Page 87 of The Summer I Destroyed You

I laugh. “I guess that’s a no.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and starts to rub moisturizer into her long, bare legs. I glance at my watch, wondering if I can afford to be late to the first jobsite, though I know I can’t. But there’s something about the way that she runs her hands over her legs that makes me really wish I could.

“It’s been a while. Not a lot of hiking in New York City.”

“And by a while, we’re talking…”

“Eighteen years.”

“Let’s hike before you leave.”

“You’re pushing it,” she replies. But she’s smiling as she walks into my closet.

Emmy thinks I’m doing her a favor by letting her stay here, but I’m the one who wants this. Even if I only get to experience a few weeks of what life with her would be like, even if it’s going to really fucking hurt to let her go…I want those two weeks.

I’ll take that handful of weeks with her and hold them inside me forever.

* * *

That night, her last one here for several days, we make dinner together. I think I’m crazy about every version of her, but this one is my favorite: Em, barefoot, hair in a ponytail, sitting on a counter laughing and doing very little to assist but freely providing direction.

“I smell something burning,” she says, her lips still pressed to the rim of her wine glass.

“Maybe you should learn to cook since you’re so good at noticing what I’m doing wrong.”

She smiles. “I’ll get right on that as soon as I stop making four times your salary. On second thought, I will learn to cook after I get back. How would you feel about a nice bowl of rooster soup? Or rooster parmigiana?”

I laugh, taking the wine glass from her hand as I push her legs apart and step between them. “I respect the fact that you’re willing to take on a domestic skill only if it also involves murdering a living thing first.”

She leans close. “You love it. But you’re right. I don’t need cooking as an excuse. I’m just gonna kill that fucking rooster.”

She’s right. I do love it. And I’m going to miss her so much when this is done.

After we’ve cleaned up dinner, she pulls out her laptop to start working again.

“Don’t you ever relax?” I ask.

She frowns. “We just had dinner. That was my relaxation. And you could stand to relax a little less, if we’re offering advice. I haven’t seen you do a damn thing to get ready for the hearing on Lucas Hall.”

“I’m not sure there’s a point,” I counter. “I could do nothing but work on getting ready for the hearing, but I can’t buy the mayor a park. I can’t bribe town council members.”

Her shoulders sag. “You could run a grassroots campaign arguing your side. Explain to town residents what a massive apartment complex will do to traffic patterns and the environment and town values, and that a rise in property values will make it difficult, if not impossible, to ever buy a home or rent a storefront here again.”

“I imagine it’s too late for that.” Though that’s not the real reason I haven’t done something along those lines.

“I’m sorry,” she says, closing her laptop. “Might I interest you in an apology blow job?”

I laugh. “Eventually you might need to find something to offer as an apology other than sex acts.”

“So that’s a no?” she asks.

I tug her to her feet. “Of course not. I just want to make sure you come up with something else if you ever have to apologize to Damien Ellis.”

42

EMMY

Liam and I talk on the phone for hours every night while I’m in Nashville.

---