Page 69 of The Emerson Effect
I don’t want to lose it. Not like this. And not when we’ve barely just begun.
“Emerson? You ready?” she calls out, and I take a deep breath before rolling my suitcase out of the room.
We head out to the parking structure and deposit our luggage into our cars. Then we walk to a little café next to the casino. We bypass the mimosas, for obvious reasons, and opt for tall glasses of ice water, coffees, and thick, greasy, bacon, egg, and cheese croissant sandwiches to help ease our hangovers.
I watch Twila as she mixes cream and sugar into her coffee. Her color looks better than it did this morning, but her expression is still vacant. She’s obviously lost in thought, and I decide to stay quiet until she gets her feelings sorted out and is ready to talk.
When she finishes fixing up her coffee and takes a long sip, she finally meets my eyes. I offer her a nervous smile, but her face remains blank.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, and she frowns.
“For what?”
“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t ordered those margaritas…” I say, letting the words trail off.
She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. I do blame the tequila, though. Devil’s poison.”
“But––”
She cuts me off with another shake of her head. “We are both at fault, equally. You ordered the margaritas, and we both drank them. I ordered the shots, and we both drank those, too. Hell, if you need to blame someone, blame that damn bachelorette party. I’m starting to get flashes of memories, and I’m pretty sure they plied us with liquor before convincing us to get married, then paid for the ride to the chapel.”
“Seriously?” I ask, my eyebrows hiked up in surprise.
“Seriously,” she says. “I don’t remember everything, but Idoremember them pressuring us. Saying our fans would love it. That we owed it to everyone to give them anHEA.”
“HEA?” I ask, confused.
“Happily ever after,” she clarifies with a groan.
“So, what do we do now?” I ask, but her response is cut off when our food arrives.
We both take a few bites before she answers. “Okay, hear me out.”
“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word.
“I think we should stay married. At least, for a while,” she says, shocking the ever-living hell out of me.
“You do?”
“Yeah,” she confirms with a nod. “We’ve worked really hard to build this romance. Thisbrand. We can’t let one questionable decision ruin it for us.”
Her use of the word “questionable,” rather than “bad” or some equally negative descriptor intrigues me.
“I agree,” I say, and this time, it’s her turn to look shocked.
“Okay,” she says, her expression settling. “So…do you want to move in with me?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” I say, holding up my palms. “That’s a little sudden, not to mention,forward, don’t you think?”
“Sure it is,husband,” she says with a chuckle before tossing her balled up straw paper at me. “But seriously, you should. It would be weird if I came to you when I own my house, and you rent with three roommates. Would it be hard for you to leave L.A. for a while? If it is, we’ll figure something else out.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’d be moving across the country, or anything.”
“Then it’s settled,” she says. “You’ll come stay with me. We can post a series of videos of us trying our hands at domestic married life, and when it doesn’t work out, we can split amicably and truthfully say we’ll always be friends.”
That part about splitting up leaves a sour feeling in my stomach. Or maybe it’s last night’s tequila still fermenting in there. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. But I agree, nonetheless.
“It’s a good plan,” I say softly, and Twila smiles.
