EmilieLaura: Are you telling me he never tries to do more than just kiss you?I look down at my phone that's lying in my lap. Brandon is driving to the hospital while I'm texting with Laura. Our subject is apparently my non-existent sex life with Brandon, although there are more important things we should be talking about. Like the fact we are heading to the hospital to say goodbye to Brandon's mom, but Laura doesn't know that, and I won't tell her. Not today. Me: I don't want him to do more. Laura: ... you're not a-sexual, are you?Me: What? No? Why?Laura: Because just looking at your man makes me want to have sex, and I think every girl on campus can agree with me. Brandon is hot.Me: I know.Laura: So what's your problem?Me: Ever heard of waiting?Laura: Oh, so it's like that? Well... I'm not against waiting, but Brandon is a man. If you don't have sex with him, he will find someone else who will. That's how men work. Laura: Don't get me wrong! I ship you two, but men will a
EmilieThe blood in my veins freezes over at Clinton's words. Did I hear him correctly? He said those words so casually as if we didn't just say farewell to his wife. Even in grief, the man doesn't cease to be cold and calculating. Brandon takes a moment to respond, and when he does, his voice is calm but laced with controlled anger. "How dare you..." he starts, then swallows hard, collecting himself before continuing. "Now is not the time for this discussion.""I talk about what I want whenever I want, and I won't let you date some nobody without money—"Something swishes past me, and my breath hitches when Brandon's fist connects with Clinton's jaw. The older man stumbles back, holding his face in surprise as Brandon towers over him, visibly shaking with rage. "You will not," Brandon snarls, each word pronounced with deadly precision, "speak about Emelie that way. Nor dictate who I choose to be with."Clinton recovers from his surprise and straightens up, wiping a streak of blood
BrandonI think I’m living in denial. My mom is gone, and she won’t come back. She is officially dead, yet the tears aren’t here yet. Instead of crying, I’m staring into space while my siblings are joking around with Emilie. I guess it’s their way of handling their grief, cracking jokes and smiling to ignore the pain of losing one’s parent. But one look at Bailey and Bernie tells me they will both be in tears once they are alone in bed. I won’t be getting away from the pain, either. I’m already feeling the sadness creep up on me even though I’m trying to keep it at bay. I can’t cry here. Emilie would be so embarrassed if I suddenly started bawling my eyes out inside a fast-food restaurant. Then again, maybe I could get away by saying I’m crying because this is the best chicken I’ve ever had?But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?This chicken is far from the best I’ve ever had. My mom’s slow-cooked roast chicken will forever have the honor of being the best chicken I’ve ever had, an
Emilie“Brandon…” I whisper, feeling the weight of his name as I try to rake my brain for something to say. But what do you tell someone who has just lost their parent? Nothing can take the pain away, so I say the only thing that comes to mind. “I’m… I’m so sorry for your loss.”As soon as I’ve said those words, I regret them because I think I just broke the man I love. Brandon’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter even though the car’s engine isn’t on, knuckles whitening. And then there’s a sound that shatters the silence—a guttural sob that seems to wrench from deep within him. My heart lurches. Brandon, my Brandon, the guy who’s more likely to be a grumpy bastard than a sensitive, sweet guy, is crying. Tears are flooding down his face, and I feel terrible. Should I have ignored the elephant in the room and not said anything?“Hey.” My voice is strained since there’s a lump of guilt in my throat. But it doesn’t stop me from trying to comfort him. I reach out tentatively, placi
EmilieWhen I wake up the next day, I find Brandon snuggled close to me, clinging onto me as if he never wants to let go. We are curled up in my bed, my nose nuzzled into his sturdy chest while his big hands play with my hair. His chest rises and falls like two fluffy pillows, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my scalp each time he exhales.I smile and hesitantly reach out my right hand to place it on his side. He doesn’t even twitch, so I slowly stroke his tanned skin. It seems innocent at first, but then my fingers drift down to his lower abdominal muscles. What can I say? A girl has needs. Like a pervert, I skim over them lightly, relishing the way they twitch under my touch, the subtle shiver that it coaxes from Brandon’s sleeping form. He’s still asleep, his expression peaceful, the blonde stubble on his jaw giving him a rugged look that my fingers itch to trace.A small puff of air escapes his lips as my fingertips skirt the waistband of his boxers, though I stop shy of l
EmilieMy Dad leads us to his car that’s parked by the curb. It’s a cute red little thing, and I glance up at Brandon, wondering if his 6’6 frame is going to fit. He gives me an amused smirk. “Don’t worry, I will manage.”“You sure?”“Yeah, there’s a guy on the football team with a worse car than this.”My Dad clears his throat as if offended, and Brandon grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.”There is no response, and Brandon silently folds himself into the back seat. I slide in beside him, feeling a small measure of comfort in his presence before my Dad starts the car.The drive to St. Mary’s Hospital is tense and too damn long. At some point, I fall asleep only to wake up when my Dad drives over a bump in the road. “Hello, sleepyhead,” Brandon says, and that’s when I notice I’m leaning my head against his bicep. “Did you sleep well?”“Not really…”Brandon doesn’t try to make more conversation. His large hand finds mine, his fingers lacing with mine in a silent show of su
EmilieLater that same night, Brandon takes me to a hotel in the same town where my mother’s hospital is located. He doesn’t bother to ask me if I mind sharing the same room. I don’t. Being alone right now would be the worst thing ever.“I hope you’re happy with our room. It’s supposedly the best view in town,” Brandon says, probably in an attempt to lighten the moon, but I don’t respond. I just stare out into nothingness while Brandon hangs up his jacket in the background. He is talking, but I can’t hear him. My mind is empty, and I walk towards the bathroom without taking off my clothes. There is a large shower area inside. One of those large, luxurious showers with rocks on the wall to imitate a tropical place, and I press my palms against the cool wall as the water cascades down, drenching my clothes, my hair, and my skin as the tears fall down. I feel like a broken woman and can’t stop the ocean from spilling from my eyes. Why am I never included in anything? Why am I so fucki
Emilie I'm alive, but I wish I were dead. Are there many freshmen in college who feel the same way? I pull my towel tighter around my body as I continue my walk down the street with tears in my eyes. There are no clothes to cover my skin or shoes to protect my feet as I walk over the wet asphalt. I'm close to tears, but I won't let them fall. This isn't anyone's fault but my own. Why did I go to that stupid pool party? How did I, for a second, think things would be different tonight? I'm so angry at myself! I shouldn't have let my guard down! I shouldn't have smiled when I received an invite to the party hosted by the cool girls. The girls just invited me so they could make fun of me for having selective mutism! They told me they had a swimsuit to borrow, and after I undressed, they stole my clothes. I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there while they laughed and said, "Isn't she pathetic? No matter how we treat her, she won't fight back! What a freak. Jesus, Emilie. How w