Page 10

CHAPTER 9

EMERSON

I don’t own sweatpants, but I feel fine in my regular black outfit, especially when Gunnar emerges from his bedroom in black sweats and some kind of sports jersey. I think it’s a soccer one this time. He grins and points at me with a banana he grabs from the counter. “You ready for the antlers? Time to get pranced.”

I groan. “You need to stop with the weird jokes.”

“You love it,” he says, opening the door and gesturing for me to exit first. He locks up the apartment, and I walk beside him toward the stairs, thinking that I genuinely enjoy his sense of humor. He’s so easygoing. It’s really refreshing to spend time with someone who has nothing to hide. Even though Gunnar claims he has everything to prove, he still manages to exude confidence and comfort.

“When are we getting you driving lessons, wife?” Gunnar gestures between his giant SUV and his sleek sports car. I shrug and point at the smaller car, which he unlocks and opens my door before I can get there.

“You’re going to exhaust yourself always trying to do that.” I huff and climb inside.

“I’ve got pro-athlete stamina, Emerson. Never.” He hops into his seat and brings the engine purring to life. Gunnar hums along to the radio as he exits the parking garage, explaining that we are going to his aunt and uncle’s house on the city's north side. “Uncle Thatcher is an artist, and Aunt Emma is an author, so their loft is extremely cool. Do you remember which little Stags are theirs?”

I nod my head. “Wes, his girlfriend is Cara. Both are pro soccer players. And Ricky…prefers to be called Rick. Still figuring shit out.” I quote Gunnar’s family summary with a smile on my face.

“You’re good at this,” Gunnar says, patting my knee before gripping the wheel to make a tight turn and rapid merge into four lanes of traffic.

“I, um, don’t think I want to learn to drive in this kind of place.” I gesture at all the signs whizzing past, the vehicles zooming past the sports stadiums and casino, along the winding river.

He hums, smiling. “I’ll just have to haul you around myself then, won’t I?”

After the mall last night, Gunnar and I talked about appearances. It makes sense that we should touch one another, and it wasn’t until we mentioned it out loud that I realized how natural it feels to have him drape an arm around me sometimes or place a hand on the small of my back when he ushers me through a doorway. I can’t tell if he’s just being gentlemanly or if Gunnar just … clicks with my body somehow. I did not mention any of this to him or bring up my utter lack of sexual experience. I just agreed that he should, of course, squeeze my shoulder at the table and that I can tousle his shaggy curls if there’s a lull in conversation.

I’m less comfortable thinking of his family researching mine. My parents and brother are easily searchable, too. But I suppose there’s nothing to be done about the Stag family’s perception of my family’s online persona.

Gunnar parks outside a house that does indeed look cool. He squeezes my hand as he opens the front door and guides me up the steps to the living room. Turning his face toward the stairs, he shouts, “Yo, we’re here. There better still be bacon.”

I’m hit with a wall of sound as we enter a vast open room with high ceilings, windows overlooking the river, and a giant television mounted above a sofa big enough for fifteen large, athletic men. All of whom are yelling at the screen until they turn and greet Gunnar with sound effects.

A man with Gunnar’s face pops up from the sofa and hurries over to us, and I stiffen, realizing that I’m going to be meeting Ty Stag, the father my husband was so worried about disappointing.

“Gunny!” The man’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a smile taking up his entire face from neck to hairline, where some gray streaks only enhance his good looks.

“Are they here? Oh my god.” I hear a woman’s voice from another room and turn to see a dark-haired, statuesque woman in a soccer jersey and leggings rushing toward us. “You must be Emerson.” She stops in front of me, looking like she was about to wrap her arms around me but held herself back.

I wave. “Hi, Mrs. Stag. I am glad to meet you finally.”

“Mrs. Stag? Ha! That’s my sister-in-law.” She grins and reaches for my hand, squeezing in both of hers. “I kept my name. Juniper Jones. You can call me Juniper, though.”

“Quit hogging her, JJ,” says Gunnar’s dad, who has one giant arm around Gunnar and swats at his wife with the other. When Juniper releases my hand, he scoops it up and squeezes gently. “Tyrion Stag. Ty. Or you can call me Dad.”

Juniper hits him in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t listen to him. Call him anything you want, dear. We are just so excited to know you better.”

Her eyes are wet, like she might cry, and Ty kisses her on the cheek. He ruffles Gunnar’s hair. “Gunny, you did so good, buddy. She’s wonderful.”

I bite my lip, not sure how to respond to this greeting. I’m rescued from my awkwardness by the door opening and someone else rushing into the house. “Am I late? Did I miss them?”

A woman climbs up the steps and beams. Her arms are full, but she drops her packages and pulls me in for a massive hug. “Oh, it’s so good to have another woman here.” She pulls back enough to look into my eyes but keeps her strong hands on my arms. “I’m Cara. I go with Wes. This place is a total sausage fest apart from the moms.” She winks at Juniper, who laughs.

I remember Cara is a professional soccer player, and I am on the verge of feeling intimidated again when the living room crew bellows at the television. I glance around Gunnar and Ty to see a soccer game on, and a player with MOYER on his shirt is about to kick the ball at the goalkeeper. “Ooh,” Cara whispers to me. “Wyatt’s about to take a penalty. Hang on.” I’m silent as the entire collection of gathered Stags stares at the screen. Wyatt takes a few steps back from the ball, then shuffles toward it, kicks it, and runs around screaming when it goes into the back of the net past the keeper’s outstretched hands.

“That’s my boy!” A slender man hops to his feet, pumping his fists. While the room at large cheers, Cara taps my shoulder.

“Here,” she says. “I brought you these so you would be ready.” I see that she’s holding a pile of athletic shirts. There’s a soccer jersey that matches the one Gunnar is currently wearing, another one in black and gold, and then hockey jerseys in both black and white that say STAG on the back.

“These are for me?”

She nods. “You’ll need them! Gunnar wasn’t sure of your size, so sorry if they don’t fit.”

I’m deeply worried she’s about to hand me tiny shirts, but I sigh in relief when I notice the XL tags. Cara rummages through the stack in her arms for a maroon jersey that says MOYER, like the athlete on the television, who I remember is Gunnar’s cousin Wyatt. Cara stuffs the bundle of shirts into my arms. “Suit up, and let’s get to the kitchen before these monsters eat all the food.”

I pull on the jersey, which matches the one almost everyone else is wearing, and carry the stack with me as I follow Cara. We walk through a sunny dining room with a massive table into a spacious kitchen where a group of women drinks from champagne flutes.

“Oh, hello, you must be Emerson. Here, set those in a cubby.” A woman with red hair takes the bundle from my arms and tucks it into a cubby by the door, where a pile of purses is heaped in a casual way that somehow sets me at ease. “Now,” she continues. “Do you want the alcohol mimosa or the fizzy La Croix alternative?”

“Gosh, the mocktail sounds really good right now, actually.”

I’m handed a drink, and Cara takes on the job of introducing me around the room. “Okay, Emerson, that was Emma, goes with Thatcher.”

I nod. “Wes and Rick’s mom.”

Emma beams. “Gunnar filled you in!”

Cara snorts. “I bet he did. Anyway, that’s Alice, Lucy, and you already met Juniper, right?”

Within minutes, the ladies are all sitting on stools around the kitchen island sipping fizzy drinks and tasting tiny bites of incredible food that Gunnar’s chef-aunt Alice prepared. It’s hard not to talk with my mouth full as each bite blossoms in my mouth like a celebration of flavor and texture. “I can’t believe you did all this with just eggs and cheese, Alice. You are so talented.”

“Why, thank you, dear. I’ve had lots of practice with this bunch.”

At the mention of her family, they all seem to come into the kitchen at once, so I’m guessing the game ended. I’m soon lost in the din of happy people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company, all eating little quiche bites, nuts, and breakfast meats as they stand.

Gunnar slides up behind my stool and presses a hand to the back of my neck, thumb rubbing soothingly as he dips his head low to ask, “You doing okay in here?”

I’m not pretending in the slightest when I grin at him. “I am fantastic.”

He reaches toward my plate as if he’s going to snatch the last bite of French toast, and I smack the back of his hand in a move that has his parents grinning. One of his brothers whoops. “Give him hell, Emerson.”

I know Gunnar thinks he needs me to maintain some sort of public image, but honestly, I feel like I lucked into the deal of the century getting to tag along and be part of all this.

Emma eventually suggests we all relocate to the table so we can sit and talk more comfortably, and I make the mistake of checking my phone as I walk toward the dining room. I notice a series of increasingly angry messages from my father, asking when I’m going to stop this farce and come home for my audition.

DAD

Your mother can't show her face at the Met anymore. I hope you're satisfied with yourself.

DAD

Do you know how many young women would kill for the opportunity you're throwing away? You're not just disappointing me. You're taking someone else's chance.

DAD

I’ve told the symphony board you suffered a mental breakdown and are away seeking treatment. Your violin audition slot has been postponed for 30 days. When you're done with this tantrum, it's waiting for you. It's the only thing waiting for you.

I exhale a shaky breath and slide the phone back in my pocket, before taking a seat by a man who has never once spoken to me that way.