Page 57 of Hooked on Emerson
The steps creaked beneath her boots, announcing her presence before she could knock. Ava adjusted her grip on the bouquet, the paper crinkling softly. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of movement. She raised her hand and knocked.
For a moment there was only silence. Then footsteps approached, sounding unhurried. The door opened.
Emerson stood in the doorway, the light from inside casting warm shadows across his face. He wore an old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine sawdust. A small smear of something dark marked his cheekbone, maybe paint or stain. His eyes met hers, surprise giving way to something more cautious.
At first, neither of them spoke. The world narrowed to just this—his eyes on hers, the space between them, the bouquet in her hands.
Then his gaze dropped to the flowers.
She held them out to him, the paper crinkling slightly as she extended her arms.
"Hi," she said, the word soft but clear.
He took the bouquet carefully, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer. The brief contact sent a current up her arm, familiar and new all at once. He looked down at the flowers, his expression unreadable as he studied them.
"I'm not here to—" she began, then paused, searching for the right words. "I'm not here to explain why I stayed," she said finally, her voice quiet but surprisingly steady. "I think you already know."
His eyes lifted to hers again, waiting. Patient. A muscle in his jaw worked slightly, the only sign of tension in his otherwise still face.
"I'm here to ask," Ava continued, heart beating against her ribs, "what you want to build next. With me."
The bouquet shifted slightly in his hands, a single freesia petal falling to the porch floor between them. It landed on the weathered wood, bright yellow against gray, like a small declaration.
Emerson's gaze held hers for what felt like forever. Then, slowly, he stepped back from the doorway, just far enough to let her in. The movement wasn't grand or dramatic. Just a simple opening, an invitation without words.
Warmth spilled out from inside from the scent of coffee, wood, and something baking. Home, in its simplest form.
Ava took a breath, feeling the magnitude of the moment, of the choice she freely made. Then she crossed the threshold, the old boards warm beneath her feet.
Emerson's home was smaller than Ava had imagined, worn in the way of places that had been lived in rather than merely occupied. The front room opened directly into a kitchen with wooden countertops burnished by years of use, their edges softened by time and care. Books lined one wall—woodworking manuals with dog-eared pages, nature guides marked with pressed leaves, and to her surprise, several poetry collections with cracked spines. A half-carved wooden bird sat on the coffee table, tools arranged in a precise semicircle beside it, as if paused midway through.
The space smelled of cedar and coffee and, faintly, of the lavender he'd planted outside, as if the scent had followed him in on his clothes and settled into the fibers of the furniture.
The silence between them felt heavy but not suffocating. Emerson still held the bouquet, his fingers careful around thestems as if they might disappear if he gripped too firmly. The paper crinkled softly as he moved to set it on the small dining table near the kitchen. A beam of late afternoon sunlight caught the flowers, illuminating the deep red of the roses, the purple of the lavender, the bright yellow of the freesia—colors suddenly more vibrant against the muted tones of his home.
"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, his voice quiet in the stillness.
"No," Ava said, finding her own voice. "Thank you."
Her eyes traveled around the room, absorbing the details of his life. A framed photograph of him and Mason from years ago, both younger, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grins wide and unguarded. A bookshelf with carefully arranged tools, each one in its place, handles facing the same direction. A blue mug on the counter, half-full of coffee gone cold. Everything neat but lived-in. Comfortable, warm.
"I'm not here to explain why I stayed," she said, her voice soft in the quiet room. "You already know."
Emerson nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. The caution in his expression hadn't fully retreated, but something else had joined it. Hope, perhaps. Or the beginning of belief.
He gestured toward the couch, an invitation. She sat, the cushions giving slightly beneath her weight, the fabric worn soft at the edges. He settled beside her, not touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, could see the fine sawdust clinging to his sleeve, the small scar near his eyebrow she'd noticed that first day in Nattie's studio.
"Seattle wasn't what I expected," she began, her hands resting in her lap. "The studio was beautiful, but in a cold way. Everything was white, precise and perfect."
She remembered the preserved moss bin she'd touched in the materials library, how stiff it had felt against her fingers, treatedto maintain its color at the expense of its natural texture. How the whole place had felt like that, preserved rather than living.
"I kept looking for something that wasn't there," she continued. "Some warmth or connection or... life. The designs were incredible. Architectural. Innovative. But they didn't feel like they were meant to be held or touched or even really seen up close. Just admired from a distance."
Emerson listened, his eyes steady on her face. His hands rested on his knees, the knuckles slightly rough from work, a small nick on his thumb that hadn't been there when she'd left. She found herself wanting to reach for them, to feel their familiar texture against her skin, but she held back. There were things that needed saying first.
"I realized I was chasing distance instead of purpose," she said. "Running from grief instead of building something new from it." A small smile touched her lips. "My mother would have hated that studio. All that white. No music. No one talking while they worked."
The corner of Emerson's mouth lifted slightly. "Not exactly Bloom & Vine."
