my hand between the door and the seat just in time. "You should concentrate on driving, Nate," I tell him seriously.

"Please don't throw them out." His voice is desperate. "I'll quit cold turkey," he tells me, "if..."

"If what?" I laugh. "I'm eating bacon. I don't care. You can't take that–"

"This will be my last cigarette if you forgive your dad," he interrupts. I study the pack of Marlboros in my lap, eventually taking out two cigarettes. I hand him one, and he wastes no time putting it in his mouth. He inhales and lights it, breathing it in and closing his eyes momentarily. "So it's a deal?" he asks, smoke streaming from his lips.

I hold the other cigarette between my fingers, mimicking how he holds it, and wait for him to light it. I don't want to forgive Dad. He doesn't deserve forgiveness.

"Is it a deal?"

"Will you light it already?" I ask him, frustrated.

"You've never smoked before."

"No," I admit.

"Here," he says, trying to pass me his cigarette. "Take this one."

"I want my own," I argue.

He turns into a parking lot and parks the car. "Put it between your lips then, and inhale when I light it. But don't, like, gasp... just slowly, a shallow breath... don't fill your lungs."

"Does it hurt?"

"Your lungs would probably fight back," he laughs. "I mean it," he says seriously. "Shallow."

"Just light it!"

"So it's a deal," he says first, balancing the cigarette between his lips as he talks.

"Light. It."

He leans back in his seat and takes another drag, blowing the smoke out of his open window. He's ignoring me, enjoying his first smoke of the day.

"I'll try," I tell him.

"Will you make a better effort than you did with the sushi?"

"I'll avoid the octopus," I vow to him. "I'll try."

He smiles, sticking his cigarette back in his mouth and holding the lighter up for me. I place the cigarette between my lips. "Shallow," he says once more.

"I know," I respond.

"Last one," he says as he lights it, watching me breathe in. Immediately, I start coughing, realizing what he meant when he said my lungs would fight back. It burns.

"First... one..." I choke out. How can he enjoy this?! "And definitely the last one."

"Alright," he agrees. "Ashtray," he says as he points to a receptacle in the middle console. He takes the pack from my lap – and the lighter– and gets out of the car.

"Where are you going?" He shuts the door before answering, walking to a trash bin. He turns around to make sure I'm watching before he pitches both items into the can. I discreetly try to take another puff before he comes back, but start choking again.

"If you can't finish that one, I'd be happy to," he says when he gets back in.

"How many packs do you have at home?"

"None," he says. "You can search it when we get there."

"Well, that was easy!" I exclaim.

"Was it?" he asks, getting back on the road.

"It looked easy."

"I have a feeling that my end of this bargain is going to be easier than yours, Em. And I have a physical dependence on these to deal with. But I'm serious about it. You get that, right?"

"Yeah," I tell him. I do get it.

"You may have to be my aspirin supplier for a few days," he says.

"Gladly. What are going to do for me?" I ask him.

"Anything you need, Em. Whatever it takes."
CHAPTER 16 - NATE

Pulling up to my house, I'm relieved to see that Victor isn't here. Regardless, I take the parking spot in the detached garage. I leave the windows cracked in the Ferrari and walk slowly toward the front door. Even though I just smoked my last cigarette– hopefully– I'd rather not reek of tobacco when I walk inside. Mom had stopped lecturing me, but she was still generous with the looks of disapproval.

"I apologize for my mother in advance," I tell Emi as I sit down on the top step of the porch, giving us a little more time to air out our clothes.

"What do you mean?" Emi stands in front of me, causing me to squint to see her, with the glare of the sun peeking over her shoulder. Her hair looks like the sunlight itself.

"She likes to be involved in my life, so she may not leave us alone."

"Donna was very nice before," she says with assurance.

I'd wondered if Emi regretted telling her so much the last time she was here, when she was sad and distraught and emotional about her family. "You don't feel like she was prying?"

"I feel like she was welcoming," Emi says. "Comforting, even." It makes me smile, hearing this.

"Good."

"I like her," Emi confirms.

"Great."

"Does she not trust me?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious. "Is that why she won't leave us alone?"

"No, it's nothing like that. I think she said you were sweet. You've got her fooled," I joke with her. She kicks my foot with hers. "See? She doesn't know you at all," I laugh.

She stomps quickly up the steps past me and walks straight into the house. I should have mentioned to her why I was stalling, but it's too late. I follow her inside.

"I'm sorry," Emi says, abruptly stopping as she meets our housekeeper in the foyer.

"Elsa," I say, walking past them both toward the kitchen, "this is my friend, Emi."

"Good afternoon, Emi."

"Hi," I hear her say softly. "Nice to meet you." Her heavy boots clop against the hardwood floors as she follows me through the house.

"Can you keep it down?" I joke with her, nodding at her feet as I grab a glass out of the cupboard. "Want a drink?"

"Sure," she says. "Water?"

"Sure." I take a second glass and fill both of them, handing her one when I'm finished.

"Emily," Mom says as she joins us, "how has your first official week been?"

"Not bad," she answers.

"How are things at home?"

"Okay," Emi says with a smile. "Thank you again for letting me take refuge in your house last weekend. My mother was angry, but grateful that I had a safe place to stay."

"You're welcome. Nathan?" Mom says, nodding in my direction.

"Yeah?"

She doesn't say anything, but she looks at me skeptically and crinkles her nose a few times. I roll my eyes at her, hoping it's the last time she'll have to give me that look. As much pleasure as I've gotten from smoking, I don't like disappointing her.

"What's for dinner?" I ask. "And can Emi stay?"

Emi looks from me to my mother uncomfortably. "It's okay, I can–"

"Pasta primavera," Mom says, "and I insist you stay," she says to Emi. My friend smiles and nods. "Are you a vegetarian, too?"

"No, ma'am," she says, "although it may be awhile before I eat a chicken sandwich again."

"Nathan, you didn't tell her about the paste..." I shrug my shoulders and take a sip of my water. "You'll poison yourself with tar and nicotine, but you'll judge other people for eating perfectly fortifying meat."

"He's quitting," Emi says cheerfully.

"He's what?"

"Quitting. He just had his last cigarette–"

"I didn't–" I don't know why I even try to lie. I can't cover up the smell, or the look of guilt that I'm sure is painted across my face. "Alright, I did."

"What made you decide this?" Mom asks, her smile growing.

"I made a deal with her," I motion toward Emi, trying to be casual. Mom had tried for months to get me to give up the habit. I'd never even told her I'd try. She clearly looks surprised.

"I like this girl," my mother says, much to Emi's delight. Mom puts her arm across Emi's shoulders. "You made a deal, you say. What's your end of the bargain?" she asks as she looks at my friend.

Emi takes a deep breath before she answers. Her eyes meet mine, keeping them there as she speaks. "I'm going to try to forgive my dad." She exhales quickly with relief. It's as if she needed my strength to even say the words. I smile at her encouragingly, as does my mother.

"A win-win," Mom says, letting go and walking to the freezer. "So, Emily, I like to add shrimp to my pasta. Would you like some in yours?"

"No, thanks," she answers. "I'll stick with the Nate diet for today at least. I don't want to hear what they do to shrimp."

"Our house is a safe place," she jokes. "Nathan learned at a young age that he could have his own beliefs. He also learned that trying to impose those beliefs on his father and me would only get him sent to bed without dessert."

"That was when I cared about dessert," I pipe up. "It's no fun anymore. She's heard all the facts and still continues to eat the fl–"

"Nathaniel James Wilson!" Mom speaks over my statement. I smile, noticing that Emi's covering her ears. I wasn't going to actually say anything.

"Just kidding," I say as I hold my hands up defensively. "We're going to go rehearse," I tell my mother.

"In the theater?"

"Yeah."

"I'll bring up some snacks," Mom says. "No chocolate," she adds.

"Thank you," Emi says with a slight blush in her cheeks. She follows me upstairs to the third floor. "Can I see what you've been up to?" she asks.

"Later," I assure her. "We'll take a break and go over there... but we're here for serious business."

"I'm here to hang out with you," she says. "Do you really need to rehearse this?"

"Uhhh..." I stutter, having not realized this was more social than scholarly to her. "A little?"

"Okay," she shrugs as she reaches the entrance to the theater. I stand behind her when she stops, staring at the room in front of her. "This is an actual movie theater," she says.

"A small one," I admit. "It only seats twenty-four."

"What in the... who has a theater in their house?"

"We do," I laugh as I slip past her and descend the steps to the front of the room. "My dad loved films. And he had a lot of friends and associates, so this was his guilty pleasure."

"Incredible," she says, finally following me to the floor up front. Dad actually had a small stage built under the screen, but as far as I knew, no one had ever used it for a performance. Emi unzips her bag and pulls out her copy of the Canterbury Tales. I grab mine from the bar in the corner where I had left it this morning with my sword. "So, let's talk characters," Emi says, taking control. "Who... is... the squire?"

"You didn't read the whole thing?" I ask her.

"Was I supposed to?" she asks, shocked.

"I don't guess so, no."

"I've had a lot on my mind," she says quickly.

"I know you have," I laugh. "The squire is, as you already know, the knight's young son," I start.

"He's lusty and lively," Emi says dramatically.

"So you've read that much."

"It seems fitting. And I think it's funny our English teacher thinks this role suits you."

"You don't think it does?" I challenge her playfully.

"No, I definitely think it does. It just seems weird for a teacher to think a student is 'lusty.'"

"Passionate," I correct her. "She's friends with our art teacher. I can't hide my passion all the time, you know."

"I know," she says. "No apologies needed here. I like that about you."

"Good."

"Good," she repeats.

"Anyway, so I'm lusty and lively and virile, apparently–"

"And you're in love with some lady we don't know."

"Right. So in love that I can't sleep, apparently. And I write songs and draw, as well as joust and dance."

"Do a dance."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on!" she urges me.

"I'll play a song on my guitar, but I will not dance."

"Fine," she says, clapping giddily. "Go ahead!"

"What, now?"

"Of course. We're rehearsing. When else?"

"Wait, I'm not going to sing on Friday," I tell her warily. "Not in front of your class."

"You should!"

"I, uh... I don't think I can."

"Go get your guitar," she encourages me. "That would be awesome."

"You've never heard me."

"And I never will if you don't go get your guitar..."

"Alright, alright," I tell her, going back down the stairs to retrieve my acoustic from my bedroom. It occurs to me that I've never played for anyone other than my mother, and even then, she's really only overheard me in my bedroom. My stomach falls, nerves getting the best of me. Am I really going to perform for this English class on Friday?

Am I really going to perform, right now, for her?

When I get to my room, I take the guitar and sit on the bed, strumming a few chords of a Nirvana song I'd been practicing ever since I got the album a couple months ago. I'd taught myself the song by ear, not that it was difficult. Eight chords. Simple lyrics. A guy looking for a friend... possibly more...

Shit, I can't sing that song to her.

I mentally go through my personal repertoire and realize every song I know is a love song. "About a Girl" is probably my safest bet, so I decide to go ahead and play my original choice. I can't believe I'm about to do this.

"Do you take requests?" she asks as soon as I step back into the theater.

"I don't know a whole lot of songs," I tell her. "What would you want to hear?"

"Fall Down," she answers. "Toad the Wet Sprocket?"

"I can't play that," I laugh, thinking of the guitar riff in my head. If that didn't play such a prominent part in the song, I know I could get through the rest of it. "Think rhythm guitar. Not lead."

"I don't know what you're saying," she says, looking confused.

"Chords, not solos," I try to clarify.

"So... no Jerry Cantrell," she states.

"You knew what I was saying," I challenge her, surprised that she knew what I meant. "Right. I was thinking a Nirvana song."

"That works," she says, taking a seat on the front row. She sits cross-legged, tucking her boots beneath her legs, and leans forward, her eyes expectant. I grab a barstool and put it on the raised platform and take a seat.

When I look at her, my anxiety disappears. She smiles as I strum the first few chords and starts mouthing the words with me when I start singing.

"Sing with me," I encourage her, skipping a line of the song to talk to her.

"I can't sing," she says. "Plus, I want to hear you." I roll my eyes but continue. A few times, she lifts her eyebrows, looking surprised at my performance. She sways with the music, and is so into it that she doesn't notice when my mom comes into the room quietly and takes a seat behind her.

Through the entire song, Emi's lips move with my lips. I can't stop looking at her, and her eyes don't leave mine, either. She gives me confidence. She makes me feel like I can do anything.

As I play the final chord, sing the final words, Emi stands up and claps, giving me my first standing ovation. I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks, but I stand up and bow for my audience.

"That... was fucking amazing!" Emi exclaims. "Holy shit, do it again!!"

I nod at my friend, then look behind her at my mother, who looks moderately startled. "Hey, Mom," I say to her. Mom waves at me, as Emi stills, her face ashen.

"Please tell me you're joking," she says. "Please tell me Donna's not in here..."

"Do you like strawberries, honey?" my mother asks.

"I am so sorry," Emi says, turning around quickly and covering her mouth.

"No, it was... amazing," Mom says, avoiding Emi's adjective. "Don't worry about it, sweetie."

"I would be so grounded at my house."

"So would Nathan," she says, "but this isn't your house."

"Which means I should be on my best behavior," Emi says. "I'm so embarrassed."

"Emily, please."

"I never would have said that if I had known–"

"It's fine."

"Emi, it's fine," I try to assure her. "You can't help what my music does to you," I tease her.

"Right, we'll blame the music."

"I'm happy you liked it," I tell her, carefully setting my guitar aside.

"I thought you two had to rehearse for your English class," Mom says as she finally hands Emi a bowl of strawberries. She takes one and carries the bowl to the edge of the stage, offering me one. We both sit down on the platform.

"The squire is a poet and a musician," I explain to her.

"And what role do you play, Emily?"

"Well," Emi starts, looking at me.

"She's the knight."

"That's progressive..." Mom says thoughtfully. "A female knight."

"Actually," Emi says, "I will be telling my story as the heroine of the Knight's Tale."

"Really?" I ask her, surprised. "You're going to be Emily?"

"I am," she says.

"So no armor?"

"Not even a sword," she says.

"I was looking forward to a duel," I say, nudging her shoulder with mine.

"There was never going to be a duel," she says. "The knight and his son are both good men. Respectable. They fight for honor. They fight for what's right."

"Not over the strawberries?" I ask her as I watch her devouring the fruit my mom had brought us.

"You ruined my lunch," she says. "We might be fighting over these." She pulls the bowl to her right side, as far away from me as she can get them. I reach around her, struggling with her to get a berry or two. We're both laughing in our struggle.

"I'll leave you two to your homework," my mother says, "if that's what you call this." I finally get the bowl away from Emi and take off across the room, popping a few pieces of fruit in my mouth. "Bye, Mom," I tell her with my mouth full.

"Bye, Donna!" Emi says, heading straight for my guitar.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa..." I set the strawberries down in a chair and rush over to her. "What are you doing, Emi?"

"I wanna play," she says. I take a deep breath as she picks the guitar up by the neck.

"Careful," I say as I balance the body of the guitar in my hands. "It's not a toy."

"Excuse me?" she asks, letting go of the instrument and looking offended.

"It's vintage, Emi," I tell her softly, trying to smooth things over. "It's irreplaceable."

"I'm not a child," she says to me. "I can hold a guitar without breaking it, you know? I picked it up by it's arm. That couldn't hurt anything."

"It's not an arm, it's a neck," I try to explain, "and that's exactly how you could hurt it."

"So sorry," she mumbles, stepping off the stage and sitting back down in her chair. She opens up her book and starts flipping through pages.

"Emi, don't be mad." I put the guitar on its stand and walk over to her.

"I'm not mad," she says quickly. "At least I know where I stand in a battle with your stupid guitar."

I scoff at her and pick up my own book, opening it up to the Knight's Tale. "Where do you want to start?" I ask her, feeling the escalating tension.

"I don't care."

"I don't either."

After a few more minutes of silence, she drops her book on the floor and gets up, walking across the room to the bowl of fruit. She sits down in the chair the strawberries were occupying and stares at each one intently before eating it.

"Why are you pissed?" I ask her, setting my book aside.

"It's a thing, Nate. It's a guitar."

"I know exactly what it is. It's a 1961 Martin. A special edition. There were fifty of these made. This is the first of the series," I tell her.

"I'm the only one in the series of me," she says. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Are you really that materialistic, that things are more important than people in your life?"

This rubs me the wrong way. "What do you want from me, Emi?"

"I want to be important to you."

"You are," I tell her. Frustrated, I grasp at my hair, pulling it hard. I want to tell her how important she is, but I can't. I won't scare her away, and I know that one improper advance could do just that. I decide not to delve into my feelings, and stick with the object – the thing – at the center of our current fight. "You can play the god damned guitar, I don't care."

"I don't even want to play it," she says. "I just want you to trust me."

I turn to her slowly. "You want me to trust you?"

"Yeah."

"You think I don't trust you?"

"It doesn't seem like you do."

"How many days have I known you, Emi?"

I watch her swallow hard before she answers me. "Five days."

"Five days," I repeat. "Less than a week!"

"Who cares how long, Nate? I knew I could trust you after five minutes." I can't hold her gaze, feeling suddenly overcome with guilt.

I think back to Monday night, to Lauren. I remember with perfect clarity the lie I told Emi last night. "Maybe you can't."

"Why do you say that?" she asks. "Why can't I trust you?" Her voice is shaking when she speaks.

"I think you need someone so badly right now, Em, that you're overlooking a lot of things."

"Like?" she asks, clearly offended. When I don't look back at her, she comes and sits on the stage in front of me, facing me. "Why can't I trust you?" she repeats.

"I lied to you," I tell her.

"About what?"

I stare hard at my shoes, willing my feet to take me out of this room and far away from this conversation. I walked into it, though. I walked right into it, and I have a feeling my subconscious mind knew exactly what it was doing. I can't lie to her. Not to her. Not if I want her in my life in any capacity. She won't tolerate it. I shouldn't either.

"About what, Nate?" I see her feet hit the floor about eighteen inches in front of me. Her fingers touch my chin, tilting my head to see her face. Already she looks hurt, and I haven't even confessed anything yet. Looking up at her, I feel I'm already in a position to beg for her forgiveness. I will.

"I slept with Lauren." I catch her hand when it falls from my face, closing my fingers around hers.

"When?" she asks softly.

I shake my head, not wanting to answer. I look away to murmur my response. "Monday night." When I look up, she's crinkling her nose and squinting her eyes at me.

"Two days ago, Monday night?"

"Yeah," I sigh.

"It's none of my business," she says, shrugging. I stand up with her hand still in mine. "Why did you lie?"

"I don't know," I tell her honestly. "I didn't... I didn't want to disappoint you."

"Well, you did."

"I know, Emi. I shouldn't have done it. I got nothin–"

"I'm talking about the lie, Nate," she says flatly. "I don't want to hear about what happened between you two. Like I said, that's none of my business. But it's not okay for you to lie to me."

"I know. I'm sorry. I've regretted it since I said it."

"Don't do it again," she says. "If we're going to be friends, I expect you to be honest with me."

"I will be," I vow to her.

"Would I prefer that you're not a man-whore?" she asks. "Probably, but that part of you has nothing to do with me."

"That... part?"

"Oh, good God, you idiot," she says, finally pulling her hand away. She's smiling at me. "You know what I mean."

I laugh a little to myself. "Yeah, I know what you mean. And trust me, that part of me probably needs some time away from everyone right now. Sex... the idea of it... doing it... it messes with me. I feel... insecure. I don't know," I tell her, unable to explain how dissatisfied I felt and how disgusted I was with my own actions.

I walk over to the nearly-empty bowl and bring it back to the center of the stage. We sit on either side of it, finishing off the fruit.

"That guitar was your dad's, wasn't it?" she asks softly, breaking the silence and putting her hand on mine.

I look into her eyes, nodding my head. "It was the last gift he ever gave me. We'd had one lesson together, the weekend before he died."

I'm not sure what happened first, but it all felt simultaneous. I blinked my eyes, exposing two tears, and she enveloped me in a tight hug that elicited a few more. I never made a sound, but I'm sure she knew I was crying. She held me for minutes, and she let me be the one to break away. By the time she saw my face, the tears were gone, and the look of strength I knew she needed replaced my sadness.
CHAPTER 17 - EMI

When he finally meets my eyes, I see a glimpse of the mournful son who lost his father. I know Nate's trying to be strong, but I can see through his facade. His eyes give him away. I like to see his vulnerability, but if he wants to hide it from me, I'll play along. I smile at him, allowing the moment to pass.

"Have you ever written a song?" I ask him.

"Not really. I did start writing lyrics for one the other day in art class. They just came to me..."

"Is it about me?" I ask him. As soon as I see his response to my question, I wish I never asked it. His gaze is so intense, the energy between us is suddenly so charged, that I'm forced to look away.

"Emi, we need to talk," he says. Still averting my eyes, I nod my head. "The song is about you."

"I know," I tell him. I've never been able to read another person so well, but when he was looking at me – looking through me – I could tell that he liked me. More than liked me. Sure, he's teased me about it, and then, I could blame it on his playful sense of humor, but now, I can't. I wonder what he sees in my eyes.

"If you told me right this very second that you'd changed your mind, and wanted a boyfriend, I would be the first in line for a date. I'd fight other guys off, I would," he says.

"Like a knight," I say with a chuckle.

"Yeah," he says. "Just like that. But if you tell me you're still not looking for a boyfriend, then I'll respect that. I'll back off–"

"I don't want that–"

"You don't want what?"

"I don't want you to back off. But I don't want a boyfriend, either."

"Why?"

"I could like you, Nate. If I let myself, I could really like you, but I won't. You get me. You understand me like no one else ever has, and I need someone with me who gets me."

"I feel the same way. I don't know why we–"

"Because if you ever hurt me, Nate, I don't know that I could ever trust anyone again. I'm teetering over here. The man I always saw as the example – the ideal– he betrayed me. He betrayed my mother, and by doing that, he did it to me, too."

"You're going to forgive him–"

"I'm going to try," I cut in, "but I haven't yet. And whose help am I going to need for that? Who told me he'd do anything to help me?"

"I did."

"You did."

"And I will, whether I'm your friend or your boyfriend–"

"I feel like I could fall over and break with one tiny nudge in that direction. I don't want you to be the one to push me over, Nate. I want someone around who can't hurt me like that."

"A friend could still hurt you like that," he counters.

I consider his comment, and know he may be right. "But I don't think you would."

"I don't think I would either. As a friend, as a boyfriend–"

"Wait, Nate," I say, stopping him. He presses his lips together, clearly frustrated. "If you did, though... who'd be there to pick up the pieces?"

"I wouldn't hurt you," he avers with conviction.

"You can't know," I argue. "Did Mom ever think that Dad would cheat on her? Would she have dreamed it in a million years? No. And to your point, would Dad have ever thought that he would do such a thing, twenty-five years ago? No. When they were dating and in love, do you think either was thinking 'I wonder if there will be someone better, later in life?' I don't. You just can't know." And he can't. Neither of us can.

"I promise you." His voice is pleading.

"Dad made vows in front of his family and friends and God. Words... just... they can't be trusted," I say. Actions can't either. People, by nature, can't.

There are no guarantees in life. It's the first time I realize this, and the weight of it hits me hard. Even when – if – I get married years from now, there's no telling what will happen twenty-five years down the line. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to let myself put so much faith into another person.

"You have to have a little faith," he says, as if reading my mind. I laugh to myself. "Maybe not today... but someday."

"Maybe not today... but someday..." I repeat back to him, lying down on the stage and staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him doing the same.

Not today... but someday...

I like him. He feels more familiar to me than members of my own family. I just don't want to be let down, and although the familiarity is nice– it's comfortable and comforting – I don't know him well enough to know if he can really live up to what he promises.

Not today... but someday...

"Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's forget about me for a minute."

"Okay," he laughs.

"Weren't you saying you wanted to take some time away from girlfriends now anyway?"

"I want to stop wasting my time on girls I don't really care about," he says. To me, he's changed his position on this in the last ten minutes. He could be inconstant. He could be lying. Or he could really care about me more than those other girls. I already feel like he does, but it doesn't change how I feel, or what I want.

"Let's make a pact," I suggest.

"A pact?"

"Yeah. Let's just be friends."

"Do I get a vote?"

"Sure," I tell him. "What is it?"

"Let's be more than friends."

"Not today," I tell him, "but maybe someday we could." I watch him sit up beside me. He pulls his knees to his chin and looks at me hard.

"I knew you were a tease," he says. He looks like he's joking, but I know there's a sliver of truth behind his words. I have been flirting with him. I have been leading him on. I like his attention. Am I being a tease by not following through? Because this is how I like it. It's playful, and fun, and no one gets hurt. Well, no one's gotten hurt yet.

"Well, so are you," I counter tentatively. He flirts, yes, but I can see our differences.

"Being a tease implies you're advertising, but not delivering. I would deliver," he says. I roll my eyes, not sure if he sees me do it.

"Look, Nate. I like what we have right now. Don't you?"

He smiles at me before he answers. "I do. I like how you inspire me."

"Why complicate things with a physical relationship?"

He frowns at me. "Not today, but someday," he repeats, considering the words carefully. "When's someday?"

"I don't know. What, are you gonna put it on your calendar?"

"Maybe," he says with a grin.

"I don't know... maybe we just keep it this way until college or something. That gives us a long time to work on this," I say, motioning to both of us.

"When you go to college, or when I do?"

"I guess me, would make the most sense."

"What, and then all bets are off?"

"Maybe," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

"Then the line starts to form," he says.

"A line, right," I laugh at his insinuation. "Well, if there happens to be one, you may not even want to be in that line then," I tell him.

"Doubtful," he says, "but, what, in the meantime we can date other people?"

"I'm not," I tell him. "I don't want a boyfriend," I remind him. "And you need some distance... I thought."

"So we abstain from relationships altogether for a year and a half?"

"Romantic ones, yes."

"I wouldn't call any of my past relationships romantic," he mutters.

"Or physical ones," I amend my previous clarification.

"Not just from one another, but from everyone?"

"Yes?" I ask, now unsure of the idea. I thought he'd be in agreement with me. "I mean, you'll focus on your painting more, I'll focus on school so I can maybe get a scholarship to help my mom out. I'll get to know the real you... you'll get to know the real me..."

"We'll get to know ourselves better," he says. I hadn't considered that, but he's right.

"Yeah," I say brightly.

"Abstinence for a year and a half," he nearly sighs, "and no smoking," he adds.

"You can bitch about it all non-stop to me. I'll be here to listen. I'll encourage you," I tell him, hoping to convince him.

"Sit up," he says to me. I push away from the stage and cross my legs, imitating his posture. "I'll do it for you," he says.

I shake my head. "You can't do it for me, Nate. You have to do it for yourself."

"Nathan?" Donna calls from the back of the auditorium. "Dinner's almost ready." He waves at her in acknowledgement. He chews on the inside of his lip in thought.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Sure."

I follow him down the two flights of stairs and across the house to the kitchen. Three plates are prepped on the island, formally placed with silverware, a cloth napkin, and two glasses, one of which is already filled with ice water.

"I thought we'd eat in here instead of the dining room," Donna says. "It's just easier."

"It's nice," I say with a smile, wondering if Donna set the makeshift table or if Elsa did it for her.

"Here is your mail. Is there anything else I can get you, Mrs. Wilson?" Elsa asks after she quietly enters behind us. She sets a few envelopes and magazines down on the kitchen counter by the sink.

"No, sweetheart. Go home to your family. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. Good night, Nate," she says politely. "Nice to meet you, Emi."

"Nice to meet you, too."

"Have a seat," Nate's mom suggests. "Soda?" she asks, turning around and thumbing through the stack of mail. "Or we have juice."

"Water's fine," I tell her.

"I'm good, Mom," Nate says. "You need to join us, too." He takes a long sip of his water before putting the napkin in his lap. I do the same.

"I'm coming," she says as she pours herself a glass of wine. "Look, Nathan, isn't this nice? Your English teacher has invited me to your Canterbury Tales presentation on Friday."

"Great," Nate says unenthusiastically.

"Do you know Miss Spindler?" I ask her curiously, taking a bite of my food after watching Nate start to eat. I wasn't sure if prayer was something they did before dinner, but now I assume it's not. Although the gesture fits Donna, it doesn't fit Nate.

"I've never met her."

Nate looks over at me as my stomach drops. Already he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Can I see it?" I ask her, setting my fork down and feeling the panic rush over me. She hands me the small, printed notecard.

"Dear Parents," it begins.

The rest of it doesn't matter to me. The fact that my dad may have been invited is all I need to spoil my appetite. Nate takes the card from me and reads it. "They probably got your address from your school records. Don't you think it went to your mom?"

"We put him as an alternate contact," I explain. "I'm sure he was invited. I have to tell him not to come. Can I borrow your phone?" It seems so urgent to me, to do it now, while I have the nerve to make the call. I get up, but Nate and Donna stay seated, watching me.

"Emi," Nate starts, "what did we promise?" Wanting to forget the deal we struck, I focus on Donna, who has a faint smile as she watches our interaction. "You said you'd try." I grip the back of the chair, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms through the wrought iron slats.

"In front of my classmates, though?" I ask. "In front of you? I don't want him in my business!"

"Think about it. It's in the middle of the school day. If he chooses to come, he'll be sitting in the back, watching, and after the performance, you'll have to go to your next class. It gives him an opportunity to reach out to you, and you don't even have to say anything to him. Let him come," he urges me. "It's the best possible scenario, really."

"I don't think I can do it in front of him. I'm supposed to be sweet and demure, and he just pisses me off!" I blurt before thinking. "Sorry, again, Donna," I say, lowering my head in embarrassment. She's laughing quietly at me, then tells me she isn't bothered by my language.

Nate's hand touches my shoulder lightly. "You can just focus on me," he says. "Just keep your eyes on me through the whole thing. I'll get you through it." I look over at him, and immediately I'm calmer. If he can do that on Friday, I know I can get through it.

"Maybe he won't even come," I say with a sigh.

"Maybe he won't," Nate agrees. "But let him make that choice, okay? Don't make it for him."

I nod my head. "Okay." Looking back over at Donna, she's staring at her son with a look of wonder on her face. She looks proud of him. I can tell she adores him.

"Sit back down, Emi, and have your dinner," she says. "Don't let this ruin our night."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, being purposefully respectful of her. She grins and starts eating her dinner when I sit back down.

Nate shocks his mother by volunteering to clean up after dinner, but she lets him. I help him rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher. Before we go back the theater, I take one more look at the card and sigh. He puts his arm around my shoulders until we get to the stairs. "It'll be fine," he assures me.

Instead of going to the theater, he directs me to the art room. "So did you paint last night?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"Can I see?"

"No, I thought I'd be a tease," he says sarcastically. I push him away from me and laugh. "It's the one in the corner." I walk around the easel by the windows and take a look at the large painting. It's much brighter than any of the other paintings I've seen of his, but it still has so much depth, with varying shades of each color.

"It's beautiful," I tell him. "What was your inspiration?" I ask.

"It was one of your sushi rolls," he says with a laugh. "The Rainbow Roll, actually. When I saw the colors under the incandescent lighting at the restaurant, they jumped right out at me."

"It seems... well, honestly, it's pretty."

"Pretty, huh?" he asks, clearly insulted by my choice of adjectives.

"Yeah, that word doesn't really describe it," I admit. "It's luminous. It's vivid. It's alive," I say to him. "It makes it hard to wipe the smile off my face."

"It makes you happy?" he asks.

"It really does," I say.

"That's all I wanted." I look over at him, still smiling. "I'll do it."

"Do what?" I ask him.

"Your stupid pact. I'll do it."

"For you?"

"For me," he answers. "I'm selfishly doing this for me, because you bring that out of me," he says as he points to his canvas. "Being around you makes that happen, and if being your friend is what makes you happy, I have to do it. Because seeing you happy inspires me to create better art. It inspires me to be better, period."

"That still almost sounds like you're doing it for me..."

"Take it or leave it," he says. "It's the best I can offer."

I walk back over to him and give him a hug. "I'll take it. Thank you."

He holds me for a few seconds, then takes my arm in his hand when I pull away. "Were you hitting on me, just now?" he asks with a smirk.

"No!" I tell him, laughing. "This is what friends do," I explain.

He pulls me back and hugs me again. "Well, then, I like what friends do."

## CHAPTER 18 - NATE

Before fifth period, when I normally have independent study, I run out to my car to retrieve the tacky plastic sword for my presentation of the Squire's Tale. I'd considered not bringing it at all, but Miss Spindler said she'd deduct twenty points from our presentation if we didn't have props. I was sure that my shirt wouldn't cut it, a black tee that was given to me by distant relatives when we went to visit them in England a few years ago. Printed on the front was the Corliss coat of arms. It was my mother's maiden name, a name she was proud of. I remember when we got back from the trip, I'd begged her to let me change my last name, complaining that Wilson was too boring and nondescript.

"It's not about the name," Mom told me, "it's about the man who passed it on to you."

I never asked her again. She would be proud of Corliss. I would forever wear the name Wilson with honor. Maybe not on a shirt – but in my heart, my father would always be with me.

I strap the belt around my waist and stick the blade through the holster, feeling rather stupid on my way back in to the building. Surely other people will have much more embarrassing costumes. The last bell rings, and I realize I'm late.

As I walk down the hallway to the classroom I only visit for about five minutes an afternoon on any given day, I spot someone who will definitely be ridiculed more than me. A girl with long, blonde hair fastened in two braids that fall down both sides of her back is wearing a full-length cream-colored dress. She paces back and forth near the doorway, her arms covered with flowing sleeves, her attention focused further down the hall.

I lose my breath when she turns around at the sound of my footsteps. "Nate, where have you been?" Emi asks, rushing up to me. Her shoulders and neck are framed with green velvet. The dress is more low-cut than anything I've seen her wear before. I remember she was worried that her mom wouldn't be able to make it fit her, but she looks stunning. It fits her perfectly. She could be a bride, which makes sense considering the story she's about to tell her class about. "Hello?" She waves her hands in front of my face.

I'd been taking her in fully, noticing how the cream color blended with her pale skin and the velvet brought out her eyes, only they look a different color now. I laugh to myself, realizing I'll never understand those eyes. "Sorry, but you literally took my breath away."

"Like, no one else is dressed up," she says, rolling her eyes.

"It wouldn't matter if they were, Em. I don't think anyone would notice them."

Her cheeks turn a bright pink, and the panic on her face is softened with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"Why aren't you in class?"

"Miss Spindler wanted to welcome the parents first–"

"Did he come?" I ask her.

"He's here."

"Where?"

She peeks through the small window and points him out to me, a balding man who's a little overweight. He looks uncomfortable. I scan the room for my mother, and see her sitting on the other side of the room next to Emi's mom. They're whispering quietly to one another.

"Our moms have met," I tell her.

"I introduced them on their way in," she says.

"Did you say anything to your dad?" She looks down briefly, then shakes her head. "It's okay," I assure her. "Are you ready?"

"I'm nervous," she says. "I always get this way before a performance," she explains, "but I'll be okay once I get in there... as long as I can avoid him," she adds.

"I'll sit over there," I say, pointing to a desk on the side of the room with windows, in front of our moms. "Just remember to watch me."

"Okay," she agrees.

"I need to go in," I tell her. "I don't want Miss Spindler to think I bailed."

"Okay," she says again.

"Good luck." I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly, hoping to calm her nerves. She nods when I pull away, and I hear her reciting lines as I walk into the classroom. Reciting lines. She's going to think I look like an idiot when I get up there and try to wing it.

Miss Spindler is talking to one of Emi's classmates in the corner, and everyone else is chatting amongst themselves. I give a little wave to Mom and Mrs. Hennigan before I glance across the room. Her father is looking at me. I set my books on the desk, but go directly toward him, taking a deep breath on the way.

"Mr. Hennigan?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"I'm Nate Wilson," I introduce myself. "I'm a friend of Emi's." I extend my hand, and he shakes it firmly. "She's told me a lot about you."

"If that's true, I'm surprised you even came over here," he says with an anxious laugh.

"She'll come around," I tell him. "Give her time."

His brows furrow in confusion, as if I've caught him off-guard. "Of course," he answers quickly. "I will."

"Nice to meet you," I say, returning to the desk just in time for Miss Spindler to welcome our parents to the presentation of the Canterbury Tales. The blinds are all pulled up, letting the bright sunlight into the room. She shields her eyes as she explains the story and the assignment to everyone.

"Each student has five minutes to tell us a little about the character who tells the story, as well as the tale that their character shares with the other members of the group. Our first storyteller is Emi Hennigan, and she will be explaining the Knight's Tale."

Miss Spindler walks to the door and goes out of the room briefly. Our teacher appears once more, telling the next student who's presenting that he can go prepare in the hallway. After he leaves, Emi walks into the room gracefully, her head bowed down to the floor. She looks sweet and demure, just as Emily should look, just as Emi wanted to look today. The blonde wig is pretty on her, but the color looks unnatural against her skin. Even still, she looks beautiful.

Emi folds her hands in front of her and starts speaking about the knight. She walks slowly across the front of the class, back and forth, keeping her eyes low but projecting her voice, as she talks of chivalry and honor and respect and love. Once she finishes with the character description, she stops in the middle of the class and finally lifts her head.

The sunlight catches her eyes, bringing back the color I'd learned, that I'd recreated, that I'd committed to memory and would never forget.

The second she starts speaking as Emily, her voice now softer, more feminine and delicate, her focus comes directly to me. I swear my heart stops. Again, I can't breathe. A smile involuntarily spans my face. She smiles right back at me, and I can hear other people turning to stare in my direction, but I can't look away from her.

The eyes of Emily hath slain me.2

Although I'd only read the Knight's Tale once, the line stuck with me then and speaks to me now. No, it shouts at me. Heart ceases to beat. Air refuses to enter my lungs. Dead. Slain. Unable to go on.

The eyes of Emily hath slain me.

Unable to go on without her.

"Nate, let's be friends," I hear her voice in my head. I watch her lips move, but they aren't in sync with what I hear. "Not today, but someday."

The eyes of Emily hath slain me.

What have I agreed to?

I keep her steady gaze as my breath returns in quick gasps. She breaks character slightly, I can tell. She looks concerned, and I realize I'm sweating. I still can't look away. I nod at her, signaling that I'm okay, and she continues on. No one else seemed to notice her pause. My friend – just a friend– relates the story of Palamon and Arcite, the two cousins who vie for Emily's love.

Arcite, who prays to Mars for strength to win the battle– to win her hand. Palamon, who prays only to end up with Emily, however Venus chooses to make it happen. Venus, Mars – Zeus himself – I'd pray to whomever I needed to, but above all, I'd fight for her. Not today, but someday, I will fight for her.

Emi had told me that she thought the princess in the story would have picked Palamon. She said he loved her more, but I don't believe either man loved her more than the other. They were equal suitors, comparable men who did everything for her love. By doing that, they're both respectable, both worthy of her.

In the fable of these two deserving men, though, Palamon was defeated and lost his right to be with her – at first, anyway. Arcite fought a good battle, and he won his fair maiden. Even though his fate was sealed, Emily would be by his side all the remaining days of his life. How had he beat Palamon?

He abided by the rules.

I'll play by her rules.

Arcite knew the prize, and never forgot how cherished she was.

I know that I need her. I think that I love her.

Arcite knew how to win her.

I know what I have to do. When she's ready for love, I'll fight for her.

It was courtly love, and chivalry, honor and bravery and patience – such patience and perseverance – that brought Emily and her rightful knight together. I am capable of all of these things. I'm capable of them all today, but patience is what will bring Emi to me, the man who will love her best...

Someday.
1Concrete Blonde. "Joey." Bloodletting. IRS Records, 1990.

2Ackroyd, Peter. The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling. Viking, 2009. E-book.

3Radiohead. "Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong." My Iron Long. Parlophone, 1994.

## Lost and Found - an excerpt from Chapter 1 \- Emi

Nine years is a long time to hold on to a feeling– one that I felt for only ten seconds of my life. Logically, I know it was twenty seconds at most, but the impact it left made it seem like forever. If I allow myself to think about that night– and I never do– I can remember how the air in my lungs felt completely effervescent, how my chest tightened around my racing heart, how my skin seemed to feel everything around me. Hands. Lips. A cool, fall breeze. I even thought I could feel the stars sparkling above, prickly and scintillating in their luminescence.

Nine years _is_ a long time, but with a feeling like that, I doubt I'll ever let it go completely. It's a shame I don't have a good sense of what actually _caused_ that feeling, but my imagination has filled in the blanks left by the drunken oblivion of that night.

I chose stupid ways to rebel in college. Of course, drinking was the norm for most students at school, but my actions back then lingered more toward self-centered and inconsiderate. Had I known I'd see Nate at any time that evening, I never would have consumed as much as I had. To this day, I mostly drink in moderation when we're around one another. A better friend may give up drinking entirely, but even _he_ has a little alcohol every now and then. And he doesn't have any friends better than me, nor do I have any that rank above him.

As I wait for Nate, hurriedly getting ready for a night out with his current love interest, I wonder if he makes all women feel the way I felt for those ten glorious seconds. That would explain the long string of girlfriends. But maybe that feeling was fleeting. Maybe it was only meant to happen once, to stir up those emotions and questions for those brief seconds. Maybe other women acted on that fleeting feeling... and then maybe it just resulted in fleeting relationships. After all, they're just emotions. By nature, emotions are not stable, nor are they reliable. They come and go. Just as his girlfriends do. In quick succession. They come and they go...

Does it make any sense at all to continue to search for that feeling? I shrug my shoulders as if I'm answering my own question, having my own conversation with myself. Whether it makes sense or not, I'm on a mission to find it again someday, with someone. I just hope that my pursuit doesn't keep me from seeing things in the periphery. From seeing that what I'm looking for is actually right in front of me.

"Well?" he asks, my eyes focusing on what I would call a blouse on any day. It almost doesn't compute. Men don't wear _blouses_. Nate does not wear _blouses_.

"You're not wearing that." I can't contain my laugh.

"What?" he asks, lingering in the doorway to his bathroom.

"That... that... is it a _shirt_?" I ask, cringing at the light pink button down with... _are those ruffles?_ I take a few steps closer to confirm the strange quarter-inch of fabric peeking out from under the center hem.

"Yes, it's a _shirt_ ," Nate argues, his voice not as confident as it was only seconds before.

"Who picked that out?"

"My personal shopper," he defends his clothing choice. "It's Italian... or French, I don't remember."

"Wait, your personal shopper. Is she a jilted lover?" I ask him.

"She wasn't at the time," he confesses as he takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror.

"Well, I think it's safe to say she didn't want any other women hitting on her man. You can't wear that. Seriously. I don't know what kind of man would wear that sort of thing. Gay men have much better taste. And straight men would run screaming. Wait, why aren't you running, or screaming?"

"Damn it, Emi," he says, frustrated, practically tearing the monstrosity of a shirt off of his body. "I don't have time for this." He walks quickly back to his closet and takes a look inside, stretching his back subtly. I hate it when he walks around without his shirt, and decide to tell him so.

"I hate it when you walk around without your shirt on. It... _bothers_ me." _And yet, I can't tear my eyes away._

"I know you do. But did you not just tell me ten seconds ago that I couldn't wear that shirt? You asked for it." He throws the pink thing at me playfully. "What should I wear then?"

"A regular _American_ dress shirt, Nate. Don't you have anything like that?" I push aside t-shirt after t-shirt in his closet until I find a pressed white button-down shirt, still in the plastic bag from the cleaners. "Here."

He takes it from me and walks back into the bathroom. "You need a belt, too," I remind him, catching a glimpse of the waistband of his light blue boxers underneath his loose-fitting jeans. "And you'll probably want to wear an undershirt with that," I yell to him.

"What else, _Mom?_ " he teases me, crossing the room to his dresser and pulling out a thin, white t-shirt. "And I'm not wearing jeans, don't worry. I'm wearing that." He points to a hanger holding a pair of black pants and a matching jacket.

"Wow, slacks and a coat. Looks suspiciously like a suit... This must be getting serious. Did you get her a corsage, too?"

"Shut it," he warns me with a smile. "Well at least my wardrobe choices are keeping your mind off of... what's his name?"

"David," I remind him for the twentieth time, watching him pull on the tight undershirt as he goes back into the bathroom. I examine the pink _blouse_ and put my arms through the sleeves. "Hey, can I wear this?" I cinch the ends at my waist and push my way into the room next to him, looking at myself in the mirror. I flop the cuffs around, trying to find my hands.

He laughs and turns to me, folding up the sleeves until my limbs are revealed. "I thought you wanted him to like you... not run, screaming."

I roll my eyes at him as I lean up against the doorjamb. After a few seconds, the worry from earlier comes back. "Do you think he will?"

"Will what?"

"Run." I sigh heavily, turning to walk back into his guest bedroom. "And scream," I mumble loudly enough for him to hear.

"Why would he do that?" he asks, standing in the doorway. "I mean, aside from the shirt." The sunlight dancing through the large windows makes his brown eyes sparkle. I involuntarily smile.

"What if he doesn't like me?" I ask him.

Nate throws his hands in the air and scoffs at me. "Emi, we've been over this," he says, going into the bathroom. I hear him brushing his teeth a short while later. I collapse back on his guest bed, where I had spent the earlier part of the day watching him paint, rambling on about the date I had tonight. I had intended to do my freelance work, but I couldn't concentrate. Because of my nervous chatter, he hadn't gotten much accomplished, either. He preferred quiet and was always very focused– never very social– when he was painting.

"But we broke up, like, seven years ago. I haven't even seen him in three," I yell to him. "And he was married then. And, like, what if he's fat and bald?"

"You're not that shallow, Emi. You liked him once... enough to give it up to him," he laughs under his breath.

"I wanted to get it over with," I relate to my friend. "He was cute and nice and he wanted me."

"You liked him," he reminds me. "A lot."

"I know I did," I sigh, standing up and walking toward the bathroom. I lean against his hallway wall, watching him get ready. "What if he thinks I'm ugly?"

"Seriously, Em? Look at yourself," he says, pulling me back into the bathroom and holding my shoulders, pointing me in the direction of the mirror. "You're not ugly. There is no way any man, woman or child would think you were ugly." He glares at me before letting me go, tousling his unruly, wet hair with his fingers.

"Mousey, then?"

"Nope."

"Average..." I murmur.

"You're not even that. And, Emi, remember. _He_ sought _you_ out."

"I know..." I linger. "But what if he takes one look at me tonight and pretends he doesn't know me?"

"Again with this," he sighs, rolling his eyes.

"I never sent him a recent picture. What if he expects me to look just like I did back then? I mean, he doesn't know what I look like these days."

"And he apparently doesn't care. You're just as cute as you were back then, Em. Cuter, even. Trust me." He always knows just what to say.

I did like David, a lot, many years ago. I was surprised to reconnect with him online a few months ago. He found my email through the NYU alumni network. His first few messages were friendly, but distant. Eventually, he told me that he had divorced his wife earlier in the year. I had to admit, I hated to see marriages fail, but I was a little excited that I might get another chance with him.

We were cordial and flirty through messages and phone calls, but he hadn't asked to see me. I was beginning to think he wouldn't until he casually brought up New Year's Eve one day last week. I told him my roommate and I were having a party, so I invited him to come. He accepted the invitation with no hesitation.

"Why are you feeling so insecure tonight?"

"He didn't like me enough back then," I remind Nate.

"The timing was wrong," he mimics my voice. "It wasn't that he didn't like you."

"I know," I pout. "The timing was _all_ wrong." David was an over-achiever, like me, very busy with school. His dream was to go to Los Angeles to become a screenwriter, and he focused all of his free-time trying to realize that dream. Eventually, I relented, not wanting to get in the way of his life goals– and selfishly needing more attention than he could give me. I never harbored any resentment. It was a nice relationship while it lasted.

"Well, I'm sure tonight will be fine." He touches my chin briefly on his way to the closet. "Go drink a glass of wine while I finish getting dressed. You didn't even open that bottle from last week."

"Good idea." I keep my back to him, giving him some privacy to dress, as I pour a glass of my favorite red. My curiosity was piqued, but Nate and I were never going to be anything more than friends. He was attractive– no, scratch that, he was _hot_ – but we had an arrangement. I liked our arrangement. He was the best friend I'd ever had.

_To tonight_ , I think to myself, lifting the glass and sipping my drink.

He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator after pulling on the rest of his suit. The ends of his black tie hang loosely around his neck.

He takes a long drink of water and points to his necktie.

"Are you ever going to learn to do this yourself? I won't always be here." I set my wine down and begin to arrange the ends into a knot. "And where's the step stool?" He begins to walk backwards to another corner of the kitchen, pulling me along when I don't let go of his neckwear, slowly kicking the stool out to me. I stand on the second step, finding it easier to do this particular task when he isn't towering a foot above me.

"I can," he says. "It just never turns out right... and I'd rather it be crooked than lose my patience over something that's going to be undone in a matter of hours." He smugly raises one eyebrow.

"Right," I say, tightening the knot– tight– against his neck. He coughs dramatically and pulls it a little looser.

His hand draws up to my face, stopping abruptly, his finger lingering inches from my mouth. "Um, you have a little wine on your top lip." He stares at it while I stare back at him. I lick it from my lips and smile with a slight blush.

"Thanks."

"Thank you, Emi," he says after clearing his throat, clutching the knot once more. "How do I look?"

"Your hair's a mess."

"You always say that's a good thing," he says, confused.

"Yeah it is," I sigh. I'd never met another man who could pull off that look in any setting, amongst any crowd. Women everywhere he went would fall at his feet... hence the fact that he was _never_ without one. "You look fine."

"Just fine?"

"Good. Great. Amazing. All of the above," I say nonchalantly. He was the epitome of handsome, and I know every detail of him like I know my own– after all, he was often my subject in portraiture class in both high school and college. I know the perfect mix of brown and yellow and white paints that would recreate that messy hair that often covers his light brown eyes. I can haphazardly paint brushstrokes in every direction and it would still look like the perfect head of hair on him. His brows are just a shade darker, his lashes long, outlining a stare so intense at times that it can go right through me. His natural tan coloring always makes me look even paler when we walk side by side. He has a strong jawline with angular cheekbones that exhibit their own natural blush. His nose is well-proportioned to his face, and turned up ever-so-slightly at the tip.

And his lips... I won't even go there. "What were we talking about?" I ask him.

"You were telling me I look amazing."

"Right, so... um, are you going back to her place tonight?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," he answers. "I haven't planned that far. Why?"

"This place is a wreck."

"Well, that's why you need to get your crap and leave," he jokes with me. "The cleaning lady will be here any minute to do her thing."

"Nothing like waiting until the last minute, huh?"

"Well, if she had come this morning, you would have still come over and spread your mess out and made it look like this," he gestures to the room. "My mess is all confined to the guest room." I peek in and see his paint supplies strewn about the small bedroom.

"Wait, you're making her come in on New Year's Eve?"

"It's her job. I pay her well," he reasons.

"I'll pick up my things," I mumble, rolling my eyes at him.

"I know you will. But seriously, I've got to get going if I'm going to make these reservations."

"Were they hard to get?"

"Not for me," he smiles arrogantly.

"Of course not." He starts to pick up my design books, stacking them neatly and putting them in my tote bag. "To-go cup for my drink?" I ask, holding my newly-poured glass of wine.

"You can finish your drink."

"Thank you." I lean against his kitchen island while he takes a seat on the sofa closest to the door, typing something on his phone.

"Hey, are you sure you two can't just stop by tonight? I might need a confidence boost," I plead, knowing he won't bring his girlfriend by, but wanting to ask anyway. I'd never met Laney, and likely never would.

"No, Em, we've got plans." He smiles.

"I know."

"You are going to be just fine," he asserts again, walking over to me as I take the last drink of the wine. "If he's as smart as you say he is, he will fall in love with you and give you a heart-stopping kiss as the clock strikes midnight. No repeat of last year."

"Don't remind me."

I spent last New Year's Eve, snowed in, with my brother. Wallowing in each other's self-pity, we got completely hammered and both of us passed out as the miserable, previous year exited and the new one flitted in with no fanfare whatsoever.

"Speaking of last year, what's Chris doing tonight?"

"My brother will be entertaining Clara tonight."

"Well, that should be fun for her." It would be. My niece loves my brother and his ability to build giant fortresses in his living room out of couch cushions and sheets. She would pretend to be a princess in her castle and bark orders at him. "We've got to find a girl for him, for next year," Nate says.

"Yeah, I know."

"This is gonna be _your_ year, Em," he says after a short, contemplative pause. "I just feel it." He puts his arm around my shoulder and hands me my bag, holding his door open for me. "I'll walk down with you."

We ride down the elevator, just the two of us.

"So, we're still on for tomorrow night, right?" I ask.

"What's tomorrow night?"

I groan loudly in frustration. " _Wicked_ , Nate. You promised you'd go with me. I swear, if you stand me up, I'll–"

"I know," he laughs. "I haven't forgotten. A night with witches, I can't wait."

"Surely you're not referring to me..."

"Surely not," he says, ruffling my hair with his hand. "Oh, the spells you cast..." I barely hear him whisper in my ear, a shiver going straight down my spine.

"You're funny," I say sarcastically but nearly out of breath as we exit the elevator. The concierge hands him his keys as Nate opens the doors to his building for me. His car is waiting for him in the drive.

"Just call me," he says as I begin to walk down the sidewalk toward my apartment.

"I will... Like ya, Nate."

"Like ya, Em." He gets into his sporty car, revving the engine and pulling out of the drive quickly. He pulls up beside me and stops abruptly, rolling the window down. "Oh, and burn that shirt for me."

I stroke the ruffle that runs down my center gently and nod to him. As he drives away, I hold the fabric to my nose and breathe in the fresh scent of his fabric softener.

"You left your phone here," Teresa says to me when I get back to our apartment, her voice irritated. "I've been wondering where you were all afternoon. I needed help getting things ready."

"I'm sorry," I tell my roommate. "I was helping Nate get dressed for his date."

"Nate's, of course. I should have known."

"What can I do?"

"At this point, just get ready. People are gonna start showing up in about half an hour." I linger in the kitchen, feeling like I've let her down.

"I really am sorry."

"It's fine, Em," she smiles. "It's all handled. I'm not mad."

"Okay."

"What time did you tell David to be here?" she asks.

"Nine-thirty. I figured I would have had enough to drink to be relaxed, but not so much that I would be completely incoherent."

"Good plan," she confirms. "And if things are going well, but he doesn't seem to have the guts to kiss you, what are you going to do?"

"Take matters into my own hands. I know what to do." We smile at each other. My biggest fear as the year was coming to an end was spending another New Year's Eve alone, un-kissed. She had listened to me worry about this for weeks. It was silly and romantic... but that's me. "I'm going to go shower." I smile to myself, thinking about the kiss that is sure to come tonight. Maybe it _would_ be my year.

By ten-thirty, I've decided David's not showing up without a little prompting. I knew in the back of my head that this was a possibility since I hadn't heard anything– email, text, or call– from him in three days. I pull out my phone and check for voicemails again. Nothing.

"Just text him," Teresa yells over the music as she hands me another cosmo on her way back to the living space from our kitchen. "Lure him here. Promise him food, drinks, strip-tease, blow-job, whatever."

"I'm not that desperate," I frown.

"Yeah, you kind of are, Emi." She hugs me. "But I love you." I look at her, a little hurt, but admitting to myself that she's right, even if she's not really sober at the moment. Neither am I.

" _Hey, the party's just getting underway. I've saved you a Stella. You still drink those?"_ I tap my foot nervously, counting the seconds for a response. Still nothing. Fifteen minutes pass. The alcohol lure isn't working... _please, God, don't make me lose all my dignity._

Thirty minutes later, having given up on David but not willing to give up on the kiss, I scan the room for other options. All the men seem to be partnered up except for two. One is kind of attractive. He catches me looking at him, and I smile and blush, looking away quickly. The other one is... not my type... but the two of them talk, giving me sideways glances as I busy myself with some carrot sticks and one more drink. I peek up from my glass and see Not-My-Type's hand gently stroking Kind-Of-Attractive's chest. _Fuck, seriously?_ They entwine their fingers together and laugh. _Probably at me._

I go out into the hallway, hoping for privacy but just running into a few of our friends making out in front of our neighbor's door. I walk to the stairwell and pull out my phone, my fingers pressing numbers feverishly. The phone rings... rings... rings... _pick up the damn phone, please_... rings... eventually goes to voicemail.

Feeling I have no other options, I send a desperate text.

His response is not just "no" or even "No." It's " _NO_." _Got it._

Completely frustrated, I go back inside, wishing that the entire apartment would clear out so I could crawl far under my covers and hide for days and days. Eventually, the countdown comes...

10... 9... 8... 7... 6... fuck me... another year... without... any... 1.

"Happy New Year!" the room shouts in uniform cheer. I look over to my roommate, her lips locked with her boyfriend du jour, his hands all over her ass. _What is so wrong with me?_ My breathing becomes shallow, as if I'm starting to hyperventilate. I will not burst out in tears right here in front of God and everyone. _I will not. Fuck, I won't!_

I almost manage to swallow the lump that has formed in my throat as Teresa glances at me from across the room, and my eyes begin to water, giving me away. She smiles sympathetically, leaving her boyfriend behind.

"Happy New Year, Em," she says as she throws her arms around me. She kisses my cheek. "It can only get better from here," she says, smoothing my hair down. "Come on, come get another drink. That fucker isn't worth a single tear. No man is."

I wipe away that single tear that managed to drop down my cheek, but I can't help but think that at least _one_ man is...

_~_ _Lost and Found_ _is available now from your ebook retailer! ~_

_* Extras for the_ _Emi Lost & Found_ _series and other books can be read in_ _Hollandtown Extras_ _._

## SPECIAL THANKS TO

From the Beginning

John T. Perry

Shirley Otto

Clarinda Alcalen

Book Cover Design Goddesses

Christi Allen Curtis

Katrina Boone

The Lovely Model

Alex Wheelus

Beta Readers and Psychologists

Angela Meyer

Nikki Haw

Daneila Condé

Luna Sol

My Street Team

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After graduating from the University of Texas at Arlington in 1997 with a Bachelor's Degree in Communications, Lori L. Otto worked in the billboard industry for ten years. Frustrated with trying to communicate entire messages in "seven seconds or less," she decided to leave outdoor advertising and return to her love of creative writing.

Emi Lost & Found | Book One: Lost and Found

Emi Lost & Found | Book Two: Time Stands Still

Emi Lost & Found | Book Three: Never Look Back

Emi Lost & Found | Prequel: Not Today, But Someday

Number Seven: a prequel

Choisie | Book One: Contessa

Choisie | Book Two: Olivia

Choisie | Book Three: Dear Jon

Choisie | Book Three: Livvy

Love Like We Do | Love Like We Do (Side A)

Love Like We Do | Love Like We Do (Side B)

Crossroads: a prequel

Love Will

In the Wake of Wanting

Hollandtown Extras

## CONNECT WITH ME ONLINE

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/lori_otto>

Facebook: <http://facebook.com/LoriLOtto>

http://www.loriotto.com

