Free Only for Us by Cristin Harber Page A

T-shirt and pajama pants that swallow her up. Her face is scrubbed shiny clean, and that wild blond hair of hers is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head. Nothing is trying too hard, and everything about her is gorgeous. She steals my breath when she's not even trying.
    “Cally asleep?”
    She nods. Then her gaze lands on the notebook I decided against giving her today. It’s still wrapped, though the paper is starting to show wear on the edges. “I get to open it yet?”
    My gut jumps. I don’t know why. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. But still, I’m anxious. “If you want. Not a big deal either way.”
    She giggles and grabs it then jumps on the couch, snuggling into me before I can convince her it's just a silly gift. But it’s not, so even as Emma rips the paper to shreds, I bite my lip and wait for her reaction.
    Her eyebrows pull up. “You got me a used notebook?”
    I chuckle. “Something like that.”
    “Should I open it?” Her fingers trail over the metal spiral binding.
    A long sigh slips through my lips. “No idea.”
    After holding my gaze, she stares at the notebook then carefully pulls back the cover and leafs through the pages. Not every page is dedicated to an explanation of enlisting. There are rambling notes from Trig and World History, plus some random notes that have nothing to do with right now. I thought about tearing those pages out but decided it would ruin the authenticity of the whole thing. I want her to experience remembering just as I did.
    And it’s working. Her face softens, and her eyes are laser focused. Her head tilts as she slips back to high school—where we danced around what we felt and where I paid attention to every girl but the one I wanted while she thought the crackling air around us was one-sided. I can almost taste the nervousness of crossing the line, of telling her I was done ignoring us.
    Nostalgia hangs over us both as she pages through the notebook.
    “I hated Mrs. Rough’s World History,” she mumbles.
    I nod. Emma senses something, probably reacting to my anticipation, and her fingers fidget.
    “She wanted me to sit still in class and take notes like this.” Her fingers tap on the page. “But I had too much energy to be contained like that. Unlike you, Mr. Perfect Notes Guy.”
    “Ha. I think I was trying to cover up for something worse at home.”
    Her face falls. “Wish I’d known more than I did. Or earlier.”
    “Not a big deal.”
    She shrugs, blowing off my downplaying of Pops’s tendency to beat the crap out of me. I don’t want her guilt right now. “Can’t corral the creative type with lessons about random medieval battles. Right? You needed to… be dancing or something.”
    A brief panic crosses her face.
    “What?” I’m failing to get her to focus on the notebook.
    “Nothing.” She shifts before whispering, “What if you came back and hated me?”
    “Not possible.”
    “What if you came back, and I disappointed you?”
    “You couldn’t.”
    “But what if I did?”
    The earnest pleading in her eyes levels me. “Then I’d hate myself for being that way, and I’d deal with it.” I scoot closer to her and nod toward the notebook. “Keep going.”
    Her wary eyes relax, and after a long glance, she continues flipping the pages.
    There. Her eyebrows furrow as she realizes the notes are to her and what they’re about. Then her eyes go wet and shiny. I can almost recite verbatim my many attempts to explain that I’d enlisted, that I didn’t want to go, that I’d signed a contract with zero loopholes. Her heavy tear drips onto a page, and her finger traces the side of the loose-leaf notebook.
    “Grayson…” She turns page after page, reading my attempt after miserable attempt, giving me nothing now except for an occasional sniffle. But other than that, she’s completely silent and lost in her thoughts.
    There’s a knot in my throat that won’t go away. Maybe this wasn’t the right birthday present.