Page 8 of When We Were Young

I pause in the doorway, staring at the shape of her. I’ve got the heat cranked up in the house, because the cats are upstairs, and Emma’s taken her jumper off, draped it over the back of the sofa, so now I can really see her. Her blouse is fitted, and it suits her. Draws my gaze to her breasts and the curves of her hips. Her jeans are tight.

I want to touch her again. I want my hands on her and—

And I realize what she’s looking at: Grandmother and Celine and me.

I jolt. “We’re not together anymore.” I swallow hastily. “She... She left me six months ago.” I stride forward, hand her the pink mug before I drop it, then rub my right ear and swallow awkwardly. “I should’ve taken down the photos, but Grandmother...” I stare at my tea, the steam swirling above the mug. “We’d just taken her to the aquarium. It was the last trip before the... She really enjoyed that day. You can see it in her face, can’t you? That spark. She rarely likes photos, but she liked that one, told me to have it up in my house, so she could be with me. She meant it as a joke, but then she...”

I stop. How can I say it? I swallow hard, then clear my throat. It’s a nervous habit, one Grandmother always commented on.

I glance up at Emma. “Sorry.”

But I can’t keep looking at her. I look away, so I don’t see if she nods or shakes her head, and she doesn’t give a verbal answer. I focus on the tea, take two big gulps that burn the roof of my mouth.

The photo album is on the television stand, where I put it when I showed Emma in here before disappearing to make the tea. It’s a new TV stand, one Celine bought but didn’t want when she moved out. She had everything arranged when she dropped the bombshell on me. She told me she was leaving, that we didn’t love each other—just said it so matter-of-factly—and gave me a list of the furniture she wanted. She’d been planning it a while. But I got the TV stand. No TV though. But that’s okay, because the photo album is there now. My parents are there.

When I turn back, Emma’s still standing. I nod toward the sofa, and she takes a seat, and so do I—next to her. And maybe this isn’t a good idea, but she looks so good, and I’m remembering it all, feeling it all.

Emma’s underneath me, moaning softly. She lifts her back up, arching against me, and there’s lust in her eyes.

I growl as I kiss her harder and harder.

“I think we were too young.” Emma’s voice startles me.

I turn to look at her, and she’s blinking too quickly. She’s nervous. But she’s thinking about us—and I’m thinking about us.

“We were young,” I say. “What were we? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

I nod, because I don’t know what to say, and this reunion is harder than I thought it would be. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited her in, made it more awkward.

But I did invite her in, and Grandmother always said that things happen for a reason.

We do things because we’re meant to do them.

And Emma’s here.

MyEmma.

I breathe deeply, feel a little dizzy.

I was crazy to let her go last time.

I shouldn’t have—and it was stupid. So stupid. Because I loved her, loved her in a way I’ve never loved anyone else. Ever since we broke up, she’s been a shadow in my heart.

Apparently, I said Emma’s name in my sleep more than once after Celine and I moved in here.

That’s the reason she left, ultimately. Because she didn’t want to compete with my first love.

And how can anyone compete with Emma or with what we had?

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