Not Today, But Someday(51)

“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?”