Page 54 of The E.M.M.A. Effect
“Who do you think you are talking to?” I make a face. “I’m not the Clean Police, whatever you got going on around here is fine—it’s your home.”
“The thing is...” He takes off his ball cap and runs a hand over his head, mussing up his thick waves before resetting it in placeand adjusting the brim back so I can see his eyes. “Icare. I just want it to be nice, okay?”
For you...
Those are the unspoken words.
This is different. He isn’t trying to dazzle me with a spotless kitchen or a facade of perfection. Instead, he is inviting me into his real life, dirty dishes and all, while still wanting to make an effort. It is a small thing, really, but it speaks volumes.
“Okay,” I respond. “I’ll explore your den. I haven’t really hung out here before.”
“I’ll be five minutes max.” And he is gone.
Even in his absence there’s a charge, like nature’s holding its breath in anticipation. It’s that moment before a storm when the trees seem to lean in over a lake. The water’s surface? Smooth as silk, not a ripple in sight, not even a dragonfly skimming the surface. And yet my senses are on high alert waiting for that first drop to hit.
I am living some version of a Robert Frost poem—my road splits here. One path goes to the same old story. Work, work, and more work, punctuated by dates or situationship guys who will either bore me to tears, or eventually want my ambition to take a back seat to theirs. Been there, done that, got the T-shirtandthe SWOT analysis.
But that other path? This route turns into a darker part of the woods, beckoning me toward something I can’t quite name. All I know is that the way forward won’t be clear. There will be danger, thorns, maybe even hungry quicksand straight out of an eighties movie.
But for once in my overanalyzed life, I don’t have a pro/con list or a plan. I just have this moment, this choice, and the growing realization that maybe, just maybe, it is time to color outside thelines and see how it adjusts the image of who I am and what I need to be happy.
Deke and Biscuit mew from their box, a cozy tangle of orange fur. Deeper in the house come the sounds of a running tap and the clink and rattle of pots being thrown on the sink. He whistles a few bars. I recognize Tom Petty before he breaks off and it returns to quiet.
I take a deep breath and walk inside his den. It is nothing like my condo in here, with my pale pink walls, unlit soy candles, and Wayfair furniture. I keep my home as simple and uncluttered as possible as I don’t ever have time to clean up or be domestic. It is cute but always feels a little like a hotel. Gale’s place feels lived-in, warm, comfy, a little messy. Kind of like the guy himself.
My eyes dart around, taking in the leather throw pillows, the pinball machine, the half-finished Gatorade on a random side table.
I have built my life brick by careful brick, each achievement a step toward... what, exactly? Standing here, on the precipice of something new, I’m not quite sure anymore.
“All done.” His deep voice floats from the kitchen, snapping me out of my reverie. “You want some tea?”
I feel a surge of... something. Confidence? Recklessness? Curiosity? I might be just another messy human like Pandora, but what if I pretend to be a goddess? “No,” I call back. “No tea. Come here.”
There is a pause, a moment of surprised silence. Then I hear his footsteps, see him appear in the doorway. His eyebrows are raised, a question in his eyes.
I meet it head-on, feeling more like myself than I ever have except when I’ve been in the middle of my job. “I’m not visitingfor the tea,” I say, taking a step toward him. “We both know that.”
“Okay.” He crosses and uncrosses his arms. “What are you here for?”
I allow the silence to linger a beat too long.
“You.”
The way he jolts tells me he feels it, the rug pulling out from under him. My heart races at his reaction. Five years of holding back dissolving in this moment. I want to see where this leads. I need to see. It’s now. Or never.
“Come over here.”
“Really?” he questions, uncertainty coloring his voice.
“I’m done waiting.”
His throat works. “What... what do you want?”
I step closer, drawn by the scent of his cologne, like a cedar forest. His breath catches as I close the distance between us.
“Is it real this time?” he whispers. “Because I’ve wanted you for so long.”
“Do you know what I want?”
