Page 57 of Beneath the Poet's House

Emmit expels a puff of air. “I needed to see you tonight. More than I ever have before. It was urgent.”

“Are you okay?” she asks, then regrets it. She has a feeling she knows what this is, and it unnerves her. The wrongness surrounding him has been growing since the moment Lucretia turned over those three cards. No, her dread has been growing for much, much longer than that.How have I been so blind to who Emmit Powell is?But even as she poses the question, she knows the answer. Because she wanted to be blind. Wanted to be swept off her feet. After years with Jonathan, worrying about nothing but self-preservation, she wanted to be reckless. To believe herself the princess in the fairy tale, destined for her happily ever after, when all along, she’s been the ill-fated maiden in a poem penned by Poe.

You are a scarred oak,Jonathan whispers, as if her own thoughts aren’t damning enough.And lightning is always drawn to a tree that’s been leveled once already.

“I’mokay,” Emmit says, interrupting the voices in her head, “but my manuscript is not. I’ve lost my way with it. I’ve lost my way because I’ve lost my way with you.”

His tone worms under Saoirse’s skin. It’s not just the lack of emotion but a lack of concernfor her emotions. A blatant disregard for the guilt trip he’s attempting to lay on her, even after what she just went through with Aidan. And she can’t help but worry that Emmit is exhibiting this behavior in increasingly frightening regularity as he discovers he can’t bend her to his will, can’t get her to do exactly what he wants.

You know that tone,Jonathan says.It’s been a while since you’ve heard it, but you know it all the same. It’s the dehumanizing one. The one that says my whims are more important than your personhood.

“Emmit,” she says slowly, as if speaking to a coyote she’s stumbled across on a trail and is trying to back away from, unscathed, “I really am tired. It’s been a long day. A long week. I’m shaken up over what just happened, and I want to go to bed. I’m sorry your writing isn’t going well right now. But I’m sure things will improve.”

Emmit stamps his foot. “But I was with you when the idea came to me. I was with you, talking with you, when everything solidified. I need to stay with you, stay close to you, to keep the momentum going. That much is obvious, don’t you think?” Emmit pauses. “I haven’t told you this yet, but now I have to. You know how I requested an extension? Mypublisher didn’t take it well. Not at all. They’ve threatened legal action if I don’t deliver this book by the agreed-upon deadline.”

This is certainly unexpected. Emmit is his publisher’s golden boy. Piper Kirby’s words come back to her—I have to star out part of his name, otherwise I’ll be contacted by the legal dept. of his publishing house again with another cease and desist!Might they be sick of dealing with Emmit? Despite this thought, the reflex to give Emmit what he wants flutters through her.

But just as quickly, it’s replaced by rage so sharp she tastes it. It’s the same dead-earth taste of leaves she felt in her mouth when she arrived in Providence. The rot of something that had once been beautiful. She is not married to this man. Not literally, not figuratively. “That’s not my problem,” she says, and the words are a flush of cold water, driving out the awful taste.

“Not your problem?” Emmit’s face drains of color before two small splotches appear in his cheeks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Saoirse shuts her eyes. “It means exactly what I said. Your manuscript is not due tomorrow, threats of legal action or not. It’s midnight. My late husband’s best friend just broke into my house. I told you I need sleep. Your next line is, ‘Good night, Saoirse.’”

There’s an extended silence. The red splotches in his cheeks grow darker. Then, in a voice so low and rough, it sounds more like a growl, Emmit says, “This isn’t like you.”

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t like you. Blowing me off? Being sarcastic? Your job is to support me.”

“My job?” Saoirse balls her hands into fists to keep from shouting. “You know what, Emmit, that’s the problem. You say, ‘This isn’t like me.’That’s because you don’t know me.Not really. We’ve had sex. We bared our souls to one another. But we’ve been seeing each other for a week. Aweek.” She sighs. “I’m done, Emmit.We’redone here.” She resists the urge to turn her back on him right there and run up the stairs.

“Done?” Emmit’s voice is shrill. “What do you mean, done?”

“I mean—” Panic ripples through her. Is she ending the first thing that’s made her feel whole in as long as she can remember? That thing that’s made her feel undamaged? Worthwhile? That writing, that life, is worth living?

She closes her eyes again, hard. She thinks of her new friends, eccentric as they might be, and of her diabetic cat. Maybe she’s no more damaged than they are. Maybe it’s time to see past the illusion, the magical thinking, the temptation. To turn away from the shards of glass raining down into her eyes.

“What I mean, Emmit,” she starts again, renewed confidence in her voice, “is that we’re not going to see each other anymore.”

Emmit’s hands fly up to either side. “No. No, Saoirse, no, don’t say that.” It’s a command, but it’s the old Emmit saying it, the sweet one. The one who warmed her at the front of the restaurant on their first, impromptu date. The one whose half smiles make her weak with longing. The one who would never say something as enraging asYour job is to support me.

But she will no longer listen to this man, who slips on personas as easily as choosing poems from an endless volume of verse. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I had hoped this was something different. But I won’t lose myself again. I—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows. “I can’t,” she finishes. Then, more forcefully, she says, “Maybe you’re losing yourself too. You missed work. We broke into a house. I’m drinking too much. We took drugs together. Now, this.” She gestures between them. “The way you’re speaking to me. No. It all ends here. Tonight.”

“You can’t do this,” Emmit says and reaches for her.

She pulls back. “Ican. And the fact that you’re saying I can’t makes me all the surer I’m making the right decision.”

“No. No, Saoirse, we have something here. Please. You must feel it. I know you feel it. We’re meant for each other. We make each other better.”

“Do we? Or are you using me to make yourself better?”

“You and I ... this is ... supernatural in its rightness. We are following in the footsteps of Poe and Whitman, literally and figuratively: walking where they walked, feeding off the echo of their artistic energy, their carnal energy. It’s like their spirits have possessed us, have elevated us, and you want to sever that connection?”

Saoirse sets her jaw. “If that’s how you want to frame things, then think of this as our moment in the alcove of the Athenæum, the moment in which Sarah discovered Poe’s drinking and called off their wedding.” Her tone is harsh and full of finality. “Goodbye, Emmit.” She unlocks the front door and holds it open. To her surprise, though he opens his mouth to speak again, he says nothing and walks out the door. Slowly, Saoirse shuts the door, locks it, and walks, like a woman in a trance, to the living room, where she collapses onto the settee.

Pluto jumps up onto the arm and tilts his head. She focuses on him, his little face. Studies the way the length of his whiskers varies so she doesn’t have to think about everything that has just occurred. She stands and walks to the kitchen. Forcing herself to abandon thoughts of Emmit and Aidan, she prepares a dose of insulin then gathers the glucometer, test strips, lancing device, and cotton ball. Back in the living room, the brilliant colors of the Zuber panels smear into one another, and she blinks away tears.

“Sorry, little guy,” she says to Pluto as she uses the lancing device to prick a vein in his ear. He doesn’t flinch, just closes his eyes, tolerating the routine procedure. A moment later, the glucometer displays a reading that renders the insulin dose unnecessary. It’s silly, but this makes her feel a little better. That Pluto is settling in so well and his condition is stable is a far greater achievement than some whirlwind relationship with a narcissistic writer. She scoops Pluto up. Holding a cotton ball against the inside of his ear, she walks toward the hallway, wanting nothing more than to climb into bed.

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