Unbroken

clinging breathlessly to him in the front seat of his truck; sneaking him up the back stairs; muffled laughter under my covers. Emerson’s gaze pierces me even through the photographs: dark and thrilling and full of fierce affection. I feel a deep pull of lust, tracing the outline of his face—years younger, but just as conflicted.
    God, we were consumed by each other. It was like nothing I’d ever known, the compulsion to drown myself in his touch and never come back up for air. There was no slow fall for us: no gentle hesitant dates, and shy flirting. Right from the start, loving him was like hurling myself off a tall cliff and hoping like hell he would be there to break my fall. And when I hit the ground and found myself all alone in the world, without him, without my mom, I tried to forget this summer altogether. Pretend like it had never happened. Anything to stop the endless agony, the wretched guilt and pain and creeping suspicion that it was all my fault.
    That they left me because I wasn’t enough to make them stay.
    I thought it was healthy. Moving on. But looking around, at the photos hanging around me, wet on the line, I realize there’s a place in my heart that’s been empty and frozen ever since. Numb.
    And now it’s cracking wide open.
    Emerson was just the start of it, the first shard through my tough defenses. He broke my steel shell, and now I’m feeling all the emotions I’ve ignored for so long: sadness, and sweetness, hurt, regret. Even passion.
    Especially passion.
    It thrills me, experiencing the rush all over again, but it terrifies me too. Because no matter how much I love what Emerson does to me, I know what comes after—when I crash full-speed into the end. Feeling like this is what got me into trouble in the first place: so desperate and depressed, sinking under the black cloud of hopelessness. Lacey was right, what she said that first day I drove into town: I can’t go back there, to that place. I swore, never again, and I meant it. So how do I go there with Emerson and not risk that fall?
    Is there any way to love him besides with all my heart, all the way?
    * * *
    I don’t even notice time passing, until a gentle tap on the door jolts me out of memories and I check my watch to find it’s eight PM. Emerson!
    “Is it safe to come in?” His voice slips through the closed door.
    I grin. He’s learned from his mistakes. The first time he came to find me in the shed, he flung the door open without warning and ruined a whole roll of film I was developing. We got into a drag-out fight that lasted until he threw me up against the wall and made me forget all about the wasted reel.
    This time, I need to show more self-control, I decide. Sure, I was sobbing and undone in his arms just a few hours ago, but I can’t throw myself at him completely. I’ve got to play it cool.
    “All-clear!” I finally call out, hanging the final print to dry on the line.
    The door opens, and there’s a brief flood of light before Emerson closes it quickly behind him and we’re alone in dark and the low red glow.
    My pulse skips, just at the sight of him, his body filling up the space, commanding.
    “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.” I apologize quickly. He’s looking around at the prints hanging to dry. “I found some old films,” I explain, embarrassed. “I figured, it would be good to see…”
    “I remember this.” Emerson stops at a photo of us, taken at an angle as I held the camera away from our faces. We’re wrapped up in sweatshirts and scarves, the sky cloudy in the background. “We drove out to the lake, and it rained all the drive home.”
    “We had to pull over to the side of the road it was pouring so hard.” I think back to that stormy afternoon. “And wait it out in the truck.”
    Emerson gives a low chuckle. “Waiting wasn’t all we did.”
    I feel my cheeks flush. Anyone could have pulled over and found us there, half-naked and gasping, but I didn’t care.
    Emerson shifts, reaching for a new photo. His arm brushes against me, and I catch my breath. The sound of my inhale echoes in the stillness, and I see a smile curve on the edge of Emerson’s lips.
    Damn. So much for playing it cool. He knows what he’s doing to me.
    Emerson keeps browsing the photos, while I wait, on edge. My stomach is tied up in knots, uncertain what I should do next. Everything in me is screaming out just to reach for him, and go plunging headlong into that ecstasy again, but he hasn’t