Emilia

“Where are you going?” Mom stands over the sink, her back turned to me.

Surprised she’s still here, I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and take a seat at the kitchen table. Though I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, it’s hard to turn off that part of me that craves her attention.

“To Jen’s. Lucas hasn’t come around all week, so I want to check on him.”

“Hmm,” she considers as she turns off the water. Grabbing the kitchen towel from the counter, she dries her hands and turns to face me. “Is it true that he and that Becca girl broke up?”

“That’s the rumor.” Rumor because I’ve yet to hear it from him. “Has Aunt Jessa said anything?” Like the desperate girl that I am, I lean forward in my seat. To her, it probably seems like I’m eager for the answer to the question, when in fact, I’m just happy to have stumbled upon a topic that captures her attention.

“All she’s said is he’s not talking, and she doesn’t want to pry.” When she tosses the towel back onto the counter and leaves the kitchen, my face falls. From the foyer, I hear her yell, “I’m leaving. Your father will deal with everything else when he gets home.”

Of course, he will. Just like he does every night because my mother is never here. Why she feels the need to remind me only fuels my disappointment. I can’t understand why Daddy doesn’t speak up and remind her she has responsibilities here at home. Instead, we all do this dance where we pretend not to notice that she only comes for an hour or two in the mornings before turning around and leaving us again. I know it sounds like I’m angry at my father, but it isn’t that. I only wish he’d come right out and admit to me that their marriage is over. Or at the very least, it would be nice if he acknowledged that at this point, our family unit consists of only me and him.

“Okay,” I mumble under my breath, at the same time the door clicks shut. Why her lack of interest in my life still hurts is beyond me. You’d think I’d be relieved since it means I don’t have to constantly hear how I don’t measure up to the type of daughter she envisioned for herself.

Annoyed at the burning sensation behind my eyes, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Without thinking, I open the text message Lucas sent late last night.

“I’m fine.”

When I first read those two words, my stomach sank, and I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, worrying over how I’m going to fix this. 

Seven days. 

That’s how long it took him to respond to my calls and messages. Seven days of radio silence which, coincidently, started after that awkward moment at Amanda’s party. The last time we went this long without seeing one another was back in the seventh grade when he was hospitalized with the flu. It’s how I know that no matter what the text said, Lucas James Holt is anything but fine.

Sick of waiting for him to come to me, I grab what I need and head out the door. After a deep breath of the clean mountain air, I make my way down the front steps and start walking down the tree-lined street to where Jen and Lucas live a few blocks over. I make this trip half a dozen times a week, but today’s walk feels different since I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen when he finds me standing at his door.

I’m not one for confrontation and I’ve spent most of my life avoiding it or pretending not to notice when it’s happening around me. Unfortunately, the only thing I hate more than confrontation is knowing that someone I care about is angry with me. This is especially the case when that someone is Lucas.

In all the years I’ve known him, which happens to be my entire life, he’s never turned his back on me. That is, until that night, and while watching him walk away was difficult, his absence since then has hurt far worse. Each day that’s passed has been harder than the last, and now I’m at the point where I can’t sleep because my mind won’t stop replaying that horrible moment that changed everything.

I still don’t understand how I allowed it to happen. One second I was standing there laughing with my friends when suddenly the sight of his arms wrapped around Becca broke something inside of me. Even as my lungs failed to work and my eyes welled with tears, I couldn’t look away, and then he caught me. During my stupid, emotional breakdown, he saw what for years I’ve been trying to hide.

It was a massive screw-up on my part. Since realizing I have feelings for him, I’ve made it a point to keep it to myself. Not wanting to put any pressure on him, or to make him feel like I have any expectations because I know him. He’s the type of person who twists himself into knots to do what he deems is the right thing.

It’s an admirable trait and something I love about him, but he has this way of basing what is right on what’s best for everybody else. In this case, I could see him pushing me away. Putting distance and conditions around our friendship under the guise that staying away is the best way to protect me from a broken heart. 

Which is exactly what he’s doing now.

By the time I make it to his front door, I’m a mess. I’m sweating through my Green Day t-shirt, which ironically reads Boulevard of Broken Dreams. My heart is pounding in my chest and my stomach is doing aerial acrobatics in warning that I’m dangerously close to emptying the contents of my stomach. 

But I’m here.

Walking away and leaving things as they are isn’t an option.

Closing my eye, I raise a fist and quickly knock on his door several times. I know he’s home. I spoke to Jen this morning before she left for a hair appointment with her mom, and she told me he’d be here. I knew right then that this was my only chance to force him to talk to me.

My breath catches at the sound of movement on the other side of the door.

Oh god, oh god, oh god!

“Embree?” He peeks at me through the crack of the door. The subtle creases on the side of his face, along with his bedhead, make it obvious that I’ve woken him. Like clockwork, the butterflies in my stomach launch into kamikaze dive mode. “Uh, Jen’s out with my mom,” he tells me.

Though I can tell he’s not exactly thrilled to see me, he allows the door to swing open. The wrinkled white tee and crumpled creases on his basketball shorts are clear indications he got dressed in a hurry. Even so, he’s still the hottest boy I’ve ever seen, and it takes every bit of my self-control to not reach out and run my hands through the frizzy curls that fall over his eyes. Or to run my fingers down the center of his tight, wide chest that not even the wrinkles of his shirt can hide.

When my cheeks grow heated, I instantly regret where my thoughts have gone. Wrapping my arms around myself, I tell him, “I know. She told me. I’m here to talk to you.”

Unmoving, he stares at me. His sea-green eyes scan over my face like he’s searching for something, which only heightens my discomfort. The only reason I’m not crawling out of my skin with nerves is that I’m used to the way he’s always assessing me. Like I’m some puzzle, his strategic mind can’t help but want to solve. I think it’s how he always knows what I need. It’s yet another thing I love about him, at least most of the time. Right now, it just makes me feel so darn exposed.

After a few breaths, he puts me out of my misery and signals for me to come in. Without a word, he closes the door behind us and then turns, walking toward his kitchen.

Following, I cringe at the strange awkwardness that swirls between us. This isn’t us. It’s never been us, so to suddenly feel like this sends a pang of desperation that clogs up my throat.

“Lucas?” I force myself to do this now, for if I don’t, I may never get it out. “Can we talk? I mean, like really talk?”

He hesitates for a step before continuing to the counter, where he reaches up into the cabinet to grab a bowl. That he won’t look at me is unnerving. It makes me question if this is the right time for this conversation, but if there’s any hope of getting back to how things were, the sooner we resolve this the better.

“Sure…” his back is still to me when he leans down to grab the gallon of milk from the refrigerator.

That’s all he says, so I stand there in silence and watch as he pours himself a bowl of cereal, which he then starts to eat, all while his back is still to me.

“Lucas. Look at me.” My voice is thick with frustration. “Why won’t you look at me? Are you mad at me or something?” By the time I reach the word mad, I’ve lost all composure. As if shocked by the break in my voice, he turns. The instant our eyes meet my tears begin to flow and behind the blur, I see his features twist with regret.

“I’m not mad, Emb. I swear, we’re good.” Though his words are meant to reassure me, it’s his eyes that speak his truth. Plus, his body language is all wrong. His shoulders are stiff with apprehension, and missing is the confident, relaxed Lucas I’ve known all my life.

“You’re lying. Why are you lying to me, Luc? That’s not what we do…we don’t lie to one another.” I try to be strong and I fight back the sobs that want to break free, but those damn tears continue to flow even as I furiously wipe them away.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a whisper, his sad eyes tracking a tear as it slides down my face. “I’m going through some things, Emilia, and needed time to figure it all out.”

“Emilia? You called me by my name which tells me that not only is something wrong but that it has everything to do with me.” Unable to hold back any longer, the sob I’ve been fighting escapes. “You can’t shut me out like this, Lucas. You can’t just up and disappear without a word. I’m sorry about what happened at the party. I’m sorry you saw me like that, that I ruined things for you and Becca, and most of all, I’m sorry I ruined things between us. I need you, Lucas. I don’t know how to exist without you. You’re my best friend…”

Before I can finish my frantic tirade, he rushes to me. His desperation must match mine, for his powerful arms come around and pull me tight against his chest.

For the first time in seven days, I feel like I can finally breathe.