Page 27 of Resisting the Temptation (Broken Shelves #3)

Emma

I cried myself to sleep last night after debriefing Jordy on what was going on with my grandpa. They told me they’d try to make sure they were available to go to Utah with me for the funeral, but I assured them I’d be fine if they couldn’t.

I fucking hate funerals. I hate death. I’ve experienced far too much of it in my twenty-seven years, and I just want a fucking break.

Growing up, the Mormon church taught me that when a person dies, their spirit leaves their body and depending on how “righteous” they are in their mortal existence, the spirit is sent to spirit prison or spirit paradise.

The people in paradise get to teach the “prisoners” and “bring them to the gospel.”

I was assured I would see my cousin again when he died of cancer when I was nine.

I was assured I’d see Grandma Price again when she passed when I was thirteen .

I was assured I’d see Grandpa Price when he died when I was eighteen.

I was assured I’d see my brother Andy again when he died two years later.

I had already started deconstructing when Andy died, so I spiraled a bit, not knowing if I’d see him again.

Now, Grandpa Monson is going to pass away, and I won’t get to say goodbye.

I’ll have to suffer through another Mormon funeral.

Gag.

If I go, the family will whisper about how far off the path I’ve strayed, and everyone will pry into my personal life. But if I don’t go, my mom will yell at me, calling me a disappointment.

What else is new?

Checking the time and seeing it’s almost eleven, I roll out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for some food, even though my stomach feels like it’s going to reject anything I give it.

Jordy is in the living room reading when I sulk past them; they offer me a sad smile.

I’m just about to open the fridge when the doorbell rings, so I change direction and make my way to the front door.

Looking through the peephole, I’m met with a large bouquet of flowers.

“What the hell?” I murmur as I open the door.

“I’m looking for an… Emma?” the man holding the flowers says, looking at his clipboard.

“Um, that’s me.”

“Sign here, please. ”

I take the clipboard and sign, then he hands me the flowers as he takes the clipboard.

“Have a good day, ma’am.”

“You, too.”

Perplexed, I walk back into the kitchen and examine the bouquet. It’s a beautiful mix of purple carnations, pale pink roses, and white daisies filled in with baby’s breath. It’s something I would pick out for myself if I ever bought flowers. There’s a note sticking out in a plastic card holder.

I recognize the neat handwriting immediately because I see it almost every day.

Hope these brighten your day.

Missed you last night.

-B

“Well those are pretty. Secret admirer?” Jordan asks, rounding the counter to read the note in my hand. “B? As in Ben? Your coworker and fuck buddy? I thought it was only casual.” Their tone holds no judgment, only curious surprise.

Same, though. Why is he sending me flowers?

“It is casual. Less than casual. Literally only sex.”

Jordan hums. “Flowers don’t seem casual to me, Em.”

I feel like stomping my foot and throwing a tantrum. “I knowwwww,” I whine. “Why isn’t he following the rules? He wanted me to go to his house last night, Jordy. He tried to comfort me when my mom told me about Grandpa. That’s not what we do . ”

Jordan crosses their arms and furrows their impeccably plucked eyebrows. “Why are you so scared of more?”

I point a finger at them. “Don’t go all therapist on me, Jordan. I don’t need you to psychoanalyze me and my commitment issues. You know why I don’t do relationships.”

“Actually, I don’t know why. I know when I got back from Japan, you and Trinity had broken up, and you told me you were taking a break from serious relationships.

I supported it, thinking you needed a short break, and you’d find a serious partner within a few months, but it’s been over four years, Em.

I find it hard to believe you haven’t met a single person you could see being more than a one-night stand.

I’ve given you space, hoping you’d come to me, but I know you’re hurting. I just want to know why.”

I don’t want to have this conversation right now.

I take out two frozen chocolate chip waffles and toss them in the toaster, buying myself time.

Jordan, with their uncanny ability to see right through me, sighs.

“I’m going to guess this has something to do with your mother and shitty family on some level because those bitches have shot your self-esteem to hell for as long as we’ve been friends.

But I also think you probably left out a lot of what actually went down with Trinity.

I didn’t push then because I wanted to give you time, but I’m genuinely worried about you. ”

Tears well in my eyes. This is what I didn’t want to happen. I didn’t want Jordan to be concerned about me when they have so many clients and other people to worry about. I don’t tell them that though, because I don’t want them to feel like it’s their fault. It’s not—it’s all me.

“Trinity told me what everyone else in my life has told me—aside from you; I’m too emotional.

Too needy. Too much. But in the same breath she told me I wasn’t serious enough about our relationship because I hadn’t wanted to discuss having kids or getting married after six months.

I also think she was a little jealous of our friendship, but I don’t know for sure. ”

My whole life, Jordan’s watched me fall for someone, then get let down when things didn’t work out.

I’d ignore red flags or misunderstand signals and throw myself into someone who I thought was “the one” just for it to fizzle out or end within a month or two.

All my life I’ve wanted to be loved the way I see it portrayed in movies and books, but I’ve never experienced that.

All I’ve experienced is a list of heartbreaks longer than Taylor Swift’s.

I take a deep breath, sniffling back tears again.

“You know how many times I’ve had my heart broken.

You’ve been there to help me pick up the pieces.

I can’t keep going through it—getting my hopes up only for them to crash and burn.

One night of pleasure isn’t enough time to fall in love.

If I don’t fall in love, I can't get hurt.”

Jordan’s face morphs into one of concern and… hurt. “Emma, you let Trinity, of all people, make you feel like you weren’t lovable? When she was pushing your boundaries and making you uncomfortable? It’s not needy or emotional to take things slow. But four years? It’s no way for you to live, Mimi.”

A tear slips down my cheek. “How many pieces of myself can I give away before I’m left with nothing? ”

Jordan frowns but wraps me in a hug. “I’m so sorry, Emma.

I’m sorry I never asked before now. I should have, then maybe you’d see just how loveable you are.

You’re my person. I love you like a sister, my platonic soulmate.

I’m sorry you got your heart broken so many times.

But just because your heart has been broken, doesn’t mean you aren’t worthy of love. ”

“It’s not your fault, JoJo.”

“But I didn’t realize it sooner. I didn’t realize you closed yourself off from finding love entirely. I should have—”

“No,” I cut them off. “This isn’t your fault. I wasn’t honest with you about why I made my sex-only vow. That’s not on you.”

Jordan pulls back, their hazel eyes locking on mine intensely as they cup my face.

“You are an amazing woman, Mimi. Anyone would be lucky as hell to have you as their partner. If anyone deserves the all consuming, once-in-a-lifetime love, it’s you.

Promise me you’ll reconsider your stance and open yourself up to love? ”

I look away because I can’t promise that. “I will think about it.”

“Maybe Ben—”

“Jordy, no.”

“Okay.” They hold their hands up in surrender. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about this anymore, so I’ll let you eat your waffles. I love you, and if you want to talk about anything else, I’m here.”

“Thank you. I love you, too.”

I spend the rest of the day alternating between staring at the flowers and overthinking what they mean .

No one besides my parents and Jordy have given me flowers. While a part of me is wary of what the gesture means and so fucking confused, another part—a part I’ve tried to keep buried—is squealing and kicking her feet.

That same part of me has already written “Mrs. Emma Rossi” all over her notebook and is planning our tropical island honeymoon.

Even though I want to, I don’t text Ben and demand to know why he sent me flowers. Instead, I opt for something simple.

Emma: Thank you for the flowers.

Ben: My pleasure. Glad you liked them.

I ignore the way butterflies take flight in my stomach at his reply.

I’m not looking forward to work tomorrow.