Page 40 of Quarantine Crush
I stop, uncertain. I’m not an idiot. When a girl says she’s fine, that usually means it’s time to be very afraid.
But she nods, looking more settled now. “Yeah. Seriously. I love that song.”
The smile she flashes seems genuine, so I go back to playing, still watching her warily for some sign that I’ve somehow upset her again. Instead, she sways to the music, smiling.
A second instrument joins me, and I falter, searching for the source. Through the darkness, I spot someone standing on a balcony across the street. She’s barely visible from where she stands several stories above us, but I can make out a woman playing the violin.
“Keep going,” Emy urges me, and I hurry to catch up to the melody again. Louder this time.
Emy laughs. It’s a sound made of pure enjoyment. With no trace of the awkwardness or weird tension we’ve been battling all day. Or all week. Hearing it now, with her eyes twinkling back at me in the moonlight, I feel as if I’ve won some sort of contest, watching her smile like that. At me.
Finally, the world makes sense again.
The song ends, and Emy begins to clap, but it’s soon drowned out by other cheers. I look up and around and spot several spectators on their respective balconies.
“Encore,” they shout.
I glance up at the violinist, and she bows then extends her hand toward me in a gesture to keep going.
“Any requests?” I ask Emy.
“Do you think she knows Use Somebody by Kings of Leon? Or Gives You Hell by The All-American Rejects?”
“How about we go with one from our crybaby playlist?”
I strum a few chords of Elastic Hearts by Sia until I see the recognition in her eyes. This used to be our jam. Emy had added it to the playlist we shared full of songs for when we were feeling down. I wait for the smile to follow. But instead, a haunted look washes over her.
From behind me, the violinist joins in, and if it weren’t for the grief-stricken look Emy is wearing, I’d be impressed by our impromptu concert. But I can’t take my eyes off Emy’s, not now that hers are filling with tears.
I stop playing and step closer, ignoring the yells from the crowd who want me to keep the impromptu concert going.
“Emy, what is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “Nothing,” she whispers. “I’m a little tired. I’m going to go to bed.”
She turns and disappears inside. I take a step to follow, to chase her down and insist that she talk to me or at least let me comfort her against whatever inner demons have seized her. But I don’t make it past the threshold when I hear the distinct click of her bedroom door closing. It’s a sound I've sadly come to know well since arriving. The sound of my failure as a friend.
12
Embry
My heart beats wildly against my chest, my breaths coming quickly as I blink away the tears that won’t stop falling. I hadn’t expected the rush of emotion that would come with seeing Knox play again–and on that damn guitar no less. I barely managed to keep it together on the balcony, but the second I made it inside, the dam holding all of my emotions broke, threatening to drown me in its wake.
Pushing the bedroom door shut behind me, I cross the room and sit on the edge of my bed. My head falls into my hands as I try to calm myself, but the sound of my door slamming open has me jumping in surprise. Knox crosses the room in quick strides and sinks down to the floor in front of me, his chocolatey eyes swimming with confusion.
“Tell me what I did wrong.” His voice is harsh, but his hands are gentle as his thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks. “Shit. I’m sorry, Em. Just tell me what I did, and I promise I’ll never do it again.”
His words are meant to calm me, but they have the opposite effect, and suddenly sobs are wracking my body. Knox’s strong arms wrap around me, and I’m vaguely aware of his murmured words as he moves to sit beside me on the bed. I curl into his chest, grabbing his shirt for dear life as I fall to pieces in his arms.
The feel of Knox’s rough hand rubbing soothing circles on my back is the first thing I notice when I finally start to settle. His other hand plays with strands of my hair as he hums low against my ear. It takes me a minute to recognize the tune as Shallow from that Lady Gaga movie, but when I do, my heart gives another painful squeeze. I hiccup, and Knox’s movements become a bit firmer as he murmurs words of comfort.
The more I get myself under control, the more I’m able to take in my surroundings. And suddenly, I’m very aware of the fact that I’m curled up in Knox’s lap on my bed. Unease curls in the pit of my stomach, and I move to get off of him–desperate to put some distance between us now that my embarrassment is making itself known. In all the time I’ve known Knox, he’s probably only seen me cry a handful of times, and something about him being here to witness me falling apart makes me feel too bare. Like I’ve given him too much power by letting him see me this vulnerable. His arms tighten around me as I begin to wiggle.
“I’ve got you, Emy,” he whispers.
I shake my head against his chest, realizing I’ve soaked the front of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” I croak, my voice hoarse from crying. “I ruined your shirt.”
Knox shrugs into the darkness. “It’s just tears. It’ll dry,” he says, his voice gruff. “And even if it wasn’t, I don’t give a shit. Hell, I don’t care if you need to use it to blow your nose.”
