“Mom,” I reply.
“You look like hell,” she says. And her face finally cracks into a smile.
“Where’s Dad?” I twirl a lock of my black hair around my finger.
“Your father is in the doghouse I’m afraid. He bungled this terribly. And so he’s no longer in charge of this little matter.”
My mother never does this. I didn’t think she had a spine at all. “What?”
“Your father is the reason why you ran away from home. Your father is the reason why you have been gone for more than six months. Your father and his conniving are the reason why I lost my daughter.” Her voice cracks on the last word. My mother never falls apart. Ever. But she does now. Tears roll down her cheeks and she reaches for me. I fall into her. My mother is offering me everything I need right now.
“I’m going to mess up your clothes,” I warn, sniffling.
“Mess me up. I don’t care.” She squeezes me to her. “Tell me everything.”
I sit back. “You don’t want to hear everything.”
She sighs. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Mom,” I complain.
“I’ll start it for you,” she says, smiling. She mocks my bored tone and says, “Well, there’s this boy…” She motions for me to finish.
I tell my mother the story about why I left, where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing.
At the end of my story, she says, “Your father still expects you to marry that boy.”
I nod. “I know.”
“But that will never, ever happen.”
My gaze shoots to her.
“We’re going to the salon. And then we’re going to take care of this.”
“Mom,” I breathe. “I promised Dad.”
She pats my hand. “You’ll see. Trust me.” And for some reason, I do.
For the next four hours, we change my hair color back to its natural shade, paint my nails a glossy pink instead of black, “because we don’t want to buck the system but just so much,” and she sends someone to get me a new outfit. She has a flock of people doing her bidding.
When we’re done, I feel like my old self. But I’m not. I never will be.
We pull up to our home and the gates are open. I’m so confused. There are news vans everywhere. “What’s this, Mom?” I ask.
“This is me handling this situation for you.” She absently runs a hand down the length of my hair. “You’re a smart girl, Emily. You can make your own choices.”
Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids. I’m a smart girl. Someone other than Logan said it.
Logan
I’m terrified. Emily is gone, but her guitar is still here. She was gone before I got up this morning. Her black bag is gone. And all of her belongings, except her guitar. She wouldn’t have left, would she? Not for good. Paul sits beside me on the couch and he knocks my hand from my mouth when I chew my fingernails. “She’ll be back,” he says. “Stop worrying.”
She won’t be back. I’m sure of it. I realized that by telling me her name last night and letting me inside her, she wasn’t telling me she loves me. She was telling me goodbye. It hurts like nothing ever has when I realize that, but it’s true. I’m sure of it.
The phone rings. I jump when the lights flash, signaling the ringer. Paul runs to answer it. “Matt says to turn the news on,” Paul says, as he turns the TV on and flips the channels.
The new anchor starts to talk. I read the captions as they play across the bottom of the screen.
IN CELEBRITY NEWS TODAY, THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE UNITED STATES’ MOST INFLUENTIAL BUSINESSMEN HAS BEEN FOUND ALIVE TODAY.
“What does this have to do with us?” I ask Paul.
YOU MAY REMEMBER THE MEDIA CIRCUS MORE THAN SIX MONTHS AGO WHEN EMILY MADISON DISAPPEARED.
The TV switches to a picture of a blonde.
Paul slaps my chest hard to get my attention. It hurts like a mother f**ker but my gaze is stuck on the TV.
EMILY MADISON DISAPPEARED MORE THAN SIX MONTHS AGO, BUT SHE RETURNED HOME TODAY.
“That’s my Emily,” I breathe. Her hair is blond. And she has on a million dollar smile, along with some million dollar earrings.
Paul smacks me harder so I have to look at him. “That’s Kit?” he asks.
I wave at him to shut him up. He turns the TV up. I watch the words at the bottom of the screen. I scoot forward so my ass is balanced on the edge of the couch.
EMILY HAS AGREED TO ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS, the captions say.
I watch as the woman I love steps up to the podium. She blinks and holds her hand up to block the sun. I can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, and my heart lurches. She’s in California. “Good afternoon,” she says.
The crowd starts firing off questions. They only print the ones in the captions that get to her. “Where have I been?” she repeats. “I have been in New York for six months. There’s a bit of a story to go with that, but I won’t bore you with it. Sometimes a girl just needs a break.” The captions indicate that she’s laughing. But there’s no laughter in her eyes.
ARE YOU WELL, EMILY? someone asks.
“I’m perfectly well,” she says, smiling. “Never been better.”
ARE YOU MENTALLY ILL, EMILY? DID YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN? HAVE YOU BEEN IN REHAB?
She looks at the person with surprise. “The last time I checked, I wasn’t.” She looks down at her body and pats her h*ps and stomach. “I think I’m quite well.”
WAS THERE FOUL PLAY, EMILY?
She shakes her head. “No. No foul play. I was perfectly safe the whole time.”
Someone steps up to the podium to pull Emily away, and I ache as I watch her take a step back. One more question scrolls across the screen.
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE FUTURE, EMILY?
She smiles. Then she looks directly into the camera. Directly at me. She might as well have kicked me in the gut. “In the spring, I’m going to Julliard to study music.”
My stomach drops down toward my toes.
WHY NEW YORK, EMILY? Someone asks before she can walk away.
She tilts her head to the side and looks right at me. She raises her hand into the sign for I love you and I see the tattoo that takes up her forearm. It’s a key, and written down the center of the key shaft are the letters of my name. I look at Paul. “Did you do that?”
He grins and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
It’s everything. It’s every f**king thing.
The reporter repeats the question.
WHY NEW YORK EMILY?
“That’s simple,” she says. “It’s because I love New York. I love New York with all my heart and I can’t wait to get back to it. I needed to come see my Dad so he could take care of something for me. But I’m going back to New York.” She leans close to the microphone. “I love you New York. Never doubt it. I’ll see you soon.”
Then she waves and she’s gone.
I fall back against the couch, trying to put it all together in my head.
“Shit,” Paul says. “She paid for Matt’s treatment.”
“What?” I’m still dumbfounded.
“She went back home for you,” he explains. He still has Matt on the phone and he’s talking to both of us at the same time.
She did it all for me. “She did it for me,” I say out loud.
“You lucky f**ker,” Paul says, punching me in the arm.
“She’ll be back for the spring session at Julliard.” Warm happiness settles around me like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.
Paul nods. “Matt will be home by then.”
We all hope Matt would be home by then. Matt has a chance to come home and it’s all because of Emily. I jump up and Paul pulls me into a hug.
“She’ll be back?” I ask. I can’t wrap my head around it all. “She’s not gone for good.”
“She just told the whole f**king world how much she loves you, you jackass.” Paul punches me in the shoulder again.
She’s coming back. To Julliard. To me.
***THE END***