Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena)(77)

“I’m tired of hard, so damn tired of trying . . .” He raised a palm up but didn’t finish, didn’t tell her why he was willing to walk away. Then an absolute determination overtook his expression. Emerson saw Regular Old Dax disappear and the stoic soldier take his place. “I took the job. End of story. The longer we drag this out, the harder it will be in the end. For both of us.”

If she thought she was in pain a second ago, it was nothing compared to the deep ache inside her chest, which burned so cold her body felt like it would shatter. One sob and she would break into a million pieces.

She knew how to embrace loss, even knew how to put the pieces back together. This time, though, there would be no way to repair her heart.

Reminding herself that the key to survival was to stay calm, Emerson straightened her shoulders, back to the carry-the-world place they’d been her whole life—only this time it felt heavier, as if she would crumple the second she walked through that front door.

“You’re right,” she said, proud that she was sticking with she wasn’t a crier. “This entire thing has been one long drawn-out ending. I just had the ending wrong. Again.”

“Emerson,” he said but she didn’t wait for him to finish.

She was tired of fighting for things she loved only to have them leave. For once she wanted someone to fight for her, to come to her side. To tell her she was worth the crazy.

But he wasn’t going to say any of those things, so she turned and headed for the door.

The pressure built in her chest and she knew it was about to rain hard in her soul. So she clutched her hands over her heart to make sure it stayed in one piece until she made it home. In a daze, she slid into her car and went on autopilot until she found herself pulling into her parents’ drive.

She raced through the pouring rain, up the lawn and to the front door, where she banged until it opened. Only instead of finding her mom on the other side waiting with baklava and a hug that could cure anything—except for ALS—she found her dad. Dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and Birkenstocks.

“It’s raining,” she said, looking at his shoes.

“What’s wrong?” Concern laced his face as he stepped onto the porch and into a puddle, which sloshed into his sandals. Emerson watched the water flow in but it never came out, instead being absorbed into the sole. “Fairy Bug?”

At the sound of her childhood nickname, Emerson looked up right as the first sob rolled through her chest and broke free. Followed closely by another, and by the time the third one racked her body she was in her dad’s arms, pouring herself into him until they were both sitting on the wet brick.

“I need Mom,” she begged, and Roger’s face went into panic mode, as if trying to figure out how to gently remind his grown daughter that her mother was dead. She was gone and never coming back. “I need her so much right now and she’s not here.”

“I need her every second of every day,” her dad whispered and Emerson held on tighter. “I thought it would get easier. I thought that maybe someday she would be simply a happy memory.”

Emerson looked up to find that Roger was crying too. She’d never seen her dad cry. Not even at the funeral. “And?”

“And then something amazing happens with one of you girls, or a hummingbird lands on the feeder, and I remember that she’s gone.” He cupped her face. “But then I remember that you’re here and she is such a huge part of you. I know I’m not your mom, and I know that you outgrew needing me a long time ago, or maybe I made it so that you couldn’t count on me, but I’m here now.”

“I’ve been dating this mule-headed, stubborn, God-he’s-such-an-idiot man,” she admitted.

Roger smiled. “Sounds like true love.”

“It is, Dad,” she said miserably, burying her face in his chest. “And I am pretty sure he loves me too, but he’s a chicken and took a job as a beefcake and doesn’t want a long drawn-out ending so he left.”

“Sounds like a certifiable asshat to me,” Roger said and Emerson laughed. She laughed so hard water started dripping from her eyes.

His hand stroked her hair, just like her mom used to. “Oh, sweetie, don’t cry.”

“I’m not a crier,” she sobbed into his Hawaiian shirt.

“I know.” He delivered comforting little pats to her back. “You’re a tough girl, just like your mom.”

She looked up through blurry eyes. “Mom cried all the time.”

“Yet she was adamant that she wasn’t a crier.”





A few days later, Emerson woke up to find she was not alone, but being watched.

She rubbed her eyes and remembered she was on the couch—at her dad’s place. Her head throbbed, her lids were scratchy when she blinked, and that cold, empty feeling had settled in her bones. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” Roger said.

Emerson shot up, shaking her head to clear the sleep-induced fog. “Eight?” She never slept in that late. Actually she hadn’t slept at all since she’d heard that Dax had indeed left. He’d texted her to explain that he’d still come up for Street Eats and she’d texted him back one word.

Crumbs.

He’d texted back that he was sorry. And that had been that. And Emerson was working hard to move forward like he was obviously doing. But it didn’t mean that she didn’t feel the loss with every breath.