She smiles and wraps her arms around my neck. “Okay. But you have to promise to never talk about this again.”
I laugh and kiss her temple. But I don’t promise anything. Because she can bet her ass I’m bringing this up again.
* * *
I spend most of the day listening to Em, Candace, and Mom talk about Vampire Diaries and some book called Divergent. Mom seems creepily excited about some guy named Damon and how he needs to have his shirt off in more episodes. Then she makes some comment about how a certain something is named Damon, and she winks at Em, who goes red and bursts out laughing.
I shake my head, control my gag reflex, and play with the only guy in the place who isn’t sleeping . . . Mason.
“I know, Bubba,” I say as the girls giggle from the kitchen table. “My mom’s talking about some dude with a six-pack, too. It’s like they don’t even know they’re scarring us for life.”
Mom waves a hand at me and goes back to her conversation. I catch Em’s eye and return her smile before rocking on my back to the floor, holding my nephew over my head.
“Don’t you worry, though,” I tell him in a quiet voice that no one can hear over Candace’s laughter. “The right girl will like ya even if you end up with the Matua chubby gene. And don’t you dare let her go when you find her.”
Mason’s toothless grin widens, then his stomach rumbles and he lets out a giant burp. I don’t move in time to avoid getting soaked with spit-up.
“Unngh,” I groan and rock up to my butt, holding Mason out like he’ll blow again. He’s grinning at me, cute little brat.
The girls are laughing, and Candace takes him from my arms as Em tosses me a burp rag. “I think it’s time for cake,” she says, and suddenly Tolani’s up from his nap on the couch.
* * *
Em’s two-night bag is the size of the whole-life bag I packed when I moved back to the States. I heave the thing into the Camaro and wipe the sweat from my forehead. As soon as I shut the trunk Em hurries into my arms.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Even after spending a full day with my family?”
“Especially after that.” Her hands grip each other behind my back. “Do you know how sexy you look holding a baby?”
“Weren’t you just talking about how you weren’t ready for all that?” I chuckle.
“Doesn’t mean that you playing with Mason wasn’t a major turn-on.”
I nip at her nose, and she shoves my face away. But I hold her tight because I don’t want her to go. It’s only three hours away, for two days, but there’s still this pang in my gut at the thought that it’s just a preview of what’ll happen at the end of the summer. Unless I say something that I’m having a real hard time getting past the lump in my throat.
“I have to ask you something.”
She tilts her face up. “Ask away.”
“I’m nervous,” I say, and damn it, the croaks that came out with those two words were sure smooth.
“Now I’m curious.” She shifts in my arms, her shirt lifting up by her waist. My fingers hit warm skin that puckers with goose bumps.
“You, uh . . . you go back to school in what? Three weeks?”
“Four.” She sighs. “And a half.”
“Well, I um . . .” Get the damn words out, Eric. “I just wanted to—”
“You know this isn’t a summer fling, right?” she blurts out. “I’m not one of those girls who fall in love over the summer, then say ‘Thanks for the fun! I’m off to the real world now.’ I want to be with you, no matter where we are.”
My lips turn up, and my nerves come down a notch. “That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks redden. “Whoops!”
I laugh and run my fingers over the dips in her lower back. “My job here is temporary. I should probably start looking for somewhere to work since I’m done at the end of August. I was wondering, well, if it’d be okay if I looked . . . by you.”
“Really?” She starts bouncing on her toes. “Yes!” She plants dozens of kisses on my face, and I try to catch some of them as we laugh like idiots. “Oh this is great. While I’m there I’ll scope out for Help Wanted signs and get you applications and text you phone numbers and—”
“You don’t have to do that. Just be with Eve.”
“Eric, seriously, this is so perfect. I was preparing for a new dorm mate, since Eve’s going to be a momma, but now I don’t have to. Here I was worried about someone who might smell weird or won’t be cool with my laundry all over the place. Come to think of it, Eve was never really cool with that . . .”
She starts trailing off, but I’m still trying to calm myself down after hearing what she’s saying.
“Wait, you . . . you want to live together?”
Her eyebrows rise, and she slides out of my hold. “I-I thought that’s what you were implying.”
“I didn’t want to push it, you know, since that’s a lot faster than I usually move,” I tell her honestly, even though, hell yes, I want to live with her.
“Eric . . .” Her voice lowers and she crosses her arms with a light smile on her face. “We’re living together now.”
“But we both knew that was temporary.” I reach back and scratch my neck. “I didn’t know if you wanted to make that permanent.”
“Yes, please.”
I catch the playfulness in her expression, but I also see a hopeful spark in her eyes, and even if I didn’t want to live together, I’d be packing both our things and writing the security-deposit check.
“I guess you better look for apartment listings while you’re there, too.”
She throws her arms back around me, and I make sure to put my hands right back where they were on her waist. “I’ll get a bunch of those pamphlet thingies, and we’ll pick the place with the biggest shower that’s in our budget.”
“The biggest shower, huh?”
“Yes. And I’ll get us his and her loofahs.”
I laugh, then bite at her chin. She tightens her grip on my shoulders and I get about a one-second warning before she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist. I turn her around to get the Camaro’s help while I kiss her senseless.
My head’s spinning, but not in a bad way. Not in a bad way at all. My heart rate skyrocketing, my hands shaking, my brow beading with sweat, my entire nervous system short-circuiting—none of it has anything to do with anxiety. I feel happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long damn time. This girl, my frickin’ best friend, loves me, wants to spend a life with me, and I want it, too. All that shit about her phone seems so stupid right now, because she’s in my arms. She’s kissing me. And that’s the moment I decide that I do trust her. I trust her with my heart, with my mind, my body, with everything.
“Hey! Wrap it up!” Tolani yells from the condo window. Em laughs around my mouth, and I dip her low, letting my tongue glide across hers, and sucking the laughter away, replacing it with sexy moans from deep in her throat. She grasps the bottom of my shirt. Her hands sneak underneath the fabric and run up over my stomach and chest. I let my heart pound against her palms, and I get harder by the minute. I can’t help but grind into her, and part of my brain registers that we aren’t alone, and my airway locks up.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re in love. But you’re twenty-one today! And you still have to have a beer!”
We break apart and she drops her hands from under my shirt. My breathing evens out, and I smile because, hell yeah. I think I can do this.
“Now I really don’t want to go,” she says.
“I don’t want you driving when it’s dark.”
“I know.” She holds on to my shoulders and I help her off the car. “Have fun tonight.” She kisses me.
“Drive safe.” I kiss her.
“I’ll text you when I get there.” Another kiss.
“When you get there. Not during the trip, please.”
“Yes, when I get there.”
We kiss again, and I cup her fac
e, let it linger and try to memorize her taste and how she feels, so I can have it with me for the weekend. “Love you, Emmy.”
“Happy birthday.” Her face is that gorgeous, freckled red as she slips into the car and drives away.
* * *
“Shit, I forgot my cell. I’ll be right back.”
Tolani leans against the stairwell railing. “You’ll be twenty-two by the time we get to the bar.”
“I’m hurrying!” I call over my shoulder as I take the steps two at a time back to the condo.
Mom’s rocking the walls with her snoring as I creep inside. My phone’s docked in Em’s room, since that’s where I’ll be sleeping for the next few days. When I open the door, Em’s tropical scent hits my nose and I curse, because hell, I miss her already and it’s only been a couple of hours.
Her computer is open, a screensaver of rotating pictures showing. She has a lot of selfies. And she keeps taking pictures of me while I’m sleeping. I’m going to have to hide her phone before we go to bed.
I unplug my cell, and there’s a text from her.
I almost turned around four or five times on my way here. But I made it, safe and sound, and you’ll be proud of me! No phone time while in the driver’s seat :)
My lips turn up and I tap back.
You sound a bit like Dr. Seuss ;)
LOL, totally didn’t even mean to rhyme so much. It must be rubbing off on me.
Maybe I’ll call you later and read you one.
YES!
I miss you.
Miss you, too. Happy Birthday, love.
I type out an “I love you,” but then Em’s Skype sounds, drawing my attention to her computer.
My chest burns as I look at the picture that shows up on the screen. She Skypes with this guy? I didn’t think she even talked to him anymore. Ever since our fight, she’s kept the online time to a minimum. When I ask her what she’s doing on her phone, she shows me the book she’s reading. I clear my throat and take a step toward the computer. My fingers twitch over the mousepad.
The ring ends, and the notification of the missed call pops up on the screen. I check my breathing and shake my head. It could be nothing. There’s no indication of any other calls before this one. My phone buzzes in my hand just as another noise indicates a message on Em’s open Facebook browser. Is he messaging her now?
Gritting my teeth, I click over to the message, just to see if I’m right. My stomach squeezes all the air out of me as I fall into the desk chair.
Scott: Hey, you busy? I just tried Skype, but you didn’t answer.
I’m ready to kill him, or call Em and ask her why the hell this guy is talking to her, but then I see Em typing back.
Mia: Not near my computer. What’s up?
“What’s up?” How about “Leave me alone, I have a boyfriend” or “Hey, I am busy” or how about not answering at all?
Scott: Bored. Did you get a chance to read that email I sent you?
I look at the open tabs at the top of the screen, and Em’s email is one of them. It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to click over to it.
Mia: Not yet. I was busy for most of the day, and driving the rest of it.
Scott: Did you find a really good book or something? You’ve been scarce.
A little bit of tension releases at that, but it builds right back up as I scroll through the previous messages. Replies nearly every hour or two over the past few days. That’s scarce?
Mia: I told you I’d be off the grid for a bit.
Scott: So what were you up to today?
Mia: Didn’t we have this conversation already? ;)
I want to shoot that winky face. I want to stop looking at this message thread. I want to move my ass from this chair and call Em and ask her flat out what’s going on, in case I’m misinterpreting things. I want reassurance, but I can’t stop looking. I can’t move. And the next message pops up and I feel my chest crack.
Scott: That’s right. Best friend’s birthday. Did she get pissing drunk?
Forget restraint. I mouse over to her email, scroll through, and find not one, not two, not even three or four or five . . . I mean, there are countless emails with this guy. The top one is titled “Guess I’m not sure how I feel” and I don’t care that it’s not mine. I don’t care that I’m probably never meant to see it or that it’ll piss off Em to no end. I open it up and read, red dots and fury flooding my vision. I swipe at my eyes and slam the lid on the laptop down so hard I think I hear a few keys break. My phone buzzes in my hand again, and I open up the two unread texts from Em.
You there still? Or are you out drinking already?
Okay, guess you are. I love you and miss you and can’t wait to see you again. Talk to you tonight! (can’t wait to hear slurred Dr. Seuss, lol)
It’s like it’s nothing. Like she’s not lying to some other dude about me, not lying to me about this other dude. And because I know I won’t be able to call without screaming at her, I text back something vague, but she’s smart enough to figure it out.
You left your computer up. You have a missed Skype call.
Then I chuck my phone on the bed and leave without it.
Chapter 27
Emilia Johnson posted on Eric Matua’s timeline
2 days ago
I love you
***
Sixty-seven text messages. Forty-one unanswered calls. Two very upset roommates. And one desperate and stupid Internet junkie.
Text message number sixty-eight.
I love you. Please talk to me.
Eve adjusts on her bed, drawing my teary gaze to her. She gives me a light smile.
“He’s still not talking to me.”
“I’m sorry.” She winces and grabs her abdomen. “You can head back. I’m fine here. Paul will be home tonight.”
I shake my head. We’ve argued about this since her shower ended. I tried to keep it together for her, thought I was killing it, but we got back to Paul’s place and she grilled me about what was wrong. It all flooded out. The messages from Scott, the arguments about online time with Eric, the lies. I’ve been crying in spurts all weekend, but I’m still trying to be strong for Eve so I can take care of her. Seems like I’m the one who needs coddling, though.
“Fine, but as soon as he walks through that door I want you out of it.”
“I’m so sorry.” I sniff. “It’s just . . . he’s . . .”
“Important.”
The most important. And I can’t talk to him. I can’t explain. I can’t work my way out of this. It’s just stewing, boiling, and I’m afraid of what will explode when I get back. Yet I can’t wait to get back there, so I don’t feel so helpless.
“Um, Mia?” Eve asks, a little out of breath. “Could you get me my bed buddy?”
I nod, tucking my phone in my pocket and grabbing her pregnancy pillow. I help her get settled on her side, wrap her leg around the pillow, and pull the blanket over her shoulder. She lightly grabs my wrist and looks up at me, eyes tired, and I feel like crap all over again for not being more attentive.
“It’ll be okay,” she says, and my tears threaten to spill over. I kiss her forehead and whisper a thank you and tell her to get some rest. My phone buzzes a few minutes after I flop into their secondhand couch, and I grapple for it, heart beating loud. But it flatlines when I see Scott’s name on my IM. I move his chat bubble to the X without reading it, then I bury my face in my hands.
I want to blame Scott for not leaving me alone. I want to blame Eric for looking at my computer without permission. I want to blame Dad for living forever far away and getting me hooked on the Internet. I want to blame the makers of Kindle, Google Chrome, Dell, and Samsung . . . I want to blame everyone because it hurts to face the harsh truth.
This is no one’s fault but mine.
* * *
The condo is empty when I get there early Monday morning. I panic on my way to my room, but it slowly fades when I see all my stuff still out, practically untouched.
Minus my laptop, which was open, but it’s closed.
It smells like Eric’s fresh-laundered scent. I drop my bag on the floor, chewing on the inside of my bottom lip. His phone is sitting on the bed, face up, blinking with all the messages I left him. My panic’s back, rushing through my stomach, and I yank out my phone and dial Eric’s work.
“Sunset Hills Nursing Facility, this is Liv, what room can I connect you with?”
“Hi, um, actually, I’m looking for Eric Matua.”
“Name?”
“Mia. I’m his . . . roommate.”
“One moment.”
It’s so quiet on the line my ear starts ringing. My heart thumps in my throat and I shake as I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Mia Johnson?” she asks when she comes back on the line.
“Yes.”
“He’s in with a resident right now. He said he’ll call you on his break.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I hang up, and calm the storm swirling in my stomach. At least he’s okay. Mad, but okay.
My hand grazes his phone as I sit mine next to it. The one thing that connected me to him when he was away and now it’s the thing dividing us.
* * *
There’s not a single clock in this living room. I’ve been checking the clock on the microwave, counting seconds, flinching at any sound that could be Eric’s key in the door.
He didn’t call. He’s already forty-five minutes later than usual.
But I’m not surprised.
Finally, at 7:48, I hear his key.
I sit up on the couch and slowly rise to my feet when he walks in. He’s not in his scrubs. He’s wearing gym shorts and his shirt is dark with sweat. His eyes make contact with me for less than a second, then he drops his duffel on the floor, tosses his keys on the counter, and goes straight for the shower.
Heat boils up the back of my neck, and before he can lock the door, or have time to strip, I barge into the bathroom.
“No. You’re not going to do that. You’re going to talk to me.”
“I smell like shit.”
“I don’t care.”
“Fine.” He turns to face me, crossing his arms over his sweaty shirt. “What do you want me to say?”