Page 286 of Small Town Firsts

“Such a giver.” Her playful tone is a shock to my system, but I decide to roll with it.

“Typically, I prefer to take.” I wink. “But something about seeing you in my space has me feeling particularly hospitable.”

“Lucky me.”

“Why don’t you head out to the deck, and I’ll throw these sandwiches together and join you?”

“Are you sure don’t need help?”

“I am one-hundred percent sure I can slap meat between some bread.”

She hesitates for only a moment, a dopey smile on her face, before the tempting view lures her toward the massive sliding glass doors.

As soon as she steps outside, I take what feels like my first full breath since she walked into class this morning.

Something about seeing her in my shirt, in my space, it feels right. Natural, even. Which is downright terrifying.

Maybe bringing her here wasn’t the best idea after all...

I shake the thought off. Too late now.

In the kitchen, I make quick work of plating up some turkey sandwiches, along with some fresh fruit and leftover pasta salad.

“It’s beautiful, right?” I step onto the deck, our lunch tray precariously balanced in my right hand.

“Oh!” She tears herself away from the view and rushes toward me. “Let me help you.”

I set the tray down onto the table with a flourish. “I’ve got it. Let me take care of you, Emmalyn. Something tells me very few people have ever bothered to do that.”

“To do what?”

I slide out a chair for her and help her into it. “Take care of you.” She blushes as she sits, and I help scoot her into the table.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling I get.” I grab two waters from my outdoor fridge and join her. “Am I wrong?”

She drops her eyes to her plate and pokes at the fruit with her fork. “I guess you’re right.”

“You deserve to be taken care of.” I almost gag at the saccharine words leaving my mouth. But I also kind of mean them.

She pops a grape into her mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “I think I do okay taking care of myself.” She scrunches her nose. “Most days at least.”

“Your mom isn’t there for you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I’m fairly certain if you looked upgold diggerin the dictionary, Sarah Pearson’s picture would be printed beside the definition.

“Um. Well.” She sets her fork down and wraps her arms around herself. “She... her marriage... when everything came to a head, she decided her status meant more than my suffering.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Suffer?”

Emmalyn laughs uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“It’s a fairly simple question.” I’m not sure what I’m hoping to gain here, but I keep pushing, hoping for a crack, a fissure, some kind of chink in her armor.

“Yes.” She whispers the word with her eyes still downcast. “Every day.”

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