Where You Are
I narrow my eyes, sure she’s making that up. “She did not.”
She nods, laughing. “She did. She also said they would ruin the floor, which might be true, but I don’t care. I want to try to grow things. I want to cook. And make non-flavored coffee. And leave my shoes in the living room, and bowls in the sink. And never, ever, ever use Pine Sol.”
I pull another strand of hair from her face. Her skin is soft, and she’s so beautiful. My fingers are restless, pushing into her hair, stroking behind her ear. “And Graham, I told him I wanted more privacy than I’d get in a dorm… because of you.”
My hand freezes. Her father hadn’t punched me in the face or tried to kill me this morning when I showed up at his door, unannounced. He hadn’t even been rude. My thumb strokes across her lower lip. “What I said before about moving into a dorm, I said because I don’t want to be one more person who hinders you living your life as it should be. I want you to be free to make the choices that are best for you, without regard to me.”
Her small hands close over my forearm, and she leans her face into my palm. “Then you have to trust me to make those decisions. Even if some of them have everything to do with you.” When she speaks, the vibrations of her voice travel through my hand. “Just because I consider you when I’m deciding doesn’t make it any less my choice.”
I close my eyes. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve her, and yet here she is.
She kisses me once—a swift, shy brush of her lips. “I’d like to come have breakfast with you tomorrow, before you fly home, if that’s okay.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight, you’ll meet my best friend, and she will love you, or she will rue the day.”
I laugh softly and she does, too. “I guess I’d better make sure she loves me, then. I don’t want to be responsible for you losing your best friend.”
***
When Emily calls, Emma walks into the hall with her cell, leaving me sitting on her bed perusing old photo albums her mom put together before she died. Emma’s side of the hallway conversation is still perfectly audible, even if executed almost completely in coarsely hissed tones.
“No, you can’t bring Joe for comparison.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Emily, I turned my phone off. He had no other choice—”
“No, you don’t get a vote.”
“He’s nothing like him at all.”
“Okay. See you in an hour.”
She walks back into the room, her mouth screwed into a grimace. “You could probably hear all of that, huh?”
I subdue a grin and pat the space next to me. “Come here.”
Her eyes shadowed with worry, she tosses her phone on the bedside table and comes to stand next to me. I pull her onto the bed and kiss her until she relaxes into me. “Stop worrying. It will all work out.”
A slight pucker remains on her forehead. “How?”
“To be determined. But it will.” Picking up the photo album, I point to a series of photos she’d told me about—the ones taken in Griffith Park. “You look like your mom.”
“Except for her eyes.” She leans her head back against my shoulder. “Mom’s eyes were very dark brown, like yours. Mine are like my dad’s.”
I use this excuse to examine her eyes again. If I was painting them, I would use a base of stormy gray, with flecks of green layered on top, and miniscule slivers of gold. “I remember thinking that when we met in the café—how you look nothing like him, except for your eyes. I’ve never met anyone with eyes like yours, and they’re the exact likeness of his—the beautiful color, the slightly tilted shape. Based on eyes alone, anyone would know you’re his.”
“Cara has your eyes.”
I nod. “She does.”
“And her mother’s hair?” I nod again, watching her confusion build. “But she’s never met Cara, or called, or requested a picture, anything?”
I shake my head.
“Is Cara okay with that? Does she ask about her mother?”
“She’s fine. She’s great, in fact. Mom, Cassie and Brynn more than fill that vacancy.”
Emma stares at the photos of the mother she lost at six. “That’s good. I’m glad.” I watch her face from above, the way her cheeks raise a fraction with her smile. “My grandma and Emily’s mom did an okay job filling in, I think. Teaching me how to be a girl.”
My fingers trail down the side of her face. “They did an incredible job.” I tilt her chin up and bend my face to hers, silently praising every woman who’s had a hand in making her who she is. Even Chloe… though I’ll never tell Emma that. A truth learned from four years of literary study: nothing beats an antagonist for character-building.
***
Emily is so directly opposite of Emma in looks that I have to give myself a mental shake. Pink hair. Combat boots. Darkly-lined eyes. Emo girl with an anime bent. And a preppy boyfriend?
Of course this girl is her best friend.
When we’re all seated in a booth at Chili’s, Emily gestures to my t-shirt. “So, you, uh, like them?” Sneaking into her offhand tone is a note of fangirl enthusiasm.
I glance down at my chest and back up. “Oh, yeah. They’re brilliant. Have you seen them perform live?”
She shrugs. “Not yet, but I definitely will. You?”
I nod. “A couple times.”
“What? Really?” So much for indifference. She clamps her lips together to try to rein in her interest while Derek and Emma exchange suppressed smiles.