Unbroken

are out before I realize how dumb they sound. Way to state the obvious, Juliet!
    If Emerson thinks I’m acting like a fool, he doesn’t say it. He nods, and his tense expression relaxes, just a little. “His name’s Eastwood. I found him out by the highway, a couple of years ago. His owners just dumped him out there.”
    “That’s terrible!”
    Emerson’s lips curl up. “That’s right, you always were a soft touch with animals.” He looks at me, softer. “Remember that stray cat that used to come around? You left milk out for it every time, even though we all said you’d never get rid of it.”
    “The poor thing was hungry!” I protest. “I couldn’t just let it starve.”
    “By the end of summer, you were fending off every stray in town.” Emerson laughs. “I don’t know what they did with themselves when you left.”
    He stops, the laughter dying on his lips as he realizes what he’s said.
    When I left.
    I feel a clench of panic watching the memories darken in his gaze. I brace myself for another cutting comment, more of the anger and cruelty from last night, but instead, Emerson takes a long breath, exhaling slowly.
    “I… I want to say I’m sorry. For last night.”
    I blink in surprise. Of everything I expected him to say, an apology never even made the list.
    Emerson is looking down, at the ripples in the surf, but when he finally drags his gaze up to meet mine, the expression on his face is full of regret. He means it.
    “No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”
    “It wasn’t.” Emerson gives a bitter laugh. “You were right, I was a total fucking jerk. I… don’t know what to tell you,” he shrugs. “I guess, it was seeing you again. I didn’t know what to do.”
    “It’s fine!” I say again, stronger this time. “Really, don’t think twice about it. I know I haven’t!”
    My voice sounds bright and fake to me, but I paste on a careless grin, like I really didn’t mind him being such a jackass. What else am I supposed to do: tell him that I cried all the way home, hating that he could look at me with such hollow disappointment in his eyes?
    Emerson nods slowly. “OK then.”
    There’s another pause, long and drawn out and filled with everything I can’t say.
    How did we get to this place? I wonder, my heart aching as I watch him turn back to the beach for a moment to check on Eastwood. We used to talk for hours, overflowing with words. I could tell him things I’d never admitted to anyone, about my fucked-up family, my hopes and dreams and darkest secrets. We were closer than I ever thought possible, like we shared a single soul, and now, to have it come to this? Emerson is standing right next to me but the look in his eyes is so far away.
    It’s tragic.
    But who am I kidding? I tell myself harshly. I know how we got here.
    I got us here. I’m as much to blame as anyone.
    I can’t take it anymore. This is as bad as last night, only instead of shock and anger and desire undoing me, now, it’s simple distance.
    “I should…” I gesture vaguely towards the shore, not able to take this heartbreaking awkwardness for a moment longer.
    “Oh.” I could swear I see disappointment flicker across Emerson’s face, but I must be imagining it. “Right,” he says, “You’ve probably got a lot to do. With the house.”
    “Right.” I echo, feeling an ache in my chest so hard I have to remind myself to breathe.
    I walk slowly back onto the sand. Emerson falls into step beside me, an arm’s length away. Even though we’re not touching—not even close—I still feel his presence beside me: the familiar confident saunter, the way his tall, broad body dwarves mine. I have to clutch my camera with both hands to make sure I don’t reach out to catch his fingers in mine, like we always used to do.
    But the worst part, I realize suddenly, is that however awkward and painful and miserable these last few minutes with him have been, I can’t bear for them to end. It’s fucked-up, I know, but being around Emerson, however painful, is better than not being with him at all. Never being around him again.
    I search my brain for something to say, trying to drag out this moment.
    “How’s Brit?” I ask quickly. His younger sister was always a source of drama when I saw him last. Barely in her teens, she was already running around with boys and staying out all night, her skirts hiked up and shirts unbuttoned low. “She must be, what, nineteen now?”
    “Yup.” Emerson nods.