Between the Pages: A Novel (7 page)

Welp, that’ll do it.

CHAPTER TEN

Finley

Except it doesn’t.

I thought dreaming about Emerson with Geoff’s head would help—Geoff is Hannah’s boyfriend. He’s unequivocally off limits. But Geoff is not Emerson.

Emerson
is Emerson. My lewd and depraved thoughts about him constantly assault my mind, and there’s nothing left to do but accept them as reality.

My first week on the job is intense. Emerson and I spend most of the days together, reading a sentence and writing a short scene to go with it. He’s trying to groom me—to tweak my writing so it suites his needs. Also, if we’re on the same page about verb tense and narration style, there will be way less work down the road.

For example, I naturally write in first person. Emerson’s book will be in first person, so that’s been easy enough. However, I like writing in present tense. Emerson prefers past tense. It’s not so easy to switch tenses like that when you’re used to writing a certain way.

I will say though, working side by side highlights the things I like about Emerson—his messy hair, his sloppy clothing, and the way he interrupts me on almost every occasion he gets. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just really excited about this project, which is extremely endearing. He still won’t give me too much information on the book. It’s about a man named Ethan who has lead this crazy, wild life. I asked him if it’s an autobiography, and he replied simply, “Of sorts.” I want to know everything about him. I have to push my blooming feelings to the side though, because not only are they inappropriate, they’re inconvenient.

Sometimes it’s hard to ignore—like when he leans in a little too close, and I get a whiff of his cologne, which smells like coriander and basil. Or when I make him laugh, and the self-satisfied little monster inside me applauds gleefully. The worst is when his eyes get sad, like they do a lot of the time, as if he’s bearing the weight of a million people, or like he’s had the life of an eighty-year-old man. I want to touch him; I want to take his hands. How weird is that? I hate PDA. I always avoided it with past boyfriends. I never wanted to let my guard down like that—until now. I liked my own space and presumed others did too. Until now. I want my hands all over Emerson.

On Friday afternoon, after I spend a few hours working on the prologue for Emerson’s book, he comes into to my room with a set of keys. Without saying anything at first, he tosses them to me. I’m taken by surprise so I don’t catch them, and they drop to the floor. He comes over and retrieves them, setting them next to my computer.

“Go. Get out of this room,” he starts, smiling widely. “You’ve worked hard all week, and you deserve a nice, relaxing weekend.”

I look at the clock. “But it’s only one—”

“I know. This way you’ll beat traffic.”

I save my work and close my computer. I stand and stretch my back. “Okay, if you insist.” I pick up the keys and grab my purse and the small overnight bag I have packed. It’s weird to think that I live
here
most of the time now, so an overnight bag is all I’ll need to go home. I jingle the keys excitedly as he takes my overnight bag. I walk behind him as he heads downstairs and to the garage. “Am I taking the Soob?” I joke.

“Not exactly,” he says, opening the door. “I was thinking the red one.”

My eyes adjust to the vintage
convertible
Mini Cooper. The
red
one. “What?” I exclaim, jumping up and down. “Are you serious?” I look at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Please say yes, please say yes.”

He just laughs. “You can drive stick, right?”

“Of course. Oh my God! This is so cool.” I run over to the car and giggle hysterically. I place my purse and overnight bag in the trunk, pocketing my cell phone and sunglasses. I take a second to stare at the beautiful car in front of me. 

The Mini is cherry red and fully restored to its former glory. Four seats clad in white leather. An overly large steering wheel and manual settings. The dashboard is mahogany and gleaming. I can picture myself with a scarf and oversized sunglasses, cruising down 5th Avenue.

“I can’t believe you’re entrusting me with this beautiful specimen of a car,” I say, crossing my arms and walking over to Emerson.

“I have really, really good insurance,” he replies smugly. 

“What time do you need me back Sunday?” I ask, the smile still wide on my face.

His eyes flick over my face as if he’s studying me, and I start to feel an achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. What 
is 
that?

“Anytime Sunday night is fine.” He moves his lips to form a thin line, and the forehead wrinkles return. “Drive safe, okay?” he adds, his voice tender and concerned.

“I’m an excellent driver.” I flash him a cheesy grin. He just continues to watch me with apprehension. “I’ll be fine,” I add for his benefit.

“Thank you for all of your help this week, Finley,” he says sincerely. The achy feeling is back, and my smile lessens. I dig my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts, suddenly feeling awkward with our goodbye.

Do I hug him? Wave? Turn and leave?

“No problem,” I respond, biting my lower lip. I don’t make eye contact, so instead I glance around at the other car in the garage. “Looks like you’re stuck with the Civic,” I joke, and he relaxes and laughs. God, this guy is tense. “Why do you need three cars again?” I begin to walk backward toward the Mini. My knees feel kind of weak, and the achy feeling is becoming unbearable. I should probably leave.

He thumbs his nose and squints at the Civic. “Well, the Civic is my travel car. Good gas mileage,” he adds, and I nod in return. “The Soob is for everyday. I like it. I used to have a dog, so it was great for taking him around town. And the Mini,” he grins and winks, “is just for fun.”
Just. For. Fun.
Emerson Whittaker is lending me his
just for fun
car. This whole week has been surreal.

I also like how he’s adopted my nickname for the Subaru. Soob is so much cuter than Subaru. “I see.” I give him a tight smile and then get into the driver’s seat. Emerson opens the garage door, and sunlight floods the place. I quickly adjust the seat to accommodate my shrimpy legs, as well as the mirrors. I glance down and see a box on the passenger seat floor. When I pick it up, Emerson walks over and takes it from me.

“What do you want to listen to?” He leans against the car and opens the box. It’s filled with cassette tapes.

“Wow, you really kept this thing true to its time, eh? How about you put in one of your favorites.”

He nods and sets the box back down on the floor, leaning over the ledge and placing the cassette into its slot. I turn the car on so he can push it all the way in—I see the words Fleetwood Mac
on top of the tape, and hide my cheesy smile with my hand.

“So you might be too young to remember, but when this side of the tape is over, you press eject—”

“Let me stop you right there.” My voice is a little annoyed. “I 
know 
how to use a tape player. Also, excellent music choice by the way.”

He just smiles and pushes away from the car, saluting me. I salute him back, and we both laugh.

“Bye,” I yell as I shift to reverse. I was mostly telling the truth when I said I drive stick. I drive stick as in
I’ve driven a stick once or twice.
It’s like riding a bike, right?

“See you Sunday,” he calls, and the car jerks backward. I wave again as I shift into first. This is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

I don’t look back at him as I slowly crawl down the street. The achy feeling intensifies as I turn the blinker on to merge onto the main road. I stay stopped at the stop sign for longer then necessary. Despite a rather rocky, tumultuous start on Sunday, we fell into a fairly smooth routine. We would start early, have breaks for lunch, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Afternoons we worked again. He was intense, mercurial, driven, but also deliberately reticent at times. He fascinates me. The dreams haven’t stopped, which made mornings a little difficult at times. The whole experience thus far has been surreal. Stimulating. Invigorating . . .

I want to turn around. I don’t want to leave. Shit. After one week, I don’t want to leave. Am I going to turn around? No. I
want
to, but I already know I won’t. But what is that feeling? The achy feeling?

Am I going to 
miss 
Emerson? The thought is so silly that I laugh into the fresh air. I shift and the car jerks forward.

*

Two hours later, I’m blasting
Everywhere
by Fleetwood Mac as I pull up in front of my building in the East Village. I text Hannah and tell her to come outside ASAP. When the front door opens, she screams and runs over, flailing her arms.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Shut. Up.” She throws the passenger door open and we sing along to Christine McVie’s voice. “I don’t know what’s more beautiful—you or this gorgeous car,” she says, laughing.

“I missed you,” I say before pulling forward.

“Missed you too, Finn.” I can see her carefully observing me as I shift and pull into oncoming traffic. “You seem different,” she adds, resolved.

I look at her for a second, before continuing to stare ahead at the street. “What do you mean, different? I’m fatter. Emerson feeds me cheese everyday,” I reply, smiling.

“That’s good.” She looks away, unsatisfied with my answer.

“How are things at the apartment? With Geoff?”

This perks her up. “Good. He’s an excellent cook, and he utilizes the notes you left him every day.”

“I’m glad I won’t have to kill him, then,” I say, laughing. “Emerson is a good cook too. Last night, he made this rigatoni with goat cheese and greens . . . oh my God, Hannah. You would’ve
died
.”

“Wow, it sounds delicious.”

I look over at her, and she’s looking out of the window morosely. “So things are going well with Geoff?”

“Yeah,” she answers, letting out a surprised breath of air. “Really well. Sometimes I think it’s too good to be true.”

We pull onto 7th Avenue and I make a right on Barrow, and then a right on Hudson. When I turn onto Grove, Hannah reaches out for my hand and squeezes it once.

“You know me so well,” she says, throwing her head back and grinning. She flings her arms up into the air and lets the wind blow through her hair as I try to navigate New York City parking. It takes us over twenty minutes to find a spot, and Hannah has to direct me in to ensure I don’t tap the cars on either side of Irma.

Oh yeah, and we named the car.

It’s only four thirty so The Little Owl isn’t very crowded. We’re able to get a tiny table next to the front window. I order us martinis and their famous gravy meatball sliders.

“Emerson told me about these sliders. Says they’re the best sliders he’s ever had. I can’t believe we’ve never had them before.” I look at Hannah but she doesn’t say anything.

“Well, we’ve never exactly been rich enough to eat here,” she mumbles. “Except when Geoff is kind enough to pay.”

“I know, but I got paid last week. I wanted to take us somewhere nice,” I explain. “Plus, we’re basically
in
Central Perk.”

Hannah laughs. “You and your
Friends
obsession.”

I giggle. “I know. I wish Emerson’s house had Internet. I’m having Netflix withdrawals.”

The waiter brings our drinks over, and we each take a sip. Hannah leans back and continues to analyze my every move.

“What?” I say, exasperatedly.

“Nothing, it’s just that you’re different.” She gives me a small smile. “Happier.”

“I think the beach has that effect on me,” I reply, sipping the cocktail slowly. I already know I won’t be able to finish it because someone has to drive us home safely.

“It could be the beach. But I think it’s the person you’re spending all that time with—the same person you’ve brought up three times since you picked me up.” Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch as she takes a long gulp of her drink, watching me for my reaction.

I shake my head. “It’s not like that,” I say defensively.

She purses her lips and reaches out for my hand. “Look, Finley, I . . .” she sighs and looks over my shoulder before looking me dead in the eye, “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I care about you way too much.”

I pull my hands away. “I won’t get hurt, Han, because nothing is going to happen.”

The sliders are delivered to our table, and we forget about everything after the first bite. We gobble them down. We even order more before Hannah brings Emerson up again.

“All I ask is that you’re careful.”

“I will be,” I say quietly. “I promise.”

I know Hannah’s concerns are natural. She’s still investigating Emerson’s past, and she updates me daily even though we haven’t made any more progress. His past remains a secret. Perhaps one day he’ll find the courage to tell me, but I don’t feel like I’m in any danger.

I don’t mention Emerson again all night, even after we finish the meal and I receive a text from him.