Page 33 of Beneath the Poet's House

“Come,” she says and pats the bed. Pluto jumps up, plops beside her, and purrs as she scratches his twitching ears. “Tonight, we will work on getting to know one another better. This bed has your name all over it. As does the armchair in the office. And the couch downstairs.”

Pluto purrs more deeply and shuts his eyes. Still scratching him with one hand, Saoirse reaches for her phone. There are five unread messages, all from Lucretia:

Heeeey.

Where you at?

Helloooo ... sorry to be a pain, but I’m dying to hear what went on yesterday.

You better be dead and writing poetry with Sarah for how long it’s been without answering me.

IF YOU’RE NOT DEAD I’M GOING TO KILL YOU MYSELF.

Saoirse thumbs the cursor into place at the bottom of the screen and quickly taps out a message:

I’m SO sorry. I owe you an explanation, to be certain. I’m not too keen on leaving Pluto alone again ... want to come over and I’ll tell you everything?

The response comes a moment later:

Sure. But I’m with Roberto and Mia. Lol. Can they come too?

Saoirse is surprised by the lack of aversion she feels at the thought of having additional company. She must be less depressed than usual, to be fine with more than one human encounter in a single day.Or wanting to distract myself from whether Emmit will call.

She writes:

Are you hungry? There’s a Thai place down the road I’ve been meaning to try. We can order take-out.

Lucretia responds:

Sounds great! See you in twenty.

Saoirse stands and checks herself in the mirror. She looks like she spent the day in bed. She looks hungover. She chugs a glass of water and forces herself into the shower. By the time she dresses and walks downstairs, she feels better. She scrolls through the Thai menu online but can’t focus. She’s too busy wondering how she’s going to tell her friends she spent the night—and the entire next day—with Emmit Powell.

Her phone buzzes, and she checks it, thinking it will be Lucretia telling her they’re here, until she remembers Lucretia doesn’t carry her phone with her. Emmit’s name, which he saved in her phone before leaving, parades across the screen.

A flutter of excitement turns her hands shaky.I cannot let myself get this flustered over a man I just met.The counterthought comes instantly:I’m allowed to. I deserve to have a little fun, to have a man fawn over me. No, to have a man treat me like an equal.

And that was it, when it came right down to it. Over the entirety of the twenty-four hours she and Emmit spent together, it wasn’t the lust with which he kissed her, the way he stared into her eyes, or the way he moaned her name in bed. It was that he listened. Cared about her ideas. Felt she had something worthwhile to write about. To say. For all his remarkable insight and brilliance, he felt her ideas were as worthwhile as his own.

And not subject to erasure as their connection to one another deepened.

The phone is still ringing, and she swipes to answer it, eyeing the door as if her friends might come bursting through without knocking.

“Hi.”

“Hi there,” Emmit says, and the sound of his voice is both familiar and surprising in a way that makes her body ache. “What are you doing?”

“I’m—” she pauses.Thinking about you?She can’t say that. “Just trying to decide what to have for dinner.”

“I could help with that decision,” he says, “if you wanted some company.”

A bolt of longing crackles through her. “That sounds amazing,” she says. “And I would have loved to see you, but I already have company. Or I’m about to.”

There’s a moment of silence. Emmit says quietly, “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Is there disappointment in his voice? Or something more? It can’t be jealousy. Can it?

“It’s those friends I was telling you about. Roberto, Lucretia, and Mia. We’re getting Thai food and hanging out.”

“Could you cancel?”

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