I definitely don’t. But watching Emma shimmy through the glass—yeah, she knows I’m looking, and she doesn’t care—makes me think I might have to.
“Blow-dryer’s on the counter over there,” I say huskily. “Help yourself to whatever else you need.”
Thankfully, I prepped the lasagna last night, so I just have to pop it in the oven. Then I get started on the rest of the meal.
Being in the kitchen, I feel more steady. A little less like I’m gonna die from want. Food is something I’m good at. Food is what I know.
Without exception, food makes me feel centered.
So I decant a bottle of Emma’s Screaming Eagle (I’ll never not think of it as hers). I grill some romaine hearts. Shred a block of aged parmesan and toast day-old focaccia, then cut it into cubes that I’ll use as croutons.
I put the garlic knots in the oven beside the lasagna. Put on a Top 50 playlist I pray is not romantic in any way, shape, or form.
I light a fire in the family room.
All the while silently chanting a litany of affirmations.
You can be friendly.
You can be honest.
You can keep it in your pants.
Emma said living this way may be worth it in the end. But right now, it’s a kick in the balls.
Especially when Emma emerges from the shower. Her wet hair is brushed back from her face. Color in her cheeks. Eyes puffy.
Her vulnerable beauty knocks the wind out of me. She’s not trying to hide.
She’s not trying, period. She’s Emma as is.
She looks fucking adorable in my clothes.
“Hi,” she says. She’s got her phone in her hand.
I nod at it. “Hear from your date?”
“Not yet. I just sent him a message to cancel.”
“Bummer. You warm?”
“Getting there.”
I nod at the fireplace. “Sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Samuel.” Taking a seat on the raised edge of the hearth, she meets my eyes. “Go easy on me, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be so”—she gestures to the fire, the glass of wine I hand her, the food on the kitchen island—“awesome. I know I told you I hated him, but if you could bring back a little Samuel-from-before, you know, the jackass, I would appreciate it.”
I smile tightly. “Too late. That guy’s gone forever.”
We’re in trouble, her eyes say.
I know, mine say back.
I want her, I fucking want her, and from the way she’s looking at me, burning need written all over her face, she wants me too.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is making her feel better.
Honesty, bravery, authenticity—those are the things that light her up. She’s got something to share, something to get off her chest, but she’s tired and scared. It’s my turn to do the heavy lifting. Maybe after I bare my soul to her, she’ll feel comfortable baring hers to me.
So I tap my wineglass to hers and dive into the deep end.
“A friend and a teammate stabbed me in the back and ended my career.”
Emma’s eyes bulge, and she chokes on her wine. Pounding the side of her fist against her chest, she says, “What? Samuel, my God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—”
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about this shit, I’ll understand. But I want you to know I’m making an effort not to bullshit anymore. We can do small talk. But after meeting you, I gotta say it bores the hell out of me. It’s like you taught me how to talk to people. Really talk to them.”
She smiles down at her wine. “I didn’t have to teach you that.”
“Fine. You reminded me how to do it because somewhere along the way I’d forgotten.”
“That’s really cool of you to say,” she replies, looking up. She pats the hearth beside her. “So talk to me.”
I sit, careful to keep a good twelve inches or so between us, and talk.
The truth comes out in a torrent. How Olly Welch played the part of supportive teammate as second-string quarterback after Carolina drafted him five years into my career. He was wet behind the ears, but he was hungry, and he worked hard, and he took a real interest in learning what I had to teach him. He reminded me a lot of myself at his age.
We also shared an agent, so it wasn’t long before Olly and I became friends. When a torn ACL sidelined me halfway through my fifth season