Page 96 of Only for Love

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Grayson

Night has fallen, bringing with it serenity. Emma’s house makes me calm, and after a day with her family—with everyone justifiably looking for a reason to throw their jabs—I need this quiet. She put Cally to bed, and I’ve continued unpacking boxes, sorting through her things, which look so very Emma. The decorations are often handmade and a little funky. They’re reminders of the artsy girl I grew up with. So much is personalized, and her house looks the way I would have pictured it. I work my jaw back and forth, thinking that it also looks as if it could work forus.

Cally seems to be taking me in stride, too. We have a connection that makes me believe I’ll be a million times the dad Pops was to me. As each hour ticked by today, the kid grew more comfortable hanging on me, which made me fall that much more in love with her.

And her mama. Emma flat-out kills at this mom thing. She really does an amazing job—wiping Cally’s face, wiping her tears, laughing at a joke that no one else seems to understand, and communicating fluently in two-year-old speak. She rolls on the ground with Cally and lets her ride her like a horse. The entire time, Emma smiles, as though she hasn’t been struggling to make Cally’s life perfect while giving up her own.

“Hey, you.” Emma pads in wearing a loose T-shirt and pajama pants that swallow her up. Her face is scrubbed shiny clean, and that wild blond hair of hers is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head. Nothing is trying too hard, and everything about her is gorgeous. She steals my breath when she's not even trying.

“Cally asleep?”

She nods. Then her gaze lands on the notebook I decided against giving her today. It’s still wrapped, though the paper is starting to show wear on the edges. “I get to open it yet?”

My gut jumps. I don’t know why. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. But still, I’m anxious. “If you want. Not a big deal either way.”

She giggles and grabs it then jumps on the couch, snuggling into me before I can convince her it's just a silly gift. But it’s not, so even as Emma rips the paper to shreds, I bite my lip and wait for her reaction.

Her eyebrows pull up. “You got me a used notebook?”

I chuckle. “Something like that.”

“Should I open it?” Her fingers trail over the metal spiral binding.

A long sigh slips through my lips. “No idea.”

After holding my gaze, she stares at the notebook then carefully pulls back the cover and leafs through the pages. Not every page is dedicated to an explanation of enlisting. There are rambling notes from Trig and World History, plus some random notes that have nothing to do with right now. I thought about tearing those pages out but decided it would ruin the authenticity of the whole thing. I want her to experience remembering just as I did.

And it’s working. Her face softens, and her eyes are laser focused. Her head tilts as she slips back to high school—where we danced around what we felt and where I paid attention to every girl but the one I wanted while she thought the crackling air around us was one-sided. I can almost taste the nervousness of crossing the line, of telling her I was done ignoring us.

Nostalgia hangs over us both as she pages through the notebook.

“I hated Mrs. Rough’s World History,” she mumbles.

I nod. Emma senses something, probably reacting to my anticipation, and her fingers fidget.

“She wanted me to sit still in class and take notes like this.” Her fingers tap on the page. “But I had too much energy to be contained like that. Unlike you, Mr. Perfect Notes Guy.”

“Ha. I think I was trying to cover up for something worse at home.”

Her face falls. “Wish I’d known more than I did. Or earlier.”

“Not a big deal.”

She shrugs, blowing off my downplaying of Pops’s tendency to beat the crap out of me. I don’t want her guilt right now. “Can’t corral the creative type with lessons about random medieval battles. Right? You needed to… be dancing or something.”

A brief panic crosses her face.

“What?” I’m failing to get her to focus on the notebook.

“Nothing.” She shifts before whispering, “What if you came back and hated me?”

“Not possible.”

“What if you came back, and I disappointed you?”

“You couldn’t.”

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