Page 114 of Things I Overshared
“Oh, I didn’t want him to. Of course, I mean, I couldn’t. Seeing him up at the Sky Garden was bad enough. The poor man was positively neon green, and we almost had thatif you throw up,I’ll throw upthing going with the hurling sounds and—”
“Angel.” Emerson squeezes my leg under the table, leaning into my ear. “What’s that thing you always say?”
“Zip it and skip it?” I mutter.
“Yes, Love. That.” he says through gritted teeth.
Love.
He said love.
“Mhmm.”
“Wait.” Ben grows excited. “Is our boy here afraid of heights?”
He squeezes my thigh again to snap me back to reality. “No! Uh, no, not really. He just had an upset tummy that day and then again in Paris and said he had errands to run, so I wasn’t going to stand between a man and his bathroom needs, you know?” Emerson sighs as I realize going from real fear to fake diarrhea was probably a bad choice. “But! He was actually sneaking off to get this for me. He’s a romantic that way.” His brothers eye him sheepishly, not buying what I’m selling. So I push out my chest to them with a twirl of my hands that is ridiculous. “Really, he’s a softy. Look, the charms are this trip—very sentimental.”
Emerson starts choking on his white wine and stands. “All right, Dad, didn’t you say you had things for us to discuss?”
“Uh, quite.” His dad stands too, shocked by all the revelations I accidentally spilled. The two men start to leave the room, but Ben calls out.
“You can run, but we all know the truth now: you have emotions after all, ya big sap!”
I groan.That’s a big fat fail as a buffer, Samantha!
Emerson and his father join us about half an hour later when the desserts arrive at the table. He is stiffer than usual. He doesn’t eat any of the amazing, sweet concoctions, of course, but I try a tiny bit of each. Really, I’m just trying to keep my mouth shut. I am successful for at least fifteen minutes.Keep it up!
“All right, poppet, time for a nap,” Layla tells her daughter as the staff clears the plates from the table.
“Awww, can Uncle Emmy and Aunt Sammy read me my story?”
Aunt Sammy. I fight the world’s biggest, cheesiest smile.
“Oh, I’m sure they don’t want to do that.”
“We’d love to.” I stand, eager to escape the table.
“All right,” Layla concedes. “ First go to the loo, darling, then you can come fetch them, all right?”
“Yes!” Abigail jumps in glee with a fist up in the air. I laugh and turn to see Emerson’s blinding full smile again.
_________
“Uncle Emmyyyy, you have to do the voices!” Abigail cries with a giggle. We are crammed together into a twin bed, complete with a draped mosquito net decked out in lace and twinkle lights, in what I’ve learned isher very own room at Grammy’s house.
We are reading aLlama Llamabook, and Abigail adorably decides Emerson must read Llama’s whiny lines, and I must read for the narrator and Llama’s Mama.
“But Mamaaaaa, I don’twannago to the store!” Emerson reads in a high-pitched whiny voice that immediately sets Abigail and me into a fit of belly laughs. “Do you two mind? I’m reading here,” Emerson scolds, pretending to be serious. He whines as Llama again. “The store is boooorrrriiiinnnngggg!”
It’s just entirely too much. Abigail and I both grab our stomachs, in pain from laughing so hard. My ovaries are exploding as fast as the tears escape down the sides of my face. We somehow calm ourselves enough to finish the short book.
“That was hilarious!” Abigail says in her adorable accent.
“Tell anyone of this, and die, niece,” he warns gruffly. He gets up and helps me climb over her and out of the bed.
“Bye, Uncle Emmy,” she says, then raises her arms up for a hug.
“Sleep tight,” he whispers, then hugs her and kisses her head.
