Page 37 of Between Here and There

“Resilience is overrated. It shouldn’t be rewarded. It should be condemned,” she grumbles. “No one has to be praised for making the most out of a shitty life.”

Her words feel like a truth that no one is allowed to say out loud. And maybe she’s right. Maybe resilience is just a word we slap onto people who’ve had to fight harder than they should’ve. Maybe it’s a consolation prize for surviving a storm no one should have to face in the first place.

“Emily,” I say, my voice steady but firm, “resilience is not just about making the most out of a shitty life. It’s about refusing to let the worst parts define you. It’s about surviving long enough to get to the good parts—parts you deserve. And you deserve them.”

She doesn’t respond right away, she just stares out the window, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to brush me off, maybe even lash out again. But then she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do I?”

The question is so quiet, so broken, that I want to stop this car and just hug her.

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation. “You do. And I don’t care if you can’t see it right now. You deserve every damn good thing coming your way. Not because you survived, but because of who you are.”

“What if the good things don’t come?”

“They will,” I say. “But if they don’t, I’ll make sure something better does.”

Her lips press together, and she blinks rapidly, as if trying to stop tears from falling. She doesn’t thank me, doesn’t argue, doesn’t say anything at all. But the silence feels different now—less like defeat and more like contemplation.

We arrive in front of her house, and I put the car to a stop. I look at her, and her eyes are droopy, but they’re still beautiful. She’s swallowed by my hoodie, and she smiles at me in the most adorable way.

We get out of the car, and I hold her hand to lead her to her place. But before I can move, she pulls me close to her. She looks at me intently, her brows furrowed and her eyes dark.

“Kiss me,” Emily says.

“W-what?” I stammer, thinking I heard wrong.

“Kiss me,” Emily repeats, her words clearer than before as she takes one step toward me. She’s gripping me tighter so I try my best to anchor us both to the ground, even when her words make me feel woozy.

“I’m not gonna kiss you when you’re drunk, Em. I’m notthatterrible,” I reply, my voice soft but firm, trying to keep the situation light. It’s not easy, especially with her standing this close, her breath warm against my skin.

Her pout deepens, and she sways slightly, her free hand reaching out to poke me in the chest. “Boooo,” she drawls, dragging out the word like a child denied dessert. “Why not?”

Before I can answer, her hands slide up my arms, trailing a path of heat that I feel even through my shirt. They settle at the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, tracing soft, lazy circles that make it so damn hard to keep it together. She takes another step closer, so close now that it takes everything in me not to pull her against me.

I exhale slowly, grounding myself, forcing calm into my voice. “Because,” I begin, injecting as much lightness as I can manage, “If I were to kiss you…” I pause, gently prying her hands away from my hair. Her fingers resist for just a second before yielding, and I hold them in mine, her skin soft and warm against my palms.

I meet her gaze, holding it steady, even though the way she’s looking at me makes my chest ache. “If I were to kiss you,” I repeat, my voice lower now, more serious, “I’d want every part of you—from your head to your toes—to remember exactly how good it feels.”

And because I can’t seem to help myself, I lift her hand and press my lips softly against her knuckles. “And you have to be sober for that,” I add.

Her breath catches, a tiny, audible hitch that sends a shiver down my spine. For a second, I think she understands, that maybe she isn’t as far gone as I thought. But then she tilts her head, brushing it off with a sly smile that makes my stomach twist.

“So, you’ll kiss me when I’m sober?” she asks, her voice teasing but her eyes heavy.

“How about you ask me when you’re sober?” I counter, keeping my voice steady, even as the weight of her gaze threatens to undo me.

“When I do, Josh-u-a” she says, emphasizing my name. There’s something in the way she says ‘when’, not ‘if’, that makes my heart skip. “Will you?”

For a moment, I’m silent. I want to make sure that I’m not breaking a rule or crossing a line here. But then, I realize that she’s too drunk to remember any of this in the morning, so I make my decision. I want to be honest, even if she forgets.

“In a heartbeat, Emily Rose,” I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I gently remove her hands from the back of my neck, holding them for a second longer than I probably should, before guiding her to the front door.

“Wait,” she shouts, her voice strained, almost panicked.

I glance down at her, raising an eyebrow, already bracing myself for whatever ridiculous request might follow. Is she going to demand I carry her? Another deep confession? But no request comes.

Instead, her face twists, a look of alarm spreading across her features.

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