He tries for a mildly concerned tone. “Emma, our flight is at noon—”
“I know, Dad.”
“But…” he sighs, and I imagine him rubbing his hand over his face in that way he does when he’s frustrated. We’ve grown closer over the past six months, but he missed his chance to be the monitoring parent years ago and he knows it. “When will you be back?”
“When do you want to leave for the airport?” I hedge.
“Nine-thirty?”
Last night and last month and last fall I wanted nothing more than to hear Graham tell me he wanted me, and now, he has. Suddenly aware that we will say goodbye in less than two hours, the whole thing feels hopelessly muddled and complicated.
“Emma?”
“Yeah, Dad, sorry. I’ll be back in time to pack up.” My throat tightens with the realization that it could be more than a month before I see Graham again.
“Is everything okay?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He sighs again. “We’ll talk later, sweetheart. I can tell you can’t talk now.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be back soon.”
***
Cassie is a cellist with the New York Symphony, on a short leave of absence at the moment to be a full-time mother. “I couldn’t let my little brother show me up on the parenting front,” she smirks, watching as Graham makes faces at the baby, whose name is Caleb.
Gesturing to a barstool, she moves to the opposite side of the granite-slabbed counter while I examine the loft. Wood cut-outs, iron sculptures, paintings, prints and mixed media arrangements hang on the rough brick walls, along with two bicycles. An upright bass and a cello flank the undivided windows and floor-to-ceiling shelves house tons of books and photos. The loft is casual and cozy.
My stepmother, Chloe, would hate this place. I love it.
“What brings you to New York, Emma?” Cassie asks, pouring coffee into three mugs.
“I’m here with my dad, choosing a college.”
Her eyes flick across the room and back and she smiles. “Are you? So you’ll be moving to New York in the fall?” I nod and her smile widens. “I’m sure my brother is happy about that.”
I wonder what, exactly, Graham has told her about me. As though I’d posed this question aloud, she leans onto her elbows and lowers her voice. “He likes you a lot, you know.” My face warms, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I wouldn’t butt in, but he’s too damned reserved, and if one of you doesn’t exhibit some daring, this whole thing will be one big missed opportunity.”
I clear my throat. “We’ve already, um, talked about things this morning…” I say, and she slaps a hand on the counter.
“Well thank God. It’s about time.”
“What’s about time?” Graham’s voice is right behind me. He takes a seat on the stool next to me.
Cassie’s brows rise and she gives him a haughty stare. “If we wanted you to be part of this conversation, we’d have been talking louder.”
He laughs, and Caleb coos up at him. “Fine. I’ll just wheedle it out of Emma later.”
Chapter 3
GRAHAM
She’s quiet on the return trip. We both are. For all of our earlier give-and-take, there’s only one issue on my mind now: the 2500 miles between us for the next four months. I have three more weeks of class before graduation. The premiere of School Pride is in LA the following week, with the associated whirlwind of red carpets and cast parties and Hollywood in its usual circus atmosphere. Mid-summer, I’ll begin filming my next movie here in New York. It’s a low-budget indie, which means fast and cheap and long hours with no time to fly to LA for a weekend.
Cassie loaned us hoodies, so we don’t have to huddle together for warmth, but I hold Emma’s hand, fingers laced, and she presses her thigh against mine and leans her head against my shoulder. Sighing, she stares out at the Manhattan Bridge view that keeps me from ever wanting to live anywhere but New York. The high-rise windows are thousands of tiny mirrors from this distance, the skyline lit in waves like a sun-drenched waterfall as rays strike each building. I wish I could hit replay on this five-minute span of time; it might be enough to tide me over for a while. But we reach the other side of the river and plunge underground, the fluorescent lighting casting everything with a sickly green tint.
Between the later hour and the hoodies, we won’t freeze now, walking around. There’s plenty to see in SoHo, even this early in the morning. Peering into wide-windowed galleries and tiny shops, we maneuver our way around street vendors setting up for the day—crowding onto the edges of sidewalks that will be jammed with people in an hour or two. Emma and I hunch together as though we live here and we’re just out getting breakfast, and I realize that this is what scares the hell out of me—I already want that with her. I want to be with her, absorb her into my life and have her absorb me into hers.
A conversation I had with Cassie years ago, soon after Zoe and I broke up, pushes into my consciousness. “I don’t understand what girls want,” I told her. From what I could tell, girls acted like they wanted declarations of undying love, but once they got them, those confessions were taken for granted. That, or you were rejected for being too clingy, dependent, or insecure—all words Zoe tossed out during the week leading up to the breakup.
“Girls expect you to love them forever, and they say they feel the same, but they really mean until I get bored with you.” I was well on my way to becoming a very bitter sixteen-year-old boy.