Chapter 22
I carefully rested my head against the couch. It was an old, obnoxious thing, and tended to swallow you if you weren't careful. Right now, I rather enjoyed that perk when I moved the sketchbook out of my lap and drew up my feet. I had called in sick for the last two days, and Frank was out with a client. I rather enjoyed the quiet. My headache was only a dull throb now, but the pills made me drowsy. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked quietly, and the sound lulled me to sleep.
I had no idea how long I'd been out when the doorbell rang, but it was dark outside. I wondered who it was until the opening of the door revealed a shy-looking Emmanuelle.
"Hey, you," she said and gave me a tentative smile.
"Hey, you." I blinked at her, still a bit groggy.
"I'm sorry for just turning up … again. I asked Remi for your address. I … wanted to check up on you. Bring back your shirt?"
"That's really nice of you." It was so unexpected to see her here that for a moment, I didn't know what to do. She looked adorable, with her wavy hair falling in loose curls down her back, and a soft woollen sweater peeking out from under her open coat. Her eyes were very green. They carried concern. And questions.
"Do you want to come in?" I asked and took the shirt from her to throw it behind me on the side table.
We walked towards the living room while she admired the interior of the house, and I was too occupied by her denim-clad backside to realise just what I'd left lying on the couch.
And sure enough, once she got there, the sketchbook was the first thing that she noticed. "Yours?" She refrained from picking it up, but I could see her interest.
You've already kissed her. Is it really so terrible if you show her this?
"You can look if you want."
She eagerly took it and started turning and studying the pages. It didn't take long until she got to the last one, fingers pausing over the paper. "You sketched me?"
"You make a good model," I murmured, embarrassment spreading wings in my belly. "I hope you're not offended."
Her fingers reverently traced the lines. "How could I be offended?"
I stepped close enough to peer at the sketch in her hands. "You like it?"
"It's incredible, Sam. So much power in a few thin lines."
"Thanks." Her obvious pleasure made my unease dissipate. She was still staring at the sketch when I lightly nudged her shoulder. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just blown away because you captured me almost perfectly." She hesitated, and her eyebrows twitched.
"What is it? You frowned."
"No, it's just…"
"What? Go on. I won't be offended, I promise."
"I don't have earlobes."
I did a double take. "Oh, god. I'm so sorry! I'm not great with ears, and I never got a chance to look, and if I did, I thought you would think I was staring and being weird or … you know, there was this woman that I kinda spied on at the park." I sucked in a breath at hearing how that sounded. "I mean, not spied, of course. I just kind of happened to be there, with my brush, and she was also … uh … there."
I should just throw myself out the window. Make it quick.
"I get it, I get it. Relax." She laughed. "Didn't you ever think to look for a magazine or something with my picture on it?"
I stilled, feeling very stupid. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."
Emmanuelle laughed again, that deep melodious sound that turned my insides into a wobbling mess and, after a second, I joined in. She was right. The whole thing was funny. Grinning, she finally caught my gaze. We were standing close enough together that I could feel the heat of her body. Her expression seemed to draw me forward until our faces were only inches apart.
"I had wondered whether you remembered what happened that night," she whispered, and I could feel the breath she expelled on my cheek.
"I remember," I said.
Then I kissed her.
The kiss was careful at first, unhurried and gentle in its exploration but, slowly, it deepened, and I felt my breath leave when she tugged at my lower lip with her teeth. My fingers moved of their own accord, wandering into her hair, oh that luscious, luscious hair, where I pressed my nails into the back of her head.
A moan fell from her lips that made my whole stomach drop.
I touched the tantalizing line of naked skin that peeked out above her jeans, the smoothness making me shiver. Would she be this smooth everywhere? Would running my lips over the rest of her body be as addictive as kissing her? The heat was like a building furnace in the lower regions of my belly.
When one of her hands gripped the side of my face, I grunted in pain, causing both of us to break apart.
"Sorry. Damn, I'm sorry," she said breathlessly.
The pain made me grimace, but I was more upset at the worry on her face. Caressing the lines of her frown with my fingertips, I worked on evening out my breathing. "It's alright. It doesn't hurt all that much."
At least not when you kiss me like that.
Emmanuelle carefully touched the bruise on my temple. "You should lie down. Here I am, coming over to make sure you rest and then keeping you from doing anything of the sort."
My heartbeat still hadn't recovered, but as much as I wanted to kiss her again, the throbbing in my head told me she was right. "Are you going to stay?"
"Do you want me to?"
I did. So she stayed.
Together we settled on the couch. At some point, I must have just fallen asleep. I dreamed about racing through the cherry blossom fields with my mother. At least until Paul's sneering face appeared. He came out of nowhere and lifted his fist as if to strike me, but the moment he did, another, deeper memory fought its way to the surface.
"Did you remember to bring your homework?" my mother asked from the passenger seat.
It was late, but the car was going fast, and I could hardly make out the dark shapes of the scenery flying past. I knew it would be another twenty minutes before we reached Grandpa's. We made this trek so many times.
"Yeah, I did," I said quietly.
My father's voice was scornful. "What is it? Speak up, Samantha. And you say yes, ma'am. Not yeah." I didn't need to see his face to know it carried a sneer. I didn't like how he said my name, emphasizing every syllable. There were days I wasn't even sure who Samantha really was … certainly not me, who was nothing like the daughter he wanted.
"Yes, sir."
He nodded before punching the gas. I felt nausea fill my stomach and tried not to look at his unused seat belt. I disliked when he drove so fast. With my own belt pressing against my belly, I at least felt a little safer. He always left it off because he thought seatbelts were for wimps.
"Joshua, you shouldn't speed. It's dark and—"
My father hit his hand against the steering wheel with a snap. My mother jerked back.
"Don't tell me what to do! And not one word to my father about me losing my job!"
I made myself smaller in the back seat, not able to quench my growing unease. I should have told my mother about the whiskey I'd seen him dump into his coffee. He always got so unpredictable when he started drinking early.
"But your father, he could help."
"Enough! I do not want his help! You always talk too m-"
Headlights burst into being in front of us.
"Joshua, watch out!"
My father ripped around the wheel. The car swerved and shot off the road only to heave over the uneven field, then it hit an embankment. Swearing loudly, he tried getting it back onto the road, but he wasn't slowing down.
We hit a bump. The tyres left the ground, the force lifting me up and slamming me into my seatbelt. Glass broke. Metal snapped and groaned in agony.
There were screams.
Then darkness … but only for a minute.
I somehow got out of the vehicle. When I came to, I lay on the rough asphalt. The ringing in my ears made me throw up. Heaving, I tried to move, but such a blinding pain shot through my left leg that, for a moment, I even forgot how to breathe.
Only after, the screams registered. The screams and the smoke, and the heat coming from the left. With difficulty, I rolled just a little to turn my head.
Flames shot out of the car, the biting smoke making my eyes water, and I stared in abject horror when I heard my mother's desperate calls for help.
No. Oh, please no.
I tried. Even with a twelve-inch-long glass shard buried in my left leg, I tried. Tried to stand up, tried to crawl closer. But the pain was vicious and seized almost every rational thought, and my legs wouldn't support me, and the smoke made wracking coughs shake my lungs.
So, I tried in vain. And in the end, I had to listen to my mother burn.
I woke to the sounds of my own ragged breathing, the whimper still stuck in my throat. Emmanuelle gently rocked me in her arms. "It's a dream. It's just a dream."
Shuddering, I clung to her, to the safety that she represented, trying to forget the smell of smoke and blood and the sounds of all that screaming. Slowly, oh-so-slowly, I felt myself calm down. "I'm sorry." My voice was hoarse.
She gave me a tender look and stroked my hair when I leaned against her. "Nightmare?"
I nodded mutely.
"You're okay. It's not real."
Oh, how I wished that was the case. How I wished that I had normal nightmares like a normal person: of screwing up at work, or spiders, or some stupid scary movie. But no, my nightmares were the real deal. There was nothing worse than being the silent spectator of the worst day of your life over and over, again.
"It's not just any nightmare," I heard myself explain. Suddenly, I really needed her to know. "I told you about my father, right? He was a very angry man. So angry that he managed to destroy everything I ever loved."
"What happened?"
"He killed himself … in a car accident." I sucked in a breath, seeing the wreckage before my eyes and the merciless flames. "Himself and my mother, two days before my fifteenth birthday."
"Oh, Sam." Emmanuelle carefully brushed away the tears on my cheeks. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry."
Now that she knew it, I couldn't seem to stop talking. "He'd been drinking, and he was going way too fast. There was a pickup truck. He tried to evade it but, instead, his actions made the car flip over."
"Where were you?"
"I was sitting in the back seat."
There was horror on her face then, and she wrapped her arms around me tightly, as if she needed to make sure that I was there and in one piece.
"That day I started hating him. I don't think I've ever stopped. And, sometimes, it's just very hard to accept that I'm the only one who survived." More of my tears fell onto her woollen sweater.
"Shhh," she said and drew me closer.
I let her calm me down, and the only thing I heard for the next few minutes was her steady breathing. With a sigh, I moved to lean back against the couch. Silence ensued, but it wasn't an awkward one. A thought jumped into my head.
"You know, I wanted to talk to you about something. I know you were surprised to hear about me teaching at the local college. I'm sorry that I didn't mention it. I didn't mean to hide anything. I just have trouble opening up." The last part I said very, very softly.
She searched my face. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. And I'm beginning to understand a lot of things. Thank you for trusting me with your secrets."
"Well, sometimes secrets can be good things, too." I weakly chuckled. "I remember a certain painting I was most surprised about."
Amusement drew up the corners of her mouth. "I'm glad you liked it."
"Understatement of the century."
I averted my eyes, feeling shy, but my heart was galloping away.
"What?" she asked.
I didn't know what to say again, so I took her hand and laid it carefully over my heart. Her eyes widened at the speed of my pulse. We sat there a long time, listening to my heartbeat. It didn't seem to want to settle down.
"Is it always like this?" Her hand wandered up to my neck to stroke it, and I could feel the effect that action was having in the way my toes curled.
"I can't do anything about it," I whispered. It was terrifying to show her how much she affected me, but it also thrilled me and managed to show me just how tired I'd become of bottling up my emotions. Where would this lead? Where could this lead? To tears and heartbreak … or to something else?
"I don't want you to do anything about it," Emmanuelle whispered. "But I do think we should talk. Properly. And not when you're maxed out on pain meds." She hesitated. "I have to go to New York for a few days first, though."
"Oh." A spear of disappointment stabbed my gut.
She sighed. "I realise that this is really bad timing. But please don't think that I'm trying to avoid you or anything."
"If you need to go, you need to go. You don't owe me any explanation, Emmanuelle."
"See, and that's not how I feel. You're … I mean, I care about you, Sam. Very much. And you're my friend. I want to do this right."
That both terrified and emboldened me. She leaned forward and gave me a gentle kiss. Even that one had enough power to make me feel shaky.
By god, I wanted this woman.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds before slowly opening them again. They were much darker than usual. "I'll see you soon."
"Yeah, see you soon," I said and watched her leave.
I wondered if I would ever tell her the end of the story, about how my father died on impact by breaking his neck. About how the rescue teams had managed to get my mother out of the burning wreckage and rushed her to the hospital. About who had really killed her in the end.