Chapter 47
829 Words
A week later, Dean knocked on the apartment door, looking up and down the long hallway. It was a damn nice building – bright lobby downstairs, twenty-four-hour security guards, lots of expensive-looking potted plants, fresh flowers on the tables outside the elevators. He was almost beside himself to see what Emma’s home looked like.
She opened the door and they smiled at each other.
“Hey,” she said. “Welcome to my place, just for a change, right? Come on in.”
He set his overnight bag on the floor and took her in his arms. “How you doing, honey?”
“Better.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Good night’s sleep last night.”
He gave her a kiss then stepped back. “Alright, Emma. Give me the grand tour of this place.”
It was a big apartment for just one person, and as he looked around, Dean got the sense of how much money she must have been earning before she got sick. The living room space was open and warm; the kitchen was large and had all kinds of shiny gadgets on the counters. Her espresso machine was a thing of beauty and Dean admired the huge windows everywhere. Her balcony had an amazing view of the Rockies, and she had a small table out there and lots of comfy chairs. Her bedroom was huge and had an ensuite bathroom, she had a good-sized guest room. She even had an extra office space for private clients. It was overflowing with books about psychology, and her numerous degrees were framed and hanging on the walls.
“So this is why you never wanted me to stay over here, huh?” he said.
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Hardly a PA’s apartment, right? Plus, I kind of thought the psychology books and diplomas might give me away.”
He shook his head. “Jesus, we wasted so much time with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff, didn’t we?”
“My fault.”
“Nope. Both of ours. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, right? No more secrets.”
Emma looked at him. “But that’s not totally true, is it? I still have one more thing to explain to you.”
He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Emma, you don’t have to. I don’t need to know what happened five years ago. It doesn’t matter, OK?”
The kettle whistled and she moved to the kitchen to make some green tea.
“I know, babe,” she said. “But I want to tell you, I want you to know… is that OK?”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
“OK, then. Tell me.”
“I’ll make the tea, you go sit.” She pointed her chin at the living room table. “Jenny brought over a bunch of food about an hour ago, so help yourself.”
“Oh, awesome. That woman can cook, huh?”
“Damn right she can. That’s why the restaurant is called ‘Jenny’s’.”
Dean filled a plate and then settled on to her massive sofa and took a deep breath. Her home was just so calming and friendly; it was just like Emma, he thought. Elegant and polished, sure, but not the slightest bit off-putting, despite the obvious wealth.
She came to him now and he stood to accept the tea. They sat down together and he waited, knowing that whatever it was she had to tell him, he wasn’t going to like it.
Emma sipped her tea, trying to think how to begin.
God, how to explain about Michael?
“I had just broken up with a guy back then. Michael. We met at college, and we were together for three years. It was pretty serious – we lived together – but I couldn’t totally commit to him. He had bad depression when we met, so I knew what I was getting into, but it just got worse over time. Even though he was a psychologist, he refused to take medication and he refused therapy, and no matter what I did or suggested, he said no. I stuck it out for a long time, as long as I could, then I had to break it off when he started self-medicating with alcohol. It was – it was getting dangerous.”
“He hurt you?”
“No. Michael never laid a finger on me, not ever. But it was heading that way, you know? I could tell that the anger and confusion was all building inside him, and it was just a matter of time before it all came bursting out and landed on me. I mean, his rages were terrifying, his days and days of lying in bed not talking were terrifying in a different way. I had to get out.”
“Did you?”
She sighed. “Yes. I left him. And he killed himself.”
- Writer
