Push(22)

I can tell you this much, though, I am not going to cry. I am not going to give him that pleasure. I am going to keep my burn inside, just like I always do with Michael.





Chapter Eleven

Emma—Present Day

David doesn’t say another word, but I can hear him walk down the hall to the bathroom. I finish making the salads and put the chops on a plate. I set the table, putting out utensils, napkins and place mats. I want to get us something to drink, but then I realize I don’t know what David likes to drink.

“What’s your poison?” I ask him when he returns from the bathroom.

“You mean other than redheads in heels?” he asks. I immediately walk out of the kitchen and put my shoes back on. I try to do it as seductively as I can, but I think it might look more cheesy than sexy. He’s looking at me in surprise, though, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger, so I know it worked. Me and my heels walk back into the kitchen where he can’t see me smiling.

“Yes,” I say, “other than that.”

“What are you having?” he asks.

“You mean other than a good-looking, cocky bastard?”

“Yes,” he chuckles, “other than that.”

“I’m having a glass of red. But I have beer, too, if you’d rather have that.”

“Yeah, um, about that, Emma,” he says, sheepishly, “you actually don’t have the beer anymore.”

I put down the corkscrew and peek around the corner into the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa again, just like he was before. He looks over at me, and I put on my best ‘what are you talking about?’ face.

“I had to get two of my guys to help me finish your kitchen today, and I gave them those two six-packs when they left,” he says.

“Oh. Well, I guess this fine-ass kitchen was worth a couple of six-packs. Were they some of your friends from Saturday night, then?”

“Yes. But, don’t worry, I made them go up to my place to use the bathroom. I don’t want them looking at your stuff,” he says. “Ever.”

“I’m not worried one bit,” I say sarcastically, “especially now that I know we aren’t spending any energy on all that jealousy bullshit.”

“Very funny,” he says. “Seriously, I was just as worried about them stealing something as I was about them looking in your bathroom drawers.”

“I’m sure the tampons would have thrilled them,” I tease.

“That’s the truth, Emma.” He is teasing me back now. “After seeing what you did on Saturday night, those fuckers probably would have jacked off in there if they could have.”

“Someday I will have to meet these gentlemen,” I mock. “It’s a rare breed that is willing to jack off to a box of tampons. They sound like people I might like.”

“Maybe you could introduce them to your grandma,” David says in complete deadpan.

“Now there’s an idea!” I carry the full plates out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m completely famished now. And my grandma died a long time ago, so your friends are out of luck. Unless they are into that, too....” I cannot believe I just said that.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” David says, in jest—I hope, anyway.

When he gets to the table, he adds, “This looks great, Emma. Thanks.”

I open the bottle of red and pour us each a glass. We sit down opposite each other and start to eat.

“So, if you weren’t here eating with me, where would you be?” I ask him out of pure curiosity.

“Probably upstairs eating a sandwich or something. I’m not much of a cook. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad pretty much raised me—if you wanna call it that. He didn’t even know how to turn on the oven, let alone cook something in it. We ate a lot of fast food.” I can’t tell if he looks sad or if it’s merely resignation on his face.

“Oh. I’m sorry about your mom. Mine’s gone, too. She died when I was eighteen, a few months after I went to college. Car accident,” I say quietly. “Is your dad still around?”

“Yeah, but he lives in Illinois, where I grew up. I haven’t seen him in years. We didn’t get along so well. Actually, he might remind you of your stepdad.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I say, pouring on the inflection. “Michael is one hell of a fucked-up asshole. I don’t think anyone is rotten enough to deserve that comparison.” I sigh softly, then I quietly add, “I don’t know what kind of man your dad is, but he can’t possibly be like Michael.” I am hanging my head now. For some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel ashamed of myself. Ashamed that Michael is—was—part of my life.