Page 76 of Breaking Emily's Rules
“Misdiagnosis.”
“Yeah, they thought he had Irritable Bowel Syndrome when what he really had was colon cancer. And by the time he got the right diagnosis…”
“Too late,” I finished his sentence. “I’m sorry. So the bag was to help get out your frustrations?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. Better than knocking out the doctors. Or the wall.”
I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He’d shared more with me in those few minutes than he had in the month or so I’d known him.
“But what does this have to do with me?”
“You need this.”
“Me? You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve never punched anything in my life. I was taught to use my words.”
“Listen, I don’t want to hear about any more nights like the other night on Bertha. And by the way, who calls a bull Bertha?”
“The previous owner named her. It was supposed to be funny.”
“It’s not.” He touched the bag. “This is a lot safer for you than Bertha.”
Aw, he was worried about me. Concerned I might go getting myself injured falling off Bertha. He had a solid point. “Don’t worry. I won’t do that again. You’d be there to stop me anyway. Right?”
He didn’t make eye contact. “Yeah, I forgot to tell you. My sister has agreed to sell the flight school to my buyer. So, I should be all wrapped up in town pretty soon. The house goes on the market on Monday.”
“Oh. Good.” Now it all made sense. He was leaving, and I’d inspired such overwhelming confidence in the man that he thought he had to make sure I’d be all right without him.
“I still have some time. I just don’t know how much.”
“I’ll be all right, you know.” I’d never expected forever with him. He was supposed to be Mr. Right Now. And apparently he felt some guilt that maybe he’d taken advantage of poor, innocent Emily when I’d known exactly what I was getting into.
“I know.”
But I wasn’t sure he did, dammit. It was my idea to have no-strings sex and I’d done it. “This was my idea, if you remember.”
“How could I forget?”
“And I don’t need your stupid bag.” I swiped at it with the back of my hand.
He glanced from the bag to me. “That was pathetic.”
“I wasn’t trying!”
“No kidding.” He came up behind me. “Put your hands into fists and then swing.”
“I can’t do that.” I pushed back into him, rubbing my butt into his groin. We were wasting valuable time in this dusty, drafty old garage.
He groaned. “Hit the damn bag, Emily. Pretend it’s your ex. Or your former friend.”
“My God, Stone, I can’t hit a pregnant woman.”
“It’s abag.”
I gave him a long look. “Why do you want me to do this again?”
“I know a little bit about anger. And I think you’ve been angry for a while. With your ex, with your old friend, with yourself. Maybe even with me. Keeping it inside isn’t going to help. Believe me.”
He might be right. When I stayed in my loft all those months, Grammy left many an article sitting on the counter, wide open to the page she wanted me to read. One of the articles was titled “Anger and Depression in Women.”
