Page 4 of Hooked on Emerson
Emerson approached slowly, giving Ava time to finish. Up close, he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the slighttightness around her mouth when she smiled at Nattie. Her nails were short, practical, with tiny traces of green around the edges—working hands.
"Ava, this is Emerson," Nattie said, gesturing between them like a referee at a boxing match. "Emerson, Ava."
"Hi," Ava said, her voice quiet but clear, reminding him of water flowing over stones in a shallow creek.
"Morning," he replied, suddenly aware of his hands. Where did people normally put their hands when they weren't holding tools? They hung awkwardly at his sides, too large and too empty.
"I'm going to have you both stand facing each other," Nattie instructed, positioning them with light touches to their shoulders and elbows. "Just about a foot apart. Perfect."
They stood awkwardly, neither making eye contact. Emerson studied the floor—polished wood that needed refinishing near the edges. He could feel Ava's presence across from him, like standing near a heater you couldn't see.
"So," Nattie said, stepping back, camera raised, "the whole point of this project is exploring connection between strangers. I want to capture something authentic. Just be yourselves."
Emerson glanced at Ava, who looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Her fingers twisted at the hem of her dress, the fabric bunching and releasing in a nervous rhythm.
"Maybe we should introduce ourselves properly," she suggested, her voice soft but steady. "I'm Ava. I run the flower shop on Main."
"Emerson. I fix things around town." He winced inwardly at how basic that sounded.
A small smile flickered across her face, not reaching her eyes but softening them. "What kinds of things?"
"Doors, windows, leaky pipes. Loose boards." He shrugged, feeling the shirt pull across his shoulders. "Anything broken, really."
She nodded, and for a moment, something wistful crossed her expression, a shadow passing over her features like clouds over the sun. "Must be satisfying. Fixing what's broken."
The words felt heavy, as if she were speaking of more than door hinges and cracked windowpanes. Before he could respond, Nattie stepped forward, breaking the moment.
"That's good. Now, could you both turn slightly toward the light? And Emerson, maybe put your hand on her shoulder? Just lightly."
He hesitated, then carefully placed his palm on Ava's shoulder. The fabric of her dress was soft beneath his callused hand, warm from her skin. He felt her tense slightly, a barely perceptible tightening of muscle, then relax, as if she'd reminded herself to breathe.
"Perfect," Nattie said, the camera's shutter clicking in rapid succession. "Now, Ava, look up at him. Like you're about to tell him a secret."
Ava tilted her face up, her eyes meeting his. This close, he could see flecks of amber in her brown irises, the faint constellation of freckles across her nose that hadn't been visible from a distance. Something shifted in the air between them—not electricity, nothing so dramatic, but a quieter current, like the moment before rainfall when the air changes pressure.
"Have you two really never met?" Nattie asked, adjusting her lens with a practiced twist. "Millfield isn't that big."
"I don't buy flowers," Emerson said simply, immediately regretting how blunt it sounded.
"And I don't usually need repairs," Ava added, but there was a catch in her voice that made him wonder. Her gaze dropped for a moment, then returned to his face with renewed composure.
"Well, you're naturals together," Nattie said, circling them like a documentary filmmaker. "Now, I want you to stand back-to-back."
They shifted positions, turning away from each other. Emerson could feel the warmth of Ava's back against his, the gentle pressure of her shoulder blades through his shirt. She was shorter than him by several inches, her head reaching just below his shoulders. He resisted the urge to lean into the contact, to let his weight rest against hers.
"Now, slowly turn your heads to look at each other," Nattie instructed.
As they turned, their faces came close—too close. Emerson could smell the faint scent of lavender in Ava's hair, could see the slight tremble in her lips. For a moment, neither breathed. He noticed a tiny scar near her temple, pale against her skin, the kind that comes from childhood adventures.
"Perfect," Nattie whispered, the camera clicking rapidly. "Now, I want you to face each other again, but this time, hold hands."
They turned, and Emerson extended his hands palm up, an offering. Ava placed her hands in his after a moment's hesitation. Her hands were smaller than his, but not delicate. He felt calluses on her palms—working hands, like his. Flower stems and thorns instead of wood and metal, but hands that knew effort and purpose.
"How long have you had the shop?" he asked, trying to fill the silence that hummed between them. His voice came out lower than he'd intended.
Her eyes clouded, the amber flecks disappearing into darkness. "It was my mother's. I took over recently."
The way she said "recently" told him everything he needed to know. Loss lived in that word, grief wrapped around those three syllables like ivy around a fence post.
