“Fine. I’ll see you next week, Brooke.”
“Wait. Graham, please don’t be mad, okay? I’ll tell him to delete it. I’ll threaten him. I’m soooo sorry.”
“S’okay. Later.” I hang up and sit on the hotel bed, staring out at the Sacramento skyline, the sprawling suburban neighborhoods so unlike New York.
This situation is far from okay. Brooke wasn’t drunk when we got home from Daniel’s party. A little buzzed—maybe. But drunk? No. I can’t fathom what gave her the idea to stage that photo, and even more confusing—why she sent it to Reid Alexander. I don’t know what the hell is going on between the two of them, but I’m quickly progressing to not giving a shit.
Emma’s feelings are all that matter. I don’t really have a plan. I feel like I just leapt from a plane without checking to see if there’s a parachute strapped to my back. I’ve always been the guy who analyzes and evaluates everything. I consider pros and cons. I weigh options. I make informed decisions. These precautions don’t eliminate mistakes, but they certainly reduce the likelihood of them.
And then I met Emma, and as logical as she is, she makes me feel reckless. I’m heedless of consequences. My plans and targets and goals and common sense go out the window in the face of what she makes me want. She scares the hell out of me and calms my soul at the same time. Maybe that’s what love is—a total contradiction that somehow balances out.
Chapter 28
Emma
Emily is dropping me off at home just before noon. She has a twelve-to-six shift at the mall, so she’s decked out in Hot Topic gear. Today’s version is oddly similar to Chloe’s Madonna circa Like-a-Virgin costume from last Halloween.
I’m so not going to mention that thought to Em.
“We’ll pick you up at 7:00. Be ready, and be hot. Because Joe is tssss.”
“Emily, I really don’t feel—”
“Eh-eh-eh!” She holds up a hand and closes her eyes, like these things will keep her from hearing my objections to being set up with another of Derek’s friends.
I try a different approach. “I’ve intruded on the last two nights with you guys… Don’t you want some time to yourselves?”
She lowers her chin and levels a look at me over her purple-lensed sunglasses. “Yes. That’s why we’re pawning you off on Joe for the night. Now be a good girl and play nice. I’ll see you at 7:00.”
I pull my overnight bag onto my shoulder in defeat. I know she and Derek are only trying to dissuade me from wallowing in depression over Graham, but it took me months to get over him last time, and there wasn’t even a significant relationship to get over. I’ll probably be twenty-five before I get over this. I can’t divulge such a pathetic outlook to my best friend, though, because she’d likely answer, “Challenge. Accepted.” And then I’d be subjected to a parade of boys all summer long… Although it appears that strategy has already begun. Ugh.
She cranks her stereo and pulls away as I trudge up to the house, where I’ll no doubt be assaulted by the smell of Pine Sol and bleach. Saturday is housecleaning day, and Chloe loves Pine Sol. When I was eight or nine, I asked her why, and she said, “It smells so clean!”
“It smells like a hundred car air fresheners hanging in a hospital,” I retorted before Dad said my name in his stop-taunting-your-stepmother voice. I’ve been cleaning my own bathroom since then, using the same non-toxic, environmentally safe stuff Mom used. I’ve heard that the sense of smell is more powerful where love is concerned. I don’t remember if my mother wore perfume or if her shampoo was scented like flowers or fruit, but I remember the minty smell of the kitchen after she’d wiped down the countertops.
I unlock the front door, and surprise, Pine Sol. Blech. “Dad, Chloe, I’m home!” I call, closing the door and heading for the stairs and the sanctity of my room, inside which no Pine Sol is allowed.
“Emma?” Dad calls from the living room. “Come in here, sweetheart. You’ve got a visitor.”
I still smile when Dad calls me sweetheart.
And then I register the other part, and turn back from the staircase. I have a visitor? Dan, maybe? He’s only been here a handful of times, but Reid and I are doing Conan on Monday, so maybe—
Graham is sitting on the sofa.
Graham. Is sitting. On the sofa.
I’m frozen on the opposite side of the room. Staring at him. Speechless.
“Well, come on, Chloe, we’ve got cleaning to do.” Dad hustles her from the room.
His eyes never leaving mine, Graham stands, smoothing his hands down his thighs in a nervous gesture. He seems taller, standing here in my living room. He’s wearing his thick-soled boots, barely laced, jeans haphazardly rolled at the bottom, t-shirt inscribed with (of course) the name of the band Emily was just introducing me to in her car.
Graham runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. Finally, with a determined scowl, he crosses the room. My flip-flops leave me more than a head shorter and craning my neck to look at him, because he doesn’t stop a safe distance away. His hands grip my shoulders. “We are not,” his voice is a gentle tremor, “breaking up.”
“Oh?” I say, still stunned. Graham is standing in my living room.
“I fell asleep next to her. That’s all. I don’t know why she took that picture. I don’t know why she sent it to him. But it’s nothing. And I will not lose you over it.”
I take a huge, shuddering breath, as though I haven’t been able to breathe fully in two days. Maybe I haven’t. He’s getting blurry from my tears. I blink them away.