Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(60)
I kept talking. “We spend New Year’s Eve at my uncle’s farm. He plows his driveway into a sledding hill. He has an old army jeep, and he pulls us back up the hill. We just sled all night long. He makes a huge bonfire in his backyard. It gets so big, he throws entire trees in the fire.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said.
“It used to be,” I said before I caught myself.
“What do you mean?”
I paused for a second. It was easy to talk behind the safety of a screen, where I could be anonymous. But here, in his presence, I had to factor in the white noise of his movements. His presence. His hands a few inches from mine on the counter.
“Things changed after the accident,” I said. “My mom—she’s become more like a boss that checks in about classes and schedules and finances. I hardly ever go home anymore. It’s gotten easier to stay away.”
I felt terrible complaining about my mom, who was alive. Who was still there for me in the ways that she could be.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He waved his hand through the air. “I get it. There were plenty of things that annoyed me about my dad. He was a slob. He would pour cups of coffee and forget where he’d set them, so he’d pour more. We had dirty mugs all over our house. It smelled like a coffee shop.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I argued.
He leaned closer to me. “There were piles of laundry everywhere. We never folded clothes. We just pulled out whatever was clean. You would have hated it.”
“Okay, that is definitely my nightmare,” I said.
He smiled. It mirrored my expression. There we were, inches away from each other, swapping smiles. It was more intimate than words.
“But now I only remember the good things about him. Or, I only focus on them. I feel like a lot of the bad memories get sorted through a filter. Why hang on to those anyway? They just pull you down.”
I nodded. I guess I had trained my brain to look for all the ways that my mom and I were slipping, instead of looking for the loose threads that were still holding us together. It was easier to dwell on all the ways that people let you down, instead of focusing on all the little things that they did right.
I looked down at the counter. Our food was gone. I was waiting for Emmett to make a move to get up. I hated that I didn’t want it to end, that I wanted to sit at the window all night and watch the snow fall and the cars push through waves of slushy, melting snow.
“We should probably get going,” I said. I scooted my stool back, but Emmett didn’t make a move to get up.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, I would just like to personally apologize for Tucker, since he’s too big of a coward to do it himself.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said and gulped down the rest of my Coke, a little embarrassed.
“And just for the record, you’re a ten. All around. Alright? Sorry he can’t get that.”
This was too much. I looked over at him. “What is this? The repair CeCe’s self-esteem initiative?”
He didn’t crack a smile. It was unnerving, the sincerity on his face. I had to look away.
“I got it, Emmett,” I said.
“Do you?” he pressed. I felt his eyes on me, staring too long. Why didn’t he look away?
“Would you drop it?” I glared at him. Why did he care so much?
He rested one arm on the counter.
“You know, I think you make your scar a bigger deal than it is,” he said.
I tightened my lips. Fuck. He had to go there. People had said this line to me but the words were trite and meaningless because no one truly understood. I always shot back the same reply.
My eyes locked on his. “You don’t know,” I told him.
He wouldn’t back down. His eyes stayed on mine.
“I’ve played football my whole life. I’ve seen more injuries than I can count. It’s not that big of a deal.”
I smirked and looked down at my plate. “You’re not a girl.”
He took a drink of his soda and shook his head. “Don’t give me that quasi gender bullshit. We all have the same feelings.”
I looked at Emmett and laughed. No one had ever pulled a laugh out of me during this conversation. Most people dropped the conversation at this point.
“Does the spicy curry make you this opinionated?”
“I’m a sensitive artist, remember?” He smiled.
I felt like we were flirting. Shit. Was this flirting? It felt more real than that, more sincere. I tapped my foot restlessly against the floor and looked away.
He set down his soda. “Listen, my grandpa was a firefighter. He was burned across half of his face when he was young. The scars never went away. But no one treated him any differently. People were just happy he was alive. He was still the same guy, he was still hilarious. Still married to an amazing woman.”
“How old was he when it happened?” I asked.
Emmett leaned his head back and thought about it. “I don’t know, late twenties?”
“Was he already married?”
Emmett nodded.
“Well, this happened when I was ten. Okay? It’s different.”
“Maybe not everyone sees it the way you do,” Emmett said. “That’s all I’m saying.”