Page 2 of Hooked on Emerson
He shook his head as her laughter followed him back to his truck.
By the time he rolled down Main Street, it was just past noon. Millfield moved at its usual pace—slow, familiar, unhurried. Mason stood outside the café, chalking the day’s special onto the sandwich board. A box of impatiens sat on the sidewalk outside Bloom & Vine, their petals open wide like they had nothing to hide.
His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Krysta.
He let it ring twice before he picked up. “Hey.”
“You’re not busy, are you?”
“I’m always busy.”
“Good. Then you can spare thirty minutes for a stranger photo shoot tomorrow.”
He blinked. “A what now?”
“It’s for Natalie Figueroa’s project. She’s pairing strangers for candid portraits. Exploring human connection or something poetic like that.”
“Why me?”
“Because everyone else is busy or allergic to cameras. And because you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For not deleting your dating profile like you swore you would.”
“I never used it.”
“Exactly,” she said, triumphant. “You need to try something outside your wood-and-nails comfort zone. Just thirty minutes. Community center. Ten a.m. I’ll owe you pie.”
He considered arguing. Then didn’t. “Fine.”
“Bless you. And wear something that doesn’t smell like sawdust.”
She hung up before he could ask what, exactly, she meant by that.
That night, Emerson sat on his back porch with a plate of reheated lasagna and the unfinished birdhouse beside him. The creek behind the property murmured softly, and a breeze stirred the lavender he’d planted just last month—more out of curiosity than intent. He watched the shadows lengthen across the yard, purple light catching the edge of the grass. The lavender swaying gently in a light breeze.
He finished his meal, wiped his hands on a folded napkin, then carried the birdhouse into the workshop. He ran his fingers along the edge of the roof, where the grain was just beginning to splinter. It would need a gentle sanding.
Better to focus on what he could build.
Still, his mind tugged at the thought of tomorrow—of standing beside a stranger in front of a camera, being looked at, seen.
Not something he was used to.
Not something he liked.
But he’d said yes.
And Emerson Reed never went back on his word.
Emerson stood outside the community center, watching people stream through the glass doors. Teenagers with earbuds dangling, mothers steering strollers with one hand while balancing coffee with the other, elderly couples with matching windbreakers. He tugged at the collar of his button-down shirt, the unfamiliar sensation making him feel like an impostor in his own skin.
He’d chosen a blue shirt—not navy, but something lighter that Krysta had once said matched his eyes. The fabric felt stiff against his shoulders, barely worn. He’d found it pushed to the back of his closet, still bearing the creases from its last ironing, smelling faintly of cedar from the storage block he’d built last winter.
A gust of wind ruffled his carefully combed hair, and he resisted the urge to run his hand through it. Better to lookpresentable for once, even if it felt like wearing someone else’s life.
“You actually came.” Krysta appeared beside him, her smile wide as the sky above them. “And you’re wearing something that doesn’t have paint splatter or sawdust on it. I’m actually impressed.”
