But there was worry there too. And maybe a little disappointment.
I broke off another piece of donut, smiling when he reached for a napkin and laid it in my lap.
“Thanks, Mom,” I told him.
“Can’t have you making a mess.” He picked up my hand and nipped at my glaze-covered fingertip.
“You bit me,” I said on a laugh.
“Just a little one.”
He released my hand, and I issued a stern command to the racing organ in my chest currently trying to bust past my ribs.
“I don’t want to cry at work,” I admitted. “And if I talk about it right now, I will.”
He considered that, finally opting for a slow nod. “You’re okay, though?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” I took the last bite of donut, sucking at the glaze left behind. His eyes tracked the movement hungrily. “But my family needs me, and I want to be there for them.”
“I get it,” he said.
And I knew he did. But that didn’t remove the edge of frustration from the whole exchange.
Emmett’s jaw ticked, that delicious muscle popping at the hard line of his jaw.
“I wish,” he started, then paused with eyes closed, seemingly reconsidering what he was going to say.
I moved my hand to cup his face. “I know.”
His brow furrowed as he opened his eyes. “No, you don’t,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I can’t say any of the things in my head right now because it will only make things harder for you. For us.”
I wanted him to, though.
And I didn’t.
If he said the things in his head, it would be so much harder to leave. And I’d be put in a position where I had to choose where to shift my focus.
The fact that he understood that is what made him so damn irresistible.
“We just … we have shit timing, Emmett.” I shrugged. “We always have.”
He stood from the chair, hands on his hips, and paced away from where I sat. Frustration was stamped over his entire frame, in the way he held his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
Timing of my life.
My family’s.
Emmett’s.
I didn’t know how to reconcile any of it. He wouldn’t be a sort-of boyfriend. He was so much more.
And more was the thing I couldn’t handle.
Emmett
If I thought my family was bad about NFL games, I was wrong.
There was a whole new level of Ward family competitiveness that emerged from a very unlikely source—my niece’s soccer game.
Molly’s daughter Luna （currently at striker） and Isabel’s daughter Willa （playing defense） were on the same rec soccer team—seven-and eight-year-old girls—and I almost moved to the other team’s sidelines so that I wasn’t associated with the people I was related to.
It was tied four-four, and the minutes were winding down to the final whistle.
There was no goalie at the Under Eight level, the point was to teach the kids the basic position and ball handling, but that did not stop my family.
They were screaming and yelling like it was the World fucking Cup, and I slowly edged about four feet away from Isabel when she and Anya yelled for a foul to be called.
Isabel snagged my arm and dragged me back toward them. “Where do you think you’re going?”