Page 49 of Crushes to WHAT

I continue sorting through the trembles, and the shivers, and the bouncy nerves peppering my skin with goosebumps.

Today, I’m going to meet Emerson’s parents. It’s not often that I actually meet someone, particularly in October, but it does happen. Even in a town this small, there are bound to be a handful of people whose paths I’ve never crossed for some reason or another. Emerson’s parents are homebodies, according to a briefing Poem sent me this morning. They don’t go to the bar. They only go to the grocery store first thing in the morning, when it’s less busy. They go on dates twice a month, once to the movie theater in the city, and once to the diner, but they time their diner visit to ensure there’s no risk of bustling activity, and they only see matinee movies.

They’re nice, Poem says, but she’s only met them because they’re at the diner at around 2:00 PM, which is when she will, occasionally, stop in for what she deems “a delicious breakfast!” Read: a brisket sandwich and a housemade lemonade.

They’re going to love me, she says.

They love everyone, just not being around everyone, she says.

Please don’t spend all day fretting about, organizing and reorganizing spaces that don’t need it, she says.

As if I would ever.

Everything I’ve organized today needed it quite desperately, thank you very much. Specifically this tote desperately needed a purge, after which I’ll return it to my closet empty and fresh and ready to be filled for the next purge. And like the tote, I will be likewise refreshed once I’ve rid my home of all unnecessary clutter.

Fox will be thrilled to have the clutter at his apartment instead.

Behind me, the handle on the studio door rattles as Emerson lets himself in with a key I gave him shortly after he started work for me.

I twist, hold a tube of frizz-control hair oil aloft, and ask my fake-boyfriend-real-fiancé, “Do you think Fox needs frizz control more than homeless women?” My hand quivers, and so does my voice.

Emerson’s arms hold two bountiful bouquets of wildflowers. They look average-sized in his embrace, meaning they’re probably the size of a large dog, and they likely cost the amount of a large dog, too.

I blink at the colorful blooms.

Emerson frowns at me, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

I laugh, nervously, and the tube drops out of my hand and into the pile for the shelter. I let that be my decision.

“Almond?” Emerson fully enters the room, tapping the door with his foot to shut it. He drops to a knee on the dirty tarp, bringing us mostly face-to-face.

I inhale sharply. “Your parents are going to hate me,” I blurt. “Also you have to stand up, because those pants look like really nice pants, and you’re definitely going to ruin them if you stay like that. In fact, please don’t touch anything else in this room. If you show up to your parents disheveled, they’re really going to hate me, and I can hardly stand the thought of them regular hating me. I can’t have them really hating me. I’ll die.”

“Aha,” he replies, face clearing. His head tilts, and he considers my buzzing form for several long, anxiety-inducing moments. His head rights, and he gives a decisive nod. “Alright then, come with me.”

He rises and takes my hand to pull me up after him.

“Where are we going?” I ask, eyeing the mess of bottles and canisters we’re leaving behind.

“House,” he answers, stating the obvious as we walk through the hallway that leads from my studio to my kitchen. “I need to put your flowers in a vase, so we’re going to have to multi-task during this conversation.”

We reach the kitchen, and he gently prods me out of the way while he goes about retrieving my second-favorite vase from the cabinet above my fridge and filling it with water. He drops the bouquets on the counter as water falls from the faucet, then addresses me while he opens my junk drawer to retrieve scissors. “My mom likes to read. She prefers retellings—fairytales, classics, myths, whatever. I think she likes the familiarity and comfort in knowing what’s going to happen, but gets bored reading the original stories more than once. Her favorite color is peach, but she hates the flavor.” He cuts through the brown paper holding one of the bouquets together and starts chipping off the end of each previously-hidden stem. “She was a stay-at-home mom for us growing up and when Eris and I moved out, she spent a couple of years feeling unsure about herself and her place in the world. She plowed through hobbies, mostly needlework and art, but eventually settled on puzzling, and now she enters online puzzle competitions several times a month. She even went to a state competition in person last year. She’s really good, and she’s really fast.”

He twists, still speaking, to turn off the water and retrieve the vase. “My dad goes to every single event of hers, and he went to every single event that Eris and I had as kids, and he goes to every single event we have as adults. He is, by all accounts, a very present husband and father, even though we all know he’d rather hole up in his workshop than venture out into the public, where it’s loud and people are rude and he can’t control every variable to make sure we’ll be safe.” He carefully places each flower and leafy sprig in the vase, arranging them just so to his satisfaction. “Dad’s big, like me, but he’s… different than me. Rougher, maybe. He’s not concerned about if anyone is scared of him, because if they’re scared of him, that means they won’t bother his wife or his kids. I’m not sure what his job is. Something top secret for some for-profit company that helps kids, somehow. If I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure that what he does is legal, but I know my dad, and I trust that if it isn’t legal, it’s at least good, so it doesn’t bother me. If it does bother you, we can talk about it, but it’s not something I have any control over for him, and I can only really assure you that I have no plans of taking up any illegal jobs, even if they are net good for the world.

“Eris is… Eris. She’s doing her whatever right now, and she’s stubborn, so I don’t know when she’ll stop, but I do believe she’ll come around eventually. I’m more than happy to have a talk with her to make that ‘eventually’ be sooner rather than later, though.” He sighs and pokes a final flower into place before gathering up the discarded stem ends onto the brown paper, wrapping them up into a ball, and throwing the whole thing away. “We can see how she behaves tonight,” he offers. “Then decide how we want to move forward.”

My heart beats heavy in my chest as he places the vase, now overflowing with gorgeous late-summer flowers, on the middle of the island.

His gaze bores into me, brown eyes simmering with intensity. “I don’t care if my family loves you, or even if they like you, Almond. But I can see that you do care, so I hope that a little bit of a cheat sheet into their lives and interests can be of use in settling your nerves. They’re just people, really, the same as everyone else you interact with day in and day out. They have lives, jobs, and hobbies. Get Mom talking about her puzzles or her kids, and you’ll have a hard time shutting her up. Get Dad going about his wife or his children, and you’ll have the same problem. Eris is either going to behave like the same Eris you’ve known for years, or she’s going to behave like a sister who thinks she’s protecting her brother when really she has no clue what I want or need. And you will be you. Cute, and endearing, and lovable to the point where even if they don’t fall into your trap tonight, I have no doubt that they will soon enough.”

Tears prick my eyes, and I take a shaky breath. “Thank you,” I whisper wetly. “I…” I sniffle. “I really appreciate you telling me all of that.”

His gaze softens. “I will always give you whatever you need, Almond. If it’s within my power, you’ll have it, and if it’s not within my power, I’ll make it within my power, and you’ll have that, too. Whatever it is. My words, my time, my money, my presence. My parents taught me how to be there for family, and you are going to be my family. If anyone—Eris included—tries to make you feel anything but welcome in my life, I’ll handle it.”

“Eris is fine.” My voice cracks, and his eyes narrow. “Really,” I insist. “I’m not worried about Eris. It’s just your parents, but now—thanks to you—I at least have talking points if I need them. Maybe the worst part about this evening will just be seeing Eris’ faded ends and grown out roots.” My joke doesn’t quite land, probably because it’s not quite a joke, but it cuts the thickness in the air regardless.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, shoulders relaxing as he glances at the clock on my stove. Proud eyes feather whisper-light phantom kisses across my skin when his attention returns to me. “It’s time to torture you with my sister’s hair, then, and show you off to my parents. Let’s go show them just how lovable you are.”