“First of all, what’s so bad about getting a book as a present? That’s, like, the best present on the planet,” I reply, and before he can protest I add, “Secondly, it’s not a book. It’s just in a book. Here...”
He watches as I peel open the well-loved pages. Somehow, this feels nearly as intimate as what just went down between us on the bed. I hardly ever show my sketchbook to anyone, yet here I am, flipping through the pages as Emerson looks on. Sharing my art with someone has always felt impossible, something that required far too much trust for me to be able to do. But Emerson’s teaching me that trust isn’t something that’s off-limits to me just because of my history. And I’m even starting to believe him.
“Are those all yours?” he asks, his eyes glued to the pages.
“Yep,” I reply, “All of them.”
“They’re amazing,” he says reverently, as I linger on a drawing of a stylized, distorted landscape. “Please tell me you’re going to major in art when you go to school in the fall.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I demur, “I might try and focus on something a little more practical.”
“Fuck practical. These are incredible drawings,” he exclaims.
“Well...who knows?” I allow, “It’s not like there are any real jobs out there anyway, right? Might as well major in something I actually like.”
“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emerson replies.
Finally, I come to the sketch I’ve been looking for. It’s right at the end of the book, my most recent finished piece. Drawing a steadying breath, I turn the sketchbook around and pass it to Emerson. His eyes fall on the elaborate sketch and go wide. He drinks in the image for a long moment before finally looking up at me.
“Is this...?” he asks.
“It is,” I assure him, smiling at his amazement. “It’s you.”
We study the drawing together. It’s a portrait of Emerson I’ve been working on for weeks, since our first heated exchange at that party. The drawing shows him in half-profile, staring with determined purpose from the page. I’m really proud of how I was able to capture him, and I can tell he’s impressed with the effort.
“This is how you see me?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft.
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “To me, that’s the essence of who you are. Intelligent, strong, unwilling to back down from what you know is right. From the things you want out of life.”
“Can I...Can I keep this?” he asks, looking up at me imploringly.
“Of course!” I tell him, “It’s for you, Emerson. I want you to have it, always.”
Placing the sketchbook down with great reverence, Emerson leans forward and catches my lips in his.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, running a hand through my hair. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”
I smile and lower myself onto my knees in front of him. “Then you’re going to love this…” I say with my best seductive grin. I slowly undo his belt and unzip his pants as he leans back, a look of utter disbelief on his face. I can see the hardening outline of his staggering cock growing down the inside of his jeans and my mouth begins to water instinctively. Oh how I’ve dreamed of this moment.
My heart feels like its going to beat out of my chest as he lifts his hips and I pull down his jeans and boxers, unleashing his throbbing dick. It’s beautiful, I’ve never seen one up close before, and his is absolutely amazing. I grab it reverently, without thinking, and lower my mouth onto him, taking as much of Emerson into my throat as possible…
Chapter Eight
When the early morning light draws me back up from the depths of slumber, I’m surprised to find that the bed beside me is empty. I roll onto my side, peering around the hotel room for my missing companion. Even after one night, the feel of waking up without him doesn’t suit me. I’m just about to roll out of bed and go searching for him when the motel room door eases open. Emerson appears on the threshold, carrying two cups of takeout coffee and a paper bag. He sees me sitting up in bed and freezes.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“No, it’s just...I was going to surprise you,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Here—just pretend to be asleep.”
“Emerson...” I moan.
“Come on,” he pleads, turning his back to dump the contents of the bag onto the dresser. “For me. Please.”
I flop back onto the bed and pull the covers over my head as Emerson futzes with something across the room. I hear the click of a lighter, the crinkling of the bag, and finally Emerson saying, “OK. Open your eyes.”
Pulling the covers down ever-so-slightly, I feel my heart melt into a puddle of goo in my chest. Emerson is walking toward me with a little makeshift breakfast in bed. There’s my coffee, some creamers, and a blueberry muffin with a couple candles in the shape of a 1 and 8. He places the tray in my lap with great ceremony, humming the Happy Birthday song.
“Go on. Make a wish before it gets all waxy,” he instructs me.
I glance up at him, wondering what on earth else I can wish for now that he’s barreled into my life.
I wish that this all works out...I think to myself. Somehow. I blow out the candles, and Emerson sits down next to me on the bed, his own coffee and muffin hand.
“What did you wish for?” he asks.
“I’ll tell you...if it ever comes true,” I smile.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Happy birthday, Abby.”
“Thank you,” I say, peeling the wrapper off my muffin. “Adulthood is off to a pretty great start, don’t you think?”
The day only gets better from there. After I treat myself to a long, hot bath and get dressed for the afternoon, Emerson and I head down to the beach for a long walk. We take our time, talking all the while about our pasts, our ideas, our notions about the future. Emerson’s planning on going to college, eventually. But probably not this year. I’ll be starting school in the fall, of course, but we don’t talk too much about that part—the never-seeing-each-other again part. Maybe we can find some way around the distance, if this whole thing doesn’t go up in flames. But we’ll be step-siblings tomorrow, so maybe it will be better to stay away after all.
We don’t talk about that too much, either.
There’s a little town center with shops and cafes down the shore a little ways, and Emerson lets me take my time window shopping. I’m not much for designers or labels, but I love vintage and handmade things. There’s one store in particular that I go nuts for—a local artist’s shop that’s chock full of gorgeous, eclectic jewelry and handicrafts. I fall in love with one piece especially—a slender silver ring the bears a single pearl. It’s so elegant, so simple...and unfortunately out of my price range. But still, a girl can dream.