Page 62 of Summertime Friends

Emerson takes a big drink of her wine, finishing it entirely.

“I was thirteen when he left. A year later, he remarried someone else. She has two kids, a boy my age and a girl four years younger. So, I guess I lied. I do have siblings if you count them, but I don’t have a relationship with them. My dad didn’t want custody of me.” I’ll never understand how a parent couldn’t want their child. Even in my parents’ divorce and estranged relationship with my dad, they both loved and wanted me. “Mom’s lawyer was the one to negotiate—force him into one weekend every other month and split holidays. His new wife had split custody of her kids and coordinated it perfectly. I was never there at the same time. Only a handful of weekends and some holidays in the five years crossed over.”

“How is your relationship with your dad?”

Emerson laughs. “You think I have daddy issues, don’t you?”

“Should I?” I give her a concerned but puzzled look.

“No—both of my parents messed me up.”Oh.

“Dad left, and Mom went into shambles. She tried, but she didn’t know how to function without him. Mom first blamed herself until she discovered he was dating and the woman had kids. That’s when she blamed me. Snide remarks here and there. Sarcastic jokes and little jabs that made sure I felt like I was the reason he left—that if I was a better daughter, then he would have loved me enough and wouldn’t have needed not just one new kid, but two.”

We both take a deep breath. Emerson’s words knocked the breath away from me.

“Nat was the one who picked me up every time I cried,” Emerson continues. “Her family let me come over for dinner or stay with them when Mom couldn’t get it together enough. She became my family then. It took years for my mom to come around, but she did—sort of. She half-assed apologized. Our relationship is courteous now, but I can’t help feeling that I lost out on fundamentals. That all of it affected me more than I’ve come to terms with.”

Yeah, her childhood affected her. She’s a people pleaser—and I think she knows it even though she does it subconsciously—who doesn’t believe in love. I can see it in how she talks about her friend and why she always asks what I want. Emerson doesn’t think she’s good enough for anyone and believes she has to be a chameleon of their happiness to make them stay and love her.

I wish she knew that isn’t true.

I properly fancy her for her.

“I used to love fairytales as a kid,” she says.

“Is that why you can’t remove your nose from books, and we’ve been to—” I count on my fingers all the bookstores we’ve had to go to. “Elevenbookstores?”

Nudging my shoulder playfully, Emerson smiles at me, and that’s all I want right now. I know she doesn’t enjoy talking about this, and I can see her drifting into herself.

“Yes.” Her smile fades. “After my parents split, I hated them. Hated the idea of happily ever after. Everything about them felt like a lie. But that grew tiring—hating them so much. I might not believe in love, but I enjoy escaping my reality into worlds where it’s safe to believe in it. Places and stories that allow you to be someone that is enough to deserve a relentless, written in the stars, type of love.”

My eyes are watery. I keep blinking to keep them at bay, but all I can do is feel the weight of her confession on my shoulders.

How can someone this wonderful feel so much distaste? How is it possible for her to never feel enough?

“Wow.” Emerson covers her face with her hands. “I did not mean to say all of that. To think you only asked about my parents. You probably think I’m messed up in the head, that it’s no surprise no one loves her.”

“You’re wrong.” I move her hands from her face, holding them in one hand. I hold her chin in the other, forcing her to look at me. “You are so easy to love, Emerson. I’m sorry no one has ever made you feel that waybefore.” Before me because I don’t want her ever to think that she isn’t enough for me.

I let go of her hands. Without thinking, I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning in to kiss her. I might not be in love with her—yet—but I can show her love. A love she’s always deserved, a love that is real and does exist.

She kisses me back. Her bottom lip coming between mine. Its glorious fullness tempts me to bite down on it. Emerson lets out a soft moan before opening her mouth to all of me, letting my tongue roam into her mouth.

It’s a cascade of small kisses till we’re making out in front of the Eiffel Tower. It doesn’t stop as we move closer together, and myhands grip the back of her head. I hold her to me because I never want to leave—leave this position, leave this place, leavethis girl.

I don’t know who pulls away first, but we do.

“One last flip? Whoever it lands on, the night is theirs to decide,” Emerson asks.

Ideas are already running through my head: how to show her all the ways that she is capable of being loved—and how to get back into this position.

“The entire night?”

“Yes?” She stares at me, puzzled.

“Hand me the coin, aye. I’ll flip.” I take the coin that is in her palm.

I flip the coin, purposely dropping it to the grass. I quickly reach for it before she can. I don’t want Emerson to call it.

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