Well Met(84)

“Hey. Wait.” He reached for me, but I shrugged him off and he dropped his hand. “Look, I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this.”

It was tempting. If any two people were good at talking, it was Simon and me. But the hollow feeling in my chest told me this couldn’t be fixed with talking.

“You’re so focused on the past it’s all you can see. How can we have a future if all you keep doing is looking back?” I clutched my keys so hard they made divots in my palm. “I can’t compete with a memory. I already spent five years being someone’s lower priority. Being second best always. I can’t . . .” I couldn’t talk anymore. I suddenly felt bone-weary. Tired. I knew this feeling. I’d talked to April about this very thing not too long ago. What had she said then? Stop fighting losing battles. My big sister knew her stuff. I gave a shaking sigh. “I deserve better than that.”

I turned to go, and he grabbed my arm. “Emma. Emma, wait.”

I sucked in a breath as everything went white.

Emma. Not Emily.

Emma.

And there it was. The truth in one Freudian slip. I really was just a tavern wench to him after all. A cog in his Ren faire machine. My first impression of him had been proved right, and it broke my heart.

I slowly turned back to him. He looked as though he’d realized his mistake a moment too late, his face stricken, but he still held on to my arm like it was a lifeline. “Wait.” His voice was quiet, desperate.

“Emma’s gone.” I didn’t sound like myself. My voice was quiet, steady, and barely there. “Served her last fucking drink.” I pulled back, and he let go of my arm. For a long moment we stared at each other, his eyes golden-green in the streetlight, wide and sad. But he didn’t say a word as I walked down the block to my Jeep. He was still standing there on the sidewalk as I drove away.





Twenty-two




I made it about two blocks away from the downtown area before I had to pull over. I could barely see the road through my tears, I couldn’t take a substantial breath, and my thoughts were going a mile a minute. I fumbled in my purse for my phone, and it took three tries for my shaking hands to send a coherent text to Stacey. She was still technically in charge of us wenches, after all. I can’t come to Faire this weekend. I’m sorry.

The message went from “delivered” to “read” almost immediately, and five seconds later my phone started buzzing in my hand. Stacey wasn’t one to put things off.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter, are you sick?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I . . .” I was crying, apparently. It wasn’t what I’d intended, but there I was in the front seat of my Jeep, ugly tears splashing all over my phone.

“Yeah, you sound fine. Where are you? What do you need?”

The concern in Stacey’s voice, not to mention her immediate offer of help, made me want to cry even harder, but I sucked in a deep breath and got it together. “Really, I’m okay.”

Her sigh was a loud rush of breath in my ear. “Oh, crap. What did he do?”

I hiccuped another sob. “What? Who?”

“Simon. Seriously, did he screw this up already?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Okay, I’m on my way to Jackson’s now. Meet me there in ten minutes.” Before I could argue she’d hung up. I tossed my phone in the passenger seat and swiped at my face, which was a hopeless mess. But she was waiting for me, so I put the Jeep in gear and drove to our hangout.

Jackson’s looked like a completely different place on a Friday night. The lights were brighter, and it looked less like a dive bar and more like a knockoff of a national chain bar and grill. Half an hour, three orders of mozzarella sticks, a couple beers, and most of a pizza later, Stacey sat back in her seat in our booth. “Well,” she said. “You’re sure as hell not going to Faire this weekend. You don’t need to deal with that crap.”

Gratitude rushed through me and I sagged against the table. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.” I took a sip of beer. “I thought everyone was going to hate me now.”

“What, because I’ve known Simon longer?” She scoffed. “Please. Wenches before . . . well, something that refers to guys that rhymes with ‘wenches.’” She grinned at me, and I managed a watery laugh. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about Faire. The Maryland Renaissance Festival starts up this weekend too. Everyone who wants to go to a Renaissance faire is heading over to that side of the state. These last couple weekends are usually pretty slow. Besides, you have our volunteers whipped into such good shape we could probably both take the weekend off and no one would notice.”

“Oh, yeah. Simon would love—” The thought had come so naturally that for a second there I’d forgotten what had happened between us. Making fun of Simon had become one of my favorite things to do this summer, second only to kissing him. Now, though . . . now we were nothing. How was I supposed to live in this town with him in it?

“Hey.” Stacey reached across the table and laid a hand on my arm. “Quit thinking. It’s going to be okay.”

I nodded dully, then focused more clearly on her hand on my arm. “Your nails are all fancy.” She wasn’t one to get manicures, but tonight they were extravagant French tips. Not exactly period for Faire tomorrow, but like she said, if it wasn’t as busy maybe no one would notice. But now I took in her entire appearance. Her hair fell in tousled blond curls, and even in this lighting I could tell she was rocking a perfect smoky eye. “You have plans tonight, don’t you?” I narrowed my eyes as she took her hand back and looked a little guilty. “A date. Please tell me you didn’t cancel to watch me cry in my beer.”