When I Was Theirs

69. Emmy

69

Emmy

A ngelo hands me the spray of baby’s breath. “Try this.”

I carefully start working them into the garland. “Like this, do you think?”

He’s uncommonly quiet. “You tell me.”

I stand back to get a better look, my head tilting to the side.

“Yes,” I decide finally. “It looks good.”

“Good.” He brushes off his hands. “This was very good, Emmy. They will be happy.”

I use my arm to wipe at my forehead. I’ve been working on these wedding arrangements for the last two days. The room around me is filled with shades of pale pink. Puffy peonies, perfectly curled roses. Pale lilies and dusty pink hydrangeas. I pluck a piece of greenery from my hair. “You think they’ll like it?”

“Doesn’t matter. I like it. If they don’t, they have no taste.”

I stifle my laugh at his petulant words. “It’s their wedding day, Angelo.”

“So? People have terrible weddings all the time.”

My eyes slip to the clock as I start cleaning up. Jared and I have plans for our lunch break. The perks of having him working on the floor above me. “When are they collecting?”

“Soon. Go for your lunch. I’ll wait.”

“You want anything?”

He shakes his head, watching as I dart to the door. “Nothing for me. Take your time. We’re quiet this afternoon.”

Unusual. Maybe he topped up the secret croissant stash that we both pretend I don’t know about.

Exiting the main front door, I turn to the side. Jared’s studio has its own entrance, and I listen to the sound of plucked guitar notes trailing down the stairs as I walk up.

I lean against the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. The room is bright and airy, windows providing a stream of daylight that opens up the space. Quirky posters line the walls, my studio-warming gift.

I’m just in time. Jared puts his own guitar down, his back to me. “That was great. Same time next week, and don’t forget the chord practice so we can move on.”

The group of four, three men and a woman, slip past me with their instruments, offering nods.

Leaving me with Jared. He hasn’t noticed I’m here as he gets to his feet, collecting up the stands and stacking them neatly in the corner. “How much for a private lesson?”

Smiling, he turns. “I lost track of time.”

Tilting my head, I nod at his guitar. “How come you never play for me?”

I’ve heard him play before, of course. I watched him nearly every night. But not for a while. He shrugs. “I’m always conscious that you have neighbors. I get to play here.”

His eyebrows raise when I slip into a chair. “Play for me now.”

A light flush curls over his cheekbones. “Now?”

Nodding, I prop my chin on my hands. “If we have time. Whatever you want. I’m not fussy.”

I don’t want to be late.

“I know. I’ve seen your playlists.” His words are teasing, even as I feign outrage.

“You love my nineties pop.”

He won’t admit it. But I’ve heard him humming them when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

“I love you .” He’s not looking at me as he reaches for his guitar. “I can cope with the music.”

The casual words still threaten to take my breath away. I keep my voice light. “If you play me a love song, I could run up and kiss you afterwards. It’d be like a movie.”

A dimple flashes as he pulls the strap over his head. “Sorry. Hard rock only today.”

Damn it.

I settle back to watch him. Watching Jared play is like watching art. Every movement is effortless as his fingers flick over the strings.

It’s not hard rock. Softer, slower, but still with a rough edge to it that Jared takes and owns, his voice low and husky.

My breath catches in my chest and holds. He doesn’t look away, his cheeks dusted with red until he comes to a stop, his voice trailing away.

“There,” he says quietly. “You fixed me, Emmy Marsters. It seemed like a good choice.”

A perfect choice. But it feels as though he’s fixing me, piece by piece.

“Did I?” There’s more to my question than that, and our eyes meet.

“In every way that matters.” He puts his guitar away. “The rest is on me, and I’m not as good at it as you are.”

Our fingers link together as we walk. “How did you learn to play?”

“I actually can't remember a time when I didn't want to play. But I had a teacher in high school. He gave out free lessons at lunchtime.” He smiles. “Gave me an old guitar of his when he saw I liked it. That was it, really. The rest I kind of picked up along the way.”

He stays silent as we approach the building. It’s tucked away, a small path leading up to a door. “You sure you want to do this?”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m sure. I can, right?”

“Yeah. This one is an open meeting.”

I follow him inside. A man who looks to be in his early thirties straightens from where he’s talking to a group, heading our way. “Jared. Hey.”

“Mike.” Jared draws me closer, his arm around my waist. “This is my Emmy.”

He smiles at me easily. “Hey, Jared’s Emmy. I’m glad you’re here. Heard a lot about you.”

I look around. A dozen or so people mill around, chatting with steaming drinks in their hand. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

I sit quietly, listening. Jared does the same, his hand tight around mine.

So many stories. Jared is quiet when he stands, his hands slipping into his pockets.

“I haven’t had a craving for a while.” He swallows. “But I know it’s going to happen. And I’m scared of what I’ll do when it does.”

My heart squeezes as I look up at him. Around me, people nod, their expressions a mix of understanding and fear.

“It’s always easy until it’s not.” His voice turns hoarse. “But so far, so good. So I’m holding onto that.”

I turn his words over in my head. Mike heads over to us as the meeting breaks up.

“Here.” He tosses a coin to Jared. “Five months, man. Congratulations.”

Jared turns the small pink coin over in his hands. “Thanks.”

I burrow into him as we leave. “I’m so proud of you.”

He smiles down at me. A small, genuine smile. “I’m feeling pretty proud myself.”

Small steps.

Day by day.