Page 93 of Things I Overshared
Suddenly I think I might be sick, so the cool air feels amazing on my skin as we step out onto the back porch. The pool is much bigger than I thought. Beyond what I could see from the living room, it juts off at an angle to wrap around the left side of the house with a resort-style hot tub off to one side and loungers evenly spaced along the deck. It’s like a resort. Emerson takes me around toward the right, though, where I can hear his brothers cutting up.
After we turn a corner, we enter a huge outdoor room, which is walled in on two sides, but open to the air, with large ceiling fans. In the middle of the covered space is a Ping-Pong table, shuffleboard, cornhole, big outdoor Jenga blocks, and some plush outdoor seating that’s probably more expensive and more comfortable than my furniture back in New York . . . or Oklahoma.
Emerson squeezes my hand. “Want something to drink?” His brothers have beers, and Layla and Chelsea—oh, she’s out here too—have champagne. I look up at him, wondering if a headache pulses behind those ice-blue eyes.
“Are you going to have something?”
“Some Pellegrino,” he answers softly.
“That sounds good, thanks.” Sparkling water is a much smarter option after all the wine I sucked down to survive that minefield of a dinner.
“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Chelsea speaks to me as her eyes watch my boyf—I mean, Emerson’s—fine StairMaster backside walk toward the house.
“He is,” I agree, giving her a bit of side-eye.
“Sorry, about tonight, my parents . . . they hoped I could fix my mistake, tell him I was wrong. Anyway, I’m sorry for the intrusion.”
“It’s all right.” I shrug. “So, you’ve changed your mind, then?” I ask, pretending I have a clue what happened so she’ll spill some details.
“I have. I couldn’t get past it before, his . . . shortcomings, but I . . . I was young and honestly, an idiot.”
She sighs, and I hold in a scoff and mutter, “No argument there.” I look away from her and try to hold in my anger.
Shortcomings? Did she seriously just say that? What, because he’s not Mr. Charmer like her dad and William the Snake? So he has headaches and needs quiet and is too blunt. Everyone has baggage. I’m sure hers is a complete set, from toiletry bag, to carry-on, to an ugly, overstuffed, strained-zippers, check-on monstrosity, just like the rest of us.
If Evelyn looks at her son like he’s damaged, and his long-lost love couldn’t overcome his “shortcomings,” it’s no wonder he thinks he can’t be with me. But I don’t see him that way. He’s not some wounded teenager nursing a headache to me. He has to know that. I have to show him that.
When he comes back around the corner with our bottled waters, I stalk up to him with a smile. I want to plant a solid kiss on his lips, and I can see he’s confused as I approach. But I’m not kissing him first. I have a shred of dignity left, for now.
Instead, I grab my bottle from his hand and put both arms up around his neck, reaching on my tiptoes. I shove into him a little bit, arriving faster than I mean to, and he steadies himself, then wraps his arms around my waist. I settle for a slightly open-mouthed kiss below his ear. I feel him freeze completely around me, so I do it again.
“Thanks, boyfriend,” I say in his ear, and then I hop down from my toes and turn quickly, facing his brothers playing shuffleboard. I can feel Chelsea’s eyes on Emerson, then me, as I cross over to the side of the long, fancy-looking polished wood. I see Chelsea join Layla on the couch out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if they’re friends, if Layla is on Team Chelsea too, and get a bit flustered. I shake my head.It doesn’t matter! None of this is real, remember?
“Couldn’t have a pool table?” I call back to my fake boyfriend with a wide smile.
“Apologies.” He grins as he slides up beside me.
“What, bit of a pool shark?” Ben asks as he takes a shot.
“She is, and she’ll con anyone she can with her hidden talent,” Emerson answers with a shake of his head.
“Who, me?” I bat my eyelashes, and he actually lets out a chuckle while wrapping his arm around my waist.
Best.
Night.
Ever.
“What about darts, then? That too?” Byron motions over their shoulders.
“Nope.” I sigh. “Not good at darts.”
“Come, let’s see it.” Emerson’s voice is playful as he pulls me off to the side.
“Really, I’ve played, like, twice in my life and tequila was involved.”
“Tequila can be arranged!” Joe yells from the far side of the Ping-Pong table, where he’s playing Peter.
