Page 77 of Emmett
“Happy new year,” I say as the ball drops and I tip the beverage into my mouth. Green apple pre-workout doesn’t quite have the same effect as champagne, but sitting alone in a gym on New Year’s Eve doesn’t necessarily have the same effect as being at a party, either.
Unlocking my phone, I’m met with a text from Rowan, including a selfie of her and my dad sitting on the couch together, the two of them wearing matching smiles. Virtual confetti pours from the top of the screen as it opens.
Ro:Happy new year!!!
Me:Happy new year.
Me:Thanks for not sending a pic kissing my dad.
I probably should have gone to Davis’s party tonight, or even gone over to hang out with Ro until Dad got home, but I wanted to be by myself, as pathetic as that sounds. I’ve been okay; my hand is healed and I got myself out of the spiral that I was headed for, but I didn’t want to be around all of those people. I’m not in the mood for a random hookup and I definitely don’t want to watch everyone around me pair off to kiss each other and make their promises for the new year.
I give the weight bench behind me an appreciative pat before taking the plates off and putting them back onto their rack. I’ve made an effort to get back in here more often since I went drinking with Davis, because as much as I hate to admit it, he was right; I had lost weight. I hadn’t realized until he’d mentioned it just how much looser my pants were sitting at my hips or how much more room there was in my shirts. So any time that I think about Nash or Anna, I make myself come here.
I’m here a lot, and almost always after hours, because no one bothers me. Last week, someone snapped a bunch of photos of me and tried to sell them back to me – to which I replied, ‘Go ahead and post them.Make sure you tag me.’
I haven’t been back during business hours since, though, because I might hit someone if one more person asks me if Fowler Enterprise will be opening a winery to compete with Montgomery Estate. The answer is no, and we don’t care about it because we aren’t in the wine business. No, we aren’t competing with him. No, I don’t give a shit that he named his wine ‘black rose’ like the ones that he sent me months ago or like the single flower that is left sitting and crumbling to pieces in my dresser.
Okay, maybe I do.
I scrub a hand through my hair with a heavy sigh and toss my phone into my gym bag. I should get out of here.
THIRTY-TWO
Emmett
“Come on,” I say, patting the bed next to me. “It’s cold out there.”
With great effort, the four-month-old yellow lab on the floor leaps, her little back legs flopping behind her as she lands halfway on the bed. I reach behind her and help to lift the rest of her body up, and she buries herself underneath the blankets to press her small, fluffy frame against mine for warmth.
I brought Clover home a week ago, and she’s been so good to have around. I had been trying to fill my time – and the void left somewhere inside of me – with meaningless sex and a couple of first dates that never turned into second ones.
I needed something else. Finding Clover was a late night doom-scrolling accident; I really wasn’t in the market for a dog, but I’m glad that I found this one.
Pulling the covers up over both of our heads, I pull her closer so I can get warmer. I could get out of bed and turn the heater up, but as soon as I lift the blankets, the winter air will rush underneath them and they’ll lose their almost-perfect warmth.
I must fall back asleep, because I’m ripped from a dream by the sound of my doorbell ringing a mile a goddamn minute. I throw the blankets off of me, met with a blast of cold air that rushes in to bite at my skin.
Pulling my favorite hoodie from the top of my dresser, I slip it over my head and make my way down the hall to open the door.
“What the hell are you guys doing here?” I laugh, looking at my family standing in the doorway.
“Bad word,” Macie scolds, pointing an accusatory finger at me as she shoves past me and into the house.
Dad files in past me next, stopping to lean close to my ear. “Don’t let her corner you,” he whispers. “She’s trying to set you up again.”
Rowan is singlehandedly responsible for the handful of dates that I’ve been on over the course of the past month. She’s taken me on as her little pet project and is determined to ‘help me find love again.’ I gave it a solid effort at first, but none of them could compare to Nash. No one, man or woman, has been able to make me feel…they just haven’t been right.
They’ll never be right, because they aren’t him.
In the kitchen, I grab a glass and a can of soda for the kid, and I put on a pot of coffee for the adults. Ro sidles up next to me, reaching into the cabinet next to me for three mugs.
“You still miss your mystery man,” she says, using her head to gesture toward the bracelet clasped around my wrist.
“Of course I do.” I reach for the carafe and pour a generous amount of coffee into each of the mugs.
“Well,” she muses, reaching for one of the mugs and blowing off the heat on the surface, “you could call one of your dates back and actuallyseethem again.”
Shaking my head, I say, “No, I think I should probably just be on my own for a while.”