I had a few meetings with Molly and Paige in the house where Emmett grew up.
Every time I saw his picture on the fridge, every time they made a casual reference to a conversation they had with him that week, hairline cracks spread over my composure.
And the times they mentioned him were frequent.
Did you see the picture he texted Isabel yesterday? Dolphins swimming when he was on a run at the beach. She and Aiden may try to go visit for a long weekend before the season starts.
He is spoiling the kids rotten. He sent Luna that monstrous dollhouse for her birthday, and he bought Asher the new PlayStation. I swear, when he has kids someday, payback will be a bitch.
Woke up to a text today. Just that he loves me and misses me. What twenty-six-year-old sends that to his mom? I swear, I don’t play favorites with you five, but he’s winning this week.
They didn’t know what each little nugget of information did to me, because how would they?
In a family as big as his, it was easy to get lost, especially as the youngest. It was something I understood well. But Emmett took care of his family in so many ways, and I wasn’t even sure they could see it. It was thoughtful gifts and perfectly timed texts.
Every time he came up in conversation, every time his face popped up on a TV screen or my social media feed, I felt those cracks spread a little further. A little deeper.
A clueless pundit behind a desk would mention his name, unaware that some girl in Seattle lay in bed and played her night with him over and over and over. It was those nights when I’d wrestle against the impulse to reach out. Not just because I missed the physical aspect of what we’d done, because it was getting harder and harder to lie to myself that a night with Emmett was enough for me.
But still, even knowing that it was so much deeper than one night, I’d end up sliding my hand beneath my sleep shorts until sweat beaded on my forehead, my eyes pinched shut while I remembered the way he moved between my legs and the expert way he pulled pleasure from my body.
It was hollow. Every time, I was left feeling just a little emptier.
On my next visit home, Greer found me sitting on the swings.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, taking a seat on the one next to me.
“Be more specific.”
She shook her head. “Call him. Text him. Something.”
I pinched my eyes shut. “It’s been over three months, Greer. I’m the one who told him I didn’t want anything. I can’t … I don’t blame him for giving me space.”
“And that made sense at the time,” she said gently. “You are allowed to change your mind about what you’re ready for.”
Her words knocked over a few well-placed bricks.
“I know.” My voice was quiet, but my heart was roaring in my chest. “And what am I supposed to say? Let’s do a FaceTime date with all the excessive free time we have?”
She didn’t argue with me, just reached her hand out and took mine. After a few minutes, we went back inside the house to help with dinner.
Tim was watching SportsCenter, and I ignored the way my mom and Poppy studied my face when the subject switched—yet again—to Emmett.
Rumblings of change in Ft. Lauderdale? Reports coming out of Florida today are that the new owner can’t wait to start negotiations on Emmett Ward’s contract, even though the extension on that contract doesn’t expire for another two seasons. It looks like the Golden Boy of the beach is getting an entire team built around his impressive arm, but some of those changes have industry insiders scratching their heads. Veteran players traded for flashy draft picks, and an inflated contract that would decimate anything signed by his contemporaries. Not to mention the strain it would put on Ft. Lauderdale’s tenuous salary cap. We’re not saying Ward isn’t worth a few extra zeroes, but unless he’s going to be there for the next decade? Might be a huge gamble by someone very new to taking the reins of a team.