Page 113 of Summertime Friends

I open the door while her fist is mid-pull back to knock again.

Emerson barges past me. “Cal gave me your address.”

She’s pacing back and forth in the living room.

“You are going to burn a hole in the floor,” I tease her.

“What do you mean only if I actually want an us? You. . . you. . . you don’t know what I want.”

I walk toward her slowly, using the cautious steps you’d use to approach a wild animal. Her eyes are wild, and her chest moves up and down wildly.

“You’re right, I don’t.” I take another cautious step toward her. “But I know what I want.”

“And that warrants your ability to make decisions about us? That what you want is more important.”

“No.” I shake my head at her.

I take another cautious step. Emerson backs up a step.

“Why did you say that?”

I take a deep breath.

How she looks at me makes it evident that I could call my departure a lapse of judgment and take her any way I’d like—get my fix and figure it out later. But there’s something inside of me—in my brain and heart—that feels like they are teaming up against me and forcing me to do the right thing. What even is the right thing?

“I want you, trust me, that’s not a problem. I want you so much that it makes me mad, but I want us more.” I cover 80 percent of the remaining space between us. Leaving enough distance for me to look at her without the ability for either of us to reach out and touch each other. I want to touch her, but that wouldn’t be logical at the moment. At least, that’s what I tell myself. “That’s why I found you two weeks ago on your run and kissed you.”

She blinks a million times. She does this sometimes when she’s thinking and wants to get rid of whatever those thoughts are.

“Don’t bury your thoughts. Tell me. What do you want, Emerson?” I say to her.

“You,” she whispers.

“That’s not enough. What do you want, Emerson?”

“Us.” She stands taller and rolls her shoulders back. Emerson stares straight at me. “I want us. I want to be together.”

A sweet symphony to my ears.

The remaining distance between us is gone.

My hands are in her hair, kissing her.

“I like this dress,” I say, gazing down at her. My hands move up and down her body.

“It looks better off,” Emerson says without skipping a beat.

“Good, take it off,” I command. Dropping my hands from her body.

Holding my eyes, she reaches to the center of her chest where the zipper is, pulling the small metal tab down the dress. The dress opens and drops to the ground.

There’s nothing underneath it. No bra. No panties. Only silky skin.

I release a cool exhale as my eyes roam her body. It breezes over her breasts, causing her nipples to harden.

Emerson is gorgeous. And she’s mine. I’m hers. We’re each others.

Emerson bends down to take off her heels.

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