Page 80 of The Emerson Effect
I panicked, and I’m still panicking.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to marry my fake BingBang boyfriend. I wasn’t supposed to fall into bed with him again and again, all while letting his sweet pillow talk go to my head.
And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to fall head over heels for him.Fuck.
FORTY-SIX
Emerson
For something that was never supposed to be real, I sure feel like I’m losing Twila in bits and pieces. She’s been distant for the last few days, but not in any way that’s obvious. She’s been happy, smiling, eager to have fun and make content. She’s affectionate, yet somehow distant, like she’s put up a transparent wall between us. I can’t see it, but I sure as hell can feel it.
The only time that wall comes down is when we have sex, which she seems even more eager for than before, if that’s possible. She craves me like she’s going to lose me and wants to fill a box with as many experiences and memories as possible before the inevitable happens. And I suppose she’s right to do so.
Our splitisinevitable, isn’t it?
We fucked up when we got drunk and married each other in Vegas. It was never supposed to happen, and this “relationship” was only supposed to last as long as it benefitted us both. She’s probably pulling away because she’s realized my feelings havegotten involved. She’s a good person, and she doesn’t want me to be hurt when this whole thing is over.
Well…too fucking late. I’ve fallen for her, and I’m going to be hurt when it ends, no matter how many walls she erects between us, now.
We’re leaving for L.A. in an hour so we can spend a few days in my hometown. So we can shoot some footage of Twila getting to know my friends. Of her immersing herself into my world, for a change.
All of our videos in Grenville and San Diego have done extremely well, and we both thought switching it up to a new locale would make it fresh. Plus, I miss Ritchie and the twins. It’ll be good to see them.
Mom and Kennedy are dying to meet Twila, too. They know the truth––I don’t lie to them––but they’re still chomping at the bit to get to know her. I played it off to Twila like Mom made it mandatory, but honestly? I’m excited for them to meet her. And for her to see where I come from and why I’ve doneallof this.
When I finish packing, I find Twila waiting for me in the living room. She’s smiling widely and even bouncing on the balls of her feet as I roll my suitcase toward her.
“Ready?” she asks, sounding a bit breathless.
“Yeah. Are you?” I shoot back, lacing the question with a touch of sarcasm that makes her chuckle.
The distance she’s maintained for the last three days seems to evaporate as she grabs my wrist and drags me toward the door, saying, “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve been waiting forages.”
She’s been waiting for exactly four minutes, but I don’t correct her. I don’t want to do or say anything that will extinguish the light shining in her eyes. I won’t make her feel self-conscious for being excited about this trip. I can’t.
I stow our bags in the trunk of my car while Twila climbs in on the passenger’s side. I balk for a second over not having opened the door for her, but let the disappointment drift away when I realize she couldn’t wait for me to do it. She’s too excited.
As we drive up the five toward San Clemente, Twila points at the old San Onofre nuclear plant and chirps, “Boobies!”
I laugh, and she rewards me with a bright smile. Pretty much everyone who drives on this stretch of the five says that as they pass the plant. The twin domes with cylindrical tips atop them really do look like giant concrete boobs.
“Might not be able to say that for much longer,” I say, and Twila’s smile drops.
“Why not?”
I point towards the plant as we draw nearer. “It’s been decommissioned for over a decade, and they’re tearing it down.”
Her face twitches like she can’t decide whether she should be sad, or not. I relate to the feeling. I mean, sure, taking down a nuclear plant so close to the Pacific is a good thing for the environment, but passing “the boobs” on this particular stretch of freeway is a bit of an institution.
After we pass the deconstruction zone, I reach over and place a hand over Twila’s on her thigh. “Want to stop in San Clemente for ice cream?”
“What kind of question is that?” she asks, brightening. “Of course, I do.”
I smile at her and put my hand back on the steering wheel. I’m not disappointed that she didn’t grab ahold of it as I tried to pull away. Really, I’m not.
I know this cute little shop that serves homemade ice cream, and it’s right off the freeway, so I exit and make my way there. Twila is all smiles as we head inside and peruse the options. We both order cones with two scoops, and we film ourselves trading cones so we can taste the other’s flavor. Twila ends up with asmudge of my blueberry cheesecake chunk on her top lip, and I don’t even think before I lean in and kiss it off.
Twila’s eyes widen with a flare of shock. We aren’t filming anymore, after all. But she recovers quickly, words flowing a mile a minute as she talks about how she’ll edit the video with other footage and still shots for BingBang.
