Page 9 of Quarantine Crush
But two beers later, Embry still hasn’t reappeared, and I’m no closer to forgetting.
In fact, the longer I stand in her quiet apartment, the more uncomfortable it gets.
What the fuck?
Embry and I have been friends since we were kids, and not once has she ever done something like this. She’s never given me any hints she’devenconsiderus as anything more than friends. Hell,I’venever even considered trying to make it something more.
Shit, that’s a lie.
Maybe I have. Once or twice. But I’m not that much of an idiot. No girl–or woman, I should say after seeing her tonight–has ever been there for me like Embry Hess. And I can’t afford to fuck up my relationship with the one person who has always understood me. Sex is everywhere. A connection like the one I have with Embry is once in a lifetime.
The need to fix this rides me hard. I have to do something.
The clock on the stove reads ten. A little late, but I know my mom will be up.
I pull out my phone and dial the number, straining to listen for any sign that Emy’s awake. But the apartment is eerily silent, and no light shines from the crack beneath her bedroom door.
I creep to the far side of the living room and slip out onto the balcony, just in case, as I wait for my mom to pick up.
Sure as shit, she answers on the second ring.
“Knox? Hi, honey.”
“Mom, listen–”
“Did you make it to Embry’s all right? You never called.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m here, but–”
“Good, your father was just asking about you. I’ll tell him you made it.”
“Is Dad up?”
“Yes, he’s right here. Why?” Her voice changes, registering concern at my harried tone.
“Can you put him on?”
As much as I love my mother, my dad’s the one I go to for women problems. Not that there’ve been many of those, but . . . this is Emy we’re talking about.
“Sure. Is everything okay, sweetheart?” My mom sounds worried now.
Shit.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to ask him about work.”
“I understand. Let me get him.”
There’s a shuffle on her end and some murmuring that makes it clear my mom doesn’t believe my excuse about work but is letting it go.
Then, my dad comes on. “Why are stadiums so cool?” I bite back a groan at the dad joke. It’s nothing new. My pop is a walking stereotype where dad jokes are concerned, including the fact that he always laughs the hardest at his own jokes.
“Dad, listen, I can’t–”
“Because they’re full of fans.” He cracks up, and all I can do is wait it out.
Finally, he quiets and pulls himself together. “Sorry about that. You know the fee for my fatherly advice. Everything okay over there?”
“Dad, listen, would you mind coming to get me?”
