Unbroken (6 page)

I load a fresh film into the camera and lift it to my eye. It feels odd at first, like trying to use your hand after you’ve been sleeping on it and it’s all numb, but I click and wind on the film, and slowly, it all comes back to me. Color, and texture, and the twist of focus. And more than anything, the clarity, from looking at the world one step removed.

I clamber up the dunes and then race down to the beach in a rush of energy. The morning haze has lifted, and the sun beats down, warming my bare arms and whipping my hair around me in a tangle. I reach the ocean, and wade in, shrieking a little as the cold water surges against my legs.

There’s a bark from further down the beach, and then a golden Labrador joins me in the shallows. He jumps and splashes around me, panting.

I snap a few photos of him, laughing.

“Hey buddy!” I reach down to pet him. He’s got a mangy old tennis ball in his mouth, so I lever it out and then fake throw it. “You want to go fetch?” I tease him, pretending to throw it a couple more times. He’s eager and bouncing, a ball of shaggy energy. “OK, go!”

I toss the ball in to shore, and the dog takes off, bounding after it. I follow his path, zooming in to shoot more photos. Then my viewfinder lands on his owner in the distance, striding down from the dunes.

I freeze.

Emerson.

I zoom in even further to check, but it’s him alright: casual in cut-off denim and bare feet, his naked torso tanned and cut. He bends down to pet the dog, grinning affectionately, then sends him racing off down the beach to fetch a piece of driftwood. He looks like a different person to last night, relaxed and carefree. More like the man I used to know.

But that’s just because he hasn’t seen me yet.

I lower my camera, my stomach suddenly tied up in knots. I want to run and hide, but out here on the windswept beach, there’s no hiding. I watch anxiously as he straightens up, scanning the shoreline. His eyes land on me, and even from here, I can see his body stiffen.

There’s a long pause. For a minute I think he’s going to just turn around and leave without a word, but then he raises his hand in a hesitant wave.

I wave back.

Keep it together,
Juliet, I tell myself.
No more melting into a puddle of desire like last night.

I slowly wade back towards shore, as Emerson walks out towards the ocean. We meet in the shallows, standing ten feet away from each other with cool water slipping around our feet.

“Hi.” I say quietly. I feel even more naked than the night before: a bikini top, and my tiny shorts, but this time, Emerson isn’t devouring me with his eyes. He looks away, like he doesn’t even want to see me.

I wish I could pretend like I felt the same, but it would be a lie.

I can’t bring myself to look directly in his eyes yet, but my gaze can’t help roving over him, absorbing every detail all over again. In the bright sunshine, I can make out things I didn’t see last night—like the faint line of pale scar tissue running across one shoulder, and the freckles on his forearms that have multiplied over the years.

“Hey.” Emerson’s voice is awkward.

I brace myself, gathering all my courage. Then I look up, into those dark blue eyes. I feel a shiver through me, just as sharp as last night. This time at least, I’m prepared. I don’t flinch, or gasp, but still, I feel my skin prickle with his nearness. My nipples harden, and I thank God my bikini top is dark and padded to hide the evidence of my desire.

How can he do this to me, just by existing?

“You got a dog.”

The words 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. “I got her through high-school, barely,” he adds. “She waitresses at the bar some nights. I’m trying to talk to her about fashion school, so she can do something with her designs, but… You know Brit.” His voice is wry, but full of affection, and I’m reminded all over again of the side to Emerson he doesn’t let the rest of the world see: the big brother, single-handedly trying to raise two younger siblings, while his mom fell in and out of addiction and bad relationships.

“And Ray Jay?” I have to ask, but I brace myself for the reply all the same. Emerson’s brother was trouble, plain and simple. The teenager I’d known was full of anger and wild, reckless rage. Emerson had been doing his best to keep him in line, but Ray Jay hated him almost as much as he hated being stuck in a small town.

“He’s not my problem anymore.” Emerson’s voice is casual, like he’s joking, but I hear the twist under his nonchalance. “Kid skipped town the day he turned eighteen. Last I heard, he was out in Tallahassee, doing God knows what.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He shrugs, “I don’t really blame him. I mean, I wanted to get the fuck out of town when I was his age too.”

“But you didn’t.” I say softly, thinking of all his sacrifice and selfless responsibility. “You stayed.”

“Someone had to.” Emerson’s voice twists. I think of his mom, and dad too, everyone who’s walked away from him. And me.

My heart catches.
Is he talking about me?

I left, four long years ago. I was the one who got the fuck out of town then, and left Emerson here alone. Sure, he was the one who told me to go, but I could have fought him harder, I could have made him see. I let him push me away, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since. I felt like my heart was shattered into a million tiny pieces walking away, but I realize now for the first time, he must have felt it too, watching me go.

I feel sadness and regret course through me, a familiar empty ache I hoped would fade in time. The sharp pull of emotion; the sting in the back of my throat.

I quickly lift my camera and snap off a few more photos of the dog, which is careening wildly across the sand. The camera hides my face for a minute, and I use the escape to take a few quick breaths, desperately using every ounce of self-control to pull myself back together.

You can do this,
I remind myself.
This is nothing. You’ve kept it together through worse. God, so much worse.

The reality check works. When I finally lower the camera again—composed—I find Emerson watching me with a crooked half-grin on his beautiful face.

“Still taking photos,” he smiles. “You must be done with art school now.”

“Oh.” I stop. “I didn’t go in the end… I mean, I went to college,” I add, self-conscious, “But not for that. I haven’t picked this thing up in years.”

“You quit?!” Emerson exclaims harshly.

I step back, shocked at the angry look on his face. “No, I just, had school, and… stuff.” I explain, feebly. “There wasn’t time for hobbies.”

Especially ones that remind me of him.

“I can’t believe this.” Emerson stares at me in disbelief. “You were talking about art schools, and your portfolio. And you just let it all go to waste?”

“I was busy!” I protest loudly, bridling at the accusation in his tone. Why is he looking at me like I failed him? My breath comes fast as I feel the heat of anger rise in my chest. “I double-majored in finance and accounting.” I tell him loudly. “I had real, important things on my plate.”

“Bullshit,” Emerson’s voice is loud. His eyes flash dark and angry at me, face set in a scowl. “Photography was your passion! You loved it.”

I loved you.

I shake off the haunting whisper. What gives him the right to judge me for this?

“So what was I supposed to do?” I challenge him. My arms are folded angrily across my chest, and I hear my voice rising, but I can’t calm down now. “Go off to art school, and then, what, spend my life living paycheck to paycheck, trying to struggle through as an artist?” I shake my head, furious. “I made an investment in my future. Accountancy is one of the fastest-growing sectors of the financial market,” I insist. “There will always be jobs going. It’s a safe choice.”

“And photography was a risk?” Emerson demands back.

“Yes!” I cry. I can feel my skin blushing red with anger, but I won’t back down. “Art school would have been a stupid, reckless choice. I would have regretted it for the rest of my life!”

My voice echoes on the windswept beach.

Emerson takes a ragged gasp of air and flinches back. He looks like I’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, I realize. We’re not talking about my college choice anymore.

“Emerson…” I start, but then my voice fades. What am I supposed to say?

“Don’t.” He cuts me off roughly. “I get it. It’s good to know, you made the right choice.”

No! I want to cry out. That’s not what I meant!

But Emerson is glowering at me, his chest rising and falling quickly with his barely-contained temper. I stare back, and for a moment, we’re frozen there, neither of us willing to back down.