Page 53 of Things I Overshared
Emerson’s hand lands on my elbow as soon as I say it. Before I can hardly blink, I’m in the back of the car that’s already pulling away. Charlie gives us an awkward greeting, feeling the tension fill the cab of his car like a visible cloud.
I am vibrating with rage. Who does he think he is? It was harmless flirting, but he’s acting as if I stripped naked and danced with a pool cue on top of the felt table. I’m shaking my head and muttering under my breath, my head spinning from the shame and the beer. Emerson sighs that sigh. That’s the last one I can take.
“Charlie, does this car have a partition thingy that goes up?”
“It doesn’t, I’m afraid.”
“Might want to invest,” Emerson mutters so softly I barely catch it. I glare at him before turning back to Charlie.
“Well, sorry for this. Actually, no, you know what? It’s fine. Emerson here has nothing to hide, right, boss?”
“Miss—” Emerson tries to calm me.
“No! Don’t even. We’re doing this. It’s one thing to be treated like a child, when I am twenty-six damn years old and, I don’t know, um, have planned this entire trip from top to bottom? Uh, know what we’re doing here back and forward in my sleep? You know damn well you could give me a pop quiz on the whole freaking Canton empire right now, and I’d have all the answers. So don’t treat me like you are Mr. High-and-Mighty, deigning to play babysitter,Mr. Clark.”
“I—”
“Not even close to finished, Frosty. Not even close.”
“Frosty,” he echoes softly.
“I mean, without me on this trip, we would besunk! Canton Cards could just go ahead and close its doors.” I turn to Charlie. “Seriously, can you imagine being wined and dined by this guy? We’d lose every account!”
I turn back to Emerson, who is holding his head in his hand.
“What you saw back there was harmless flirting, and you know it. You’re completely overreacting. Why, I don’t know. Maybe because of my name, because you’re Adam’s friend and you have a big-brother complex going on? Doesn’t matter—you have no right to scold me or to freaking cock block me, if I’m being honest.”
Charlie breaks into a fit of coughs.
“We should—”
“Seriously.” I stop him from stopping me again. “Even if I wanted to ride Thomas like the dadgum Underground, that is none of your business, Emerson. None. People hook up at work events all the time—it’s not a big deal. And again, that’sifI even wanted that, which is not what it means when a woman simply flirts with someone. Maybe no one flirts with you, so you don’t know. I get that.”
I let out a growl of frustration. “Ughhrrrr! Of course women don’t flirt with you! You’re so freaking intimidating. It’s infuriating! I get so nervous with you, and I never get nervous! Never! You’re just another person!
“I guess I thought it was really hot for a long time—your eyes, when you stare at people, the whole pensive thing, I did, but now I realize quiet and brooding doesn’t always mean introverted and misunderstood. Sometimes broody guys who seem like assholes are just—wait for it,you guessed it, everybody—big ole assholes.”
Charlie has turned the music up in the front of the car, and Emerson’s jaw is so tight, I wonder if a man can break his own jaw from biting and grinding like he does. And if they can? Serves him right, I think, but my mouth is already way past my brain. And its volume is set to maximum.
“And you know what else? If you’re going to be a big ole anus on the inside, why can’t you look like steaming crap on the outside? Why do you have to be all beautiful and muscular like that? It’s unsettling, honestly. Are you a vampire? Pretty and mysterious to draw women in, then kill them with some bloodsucking comment?” I go into imitation mode suddenly, half surprising myself. “‘It doesn’t suit you. You’d eat him alive. You gonna give him that Canton quality assurance?’” I gasp, feeling myself starting to shake again remembering our last conversation. “And that’s really it. Beyond all of that, how dare you call me a whore? For some innocent flirting? Or even if I did want to get it on with a colleague? Where do you get off, Emerson? Ha! I guess youget offwith Miranda, who must be as cold and as cruel as you. Congratulations to the two of you. But as for me, you can go ahead, admit it, you think I’m some kind of slut.”
“I—”
“Don’t! Don’t deny it. Just don’t say anything to me again ever. I tried to be your friend. I did. I’m done. If we’re not working, leave me the hell alone.”
He doesn’t respond. Tears fall down my face as I stay turned toward the window, but I at least hold in any sniffs or sobs. I’m sure they both know I’m crying, but silent tears are fine as long as they don’t devolve into snotting and wailing.
It’s a long, frigid walk from the car to our suite. Emerson stares at me, but I don’t look to read his facial expression. In the elevator, he makes the start of some sound, but I hold up my hand and shake my head. It takes all my strength to keep it together. When we get through the door, I can feel Emerson walk behind me for a step, ready to try to say something again, but I almost run to my room.
I shut the door, go to the closet, flip the light, shut the closet door behind me, and let it rain. I shake with sobs.Shit shit shit!I overshared so much tonight. It’s washing over me now, the vulnerability hangover. I grab my head in my hands and sob.
People have called me a whore before. Men have said I was a slut; women have called me a bimbo. Even if reality is almost the opposite, people just assume. Once a flirt, always a hoebag. It’s so unfair. Still, why do I care if Emerson joins their ranks? What is wrong with me right now? When have I been so overtaken by what someone thinks, when he’s not even right?
Other people’s opinions of me are not my concern. His thoughts about me are out of my control. He still doesn’t even really know me. Enough. Enough of this. Emerson is my coworker, who thinks lowly of me. Okay. Fine. Let him think what he wants.
As soon as I’ve gathered my resolve and stepped out of my closet, I hear my phone.
Emerson: Can we talk?
