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“Maybe.” I shrug.
“I don’t want to settle,” she says.
“Then, don’t.”
“Change is hard.”
I nod slowly. “But staying with someone when you’re not happy is worse than adjusting to the change.” I pause before continuing, “Maybe look at it as an adventure. It can be exciting to start something new. Look at me. Coming here from Cali is turning out to be a great move.”
She tilts her head and stares at me for so long that it makes me uncomfortable.
I stand up straight. “What?”
“You sound kind of wise all of a sudden,” she says, a hint of awe in her voice.
“I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, but never wise,” I say, brushing off the compliment.
We start walking to the end of the alleyway. I automatically turn toward the hotel instead of heading back into the bar. Emerson follows me.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she says. “And besides, I’m starting to think you sell yourself short at times.”
And I’m starting to think that I like the way you see me better than the way I see myself.
Emerson doesn’t notice the broken pieces when she looks at me. She sees me as whole instead. And somehow, I’m starting to feel glued back together.
We walk back to the hotel, side by side, but stick to less personal topics of conversation. She goes into her room, and I disappear into mine when we reach our floor. And the next morning, we leave to catch a flight back to Chicago. I realize it’s the first time in a while that I can remember not being hungover on the plane ride home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
EMERSON
I glance out the windows as the clouds gather across Lake Michigan. The horizon spans as far as I can see in the distance from this far up.
Sam doesn’t realize how lucky he is to live in a space with a million-dollar view like this.
I’ve finally made myself at home in the apartment that serves as my temporary home. I bite my lip as I study the canvas in front of me. Charcoal coats the tips of my fingers as I compare my progress to the scene unfolding outside. The picture doesn’t have any detail at that point, just a basic outline of what is going where. And then I’ll add the paint. I prefer to work with oil, and this time is no different.
I was trying to work in my bedroom initially, but when I came out to the kitchen to get something to drink, the lighting was so amazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and the view was so great as the storm clouds were building over the lake that I moved my easel and paints into the main room. And I’ve been here ever since.
“I’m not bothering you, am I, Emerson?” Milo says from the kitchen.
Milo is a chef that Sam hired when we got back into town. He’s a tall, charming guy, and he’s been friendly since we met earlier today. The plan is for him to come to the apartment two to three times a week and prepare healthy, hearty meals for Sam. Apparently, he worked for a professional basketball player in the past, so he knows all about the calorie content and nutritional requirements for athletes at this level. I guess my criticism of Sam’s poor eating habits hit home with the hockey player. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence that Milo showed up after we returned home from the West Coast. But I was still surprised when he arrived a few hours ago.
He’s in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. By the smells emanating, I’d say this guy was worth every penny, though I have no idea how much he gets paid. We’ll see if that stands when I taste his work sometime later, like I plan to.
“Not bothering me at all, Milo.” I smile over my shoulder at him. “Am I distracting you?”
“Well, you are nice to look at, Emerson, but, no … you aren’t distracting me.”
A blush fills my cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
He chuckles. “I know. I’m just teasing you.”
The door slams as Sam enters the space, glancing between Milo in the kitchen and me across the living room with a scowl across his handsome face. He looks turbulent, like the storm that’s building.
Milo wipes his hands on a dish towel and extends one toward my roommate. If the cook notices the hockey player’s foul expression, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Sam Anderson?”
Sam slaps his hand and pumps it once or twice. “Yep.”
