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I don’t know why it bothered me so much, seeing him flirting with her. But he doesn’t know what she is to me. She could be much more than a simple roommate. It was disrespectful for him to look at her like that, especially when I was in the room.
And I don’t know why I blamed her for it more than him. But Emerson has started to penetrate those layers I have around me. The ones I use to keep others out. She’s in my house now and traveling with my team. She was in my hotel room that night in Seattle. She’s seen some of my weaknesses and peeled away some of my armor. I’m starting to feel vulnerable when she’s around, and I hate it. It was easier to be mean and push her buttons … to push her away. I’m good at that.
Milo means nothing to me, though I’ll admit the guy can cook. If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t hit on her again. I can always find another chef.
I spear a carrot and then another, chewing and swallowing before I take another bite. I clean my plate, though the food doesn’t taste as good as it would’ve if I hadn’t run Doe off. I know I was an asshole and that she didn’t deserve my attitude tonight. But my pride keeps me from walking across the apartment and apologizing. And worry keeps my brain consumed with things other than my bad behavior.
I put my empty plate in the dishwasher, along with my glass, and I walk closer to the painting in the corner. The charcoal lines that are still visible tell me she just started the work today. The clouds that have paint are building and dark, like a storm is approaching. I can’t help but feel the picture resembles my life. There always seems to be a disturbance brewing, usually something I’ve stirred up, like the stupid, meaningless argument. All I did was make Emerson feel as bad as I was feeling, which made me feel even worse. If there’s one thing I’ve always excelled at, it’s self-sabotage.
My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I lift it out and see my mom’s name flashing across the screen.
“Hello?” I answer quickly.
“Sam, is this a good time?” she asks.
I can’t read the tone of her voice. Was that a quiver I detected?
My stomach clenches, and I close my eyes for a moment, attempting to steady my voice. “Yeah, Mom, it’s a good time. What’s up?”
A door opens and closes down the hallway. I look up to see Emerson carrying an empty plate to the dishwasher and depositing it inside. She’s wearing a sweater over her clothes, and she has a bag slung over her shoulder. She meets my eyes across the room, but says nothing. There’s accusation in her gaze before she dismisses me altogether, and I’ve earned every bit of her ire tonight.
“I got my results today. I guess the doctor got hung up with work, so he just called a few minutes ago …”
Emerson walks across the room and leaves through the front door without a word or another glance backward.
“I’m clear,” she declares, and I can hear the relief in her voice.
I breathe out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. “That’s great, Mom. Time to break out the lemon cake.”
“Your dad just left to get it,” she says. I do hear a quiver in her voice this time, but it’s from relief.
I don’t tell her that I was worried or that I feel a million times lighter from the news. I don’t tell her how much she means to me, hoping she knows by the sound of my voice. I wipe away some moisture that’s collected in my eyes.
“I love you, Mom.” I need to tell her this more.
“I know, Sam. I love you too.”
“We’ll celebrate the next time you come up for a game,” I promise, meaning every word. “I found a new pizza place for us to try.”
My mom loves the deep-dish pizza that the city is known for.
We talk for a little longer about the team and how things are going here in Chicago. We’re both happier when we hang up the call. Relieved to have another six months of remission in front of us.
I walk over to the pantry and remove the small takeout container that I hid in here yesterday, containing the lemon cupcake. I unwrap it and take a bite, thinking it tastes just as sweet as the one did a few months ago. Maybe even better. And I feel more connected with my mom and dad, knowing they’re going to be doing the same thing tonight. Celebrating life. Her life.
I dump the crumbs into the trash after I’m done and glance around the space. I take a seat on the couch and watch a hockey game on television. The silence of the apartment is louder and harsher tonight. During intermission, I rise and walk down the hall to Emerson’s room. She left her door open, and I glance inside. The room is a nice size, though her bed and furniture consume most of the space. Some of her art stuff is crammed into the corner.
I pass her room and step into the one at the end of the hall. It houses a bed for guests, the same as the third room in this area that sits across the way. The fourth bedroom was converted into an office when I moved in.
I don’t need two guest rooms.
Maybe it’s guilt or penance. But my mind is spinning with ideas as I start to plot and plan.
I head back to the couch and finish watching the game alone. A little later, I go to bed in an empty apartment. As I lie in the dark, unable to sleep, I wonder why my stomach is still clenched with an uneasy feeling.
Mom is okay, I remind myself.
But the feeling doesn’t go away. And I’m starting to think it has very little to do with my mom at this point and everything to do with the fact that Emerson never returned home tonight.
