Free The Rise of Emery James by Shae Scott Page A

harder to ignore.
    When he comes over after work that night I'm feeling grumpy. I can’t help it. The chaos of my mind has taken over. For once, I don’t follow him outside to watch while he works. I just don’t know how to face him in the mood that I’m in. I know it’s not fair to take out my confusion on him. But it’s hard to diffuse the energy that has been coursing through me all day.
    When he shuffles inside, looking tired and sweaty, I hate myself when I snap at him for tracking mud into the kitchen. I feel bad when he gives me a quizzical look while slowly kicking off his boots. He watches as I fuss with a towel, wetting it to mop up the dirt, hoping he can't see that my hands are shaking. I feel like he can see right through me and it's unnerving.
    "Sorry about that. I wasn't thinking. I'd be happy to clean it up," he says. He reaches for the towel and holds my gaze as I try to keep him from taking it.
    "I can get it," I say.
    "I know you can. But I made the mess. Let me clean it."
    He's challenging me. He remembers how stubborn I can be and as much as I want to take a stand, I don't want him to think he knows me so well. I don't want him to be right. He'll think he's right about everything else too.
    "Fine." I turn and go back to the sink, grabbing a rag and wiping down the already clean counter.
    From the corner of my eye I can see him squatting down to clean up the small amount of dirt he tracked in. I can't help but notice that one of his socks is now stretched out and the toe is flopping around as he moves.
    It's highly adorable and the fact that this is what is going through my mind just frustrates me again. I scrub the counter a little harder and ignore him until he walks over, bringing the towel.
    "I'll just put this in the laundry room," he says. He brushes past me, but I don't look up.
    When he comes back he leans back against the counter and crosses his hard arms across his chest and studies me. Like he's dissecting me. "Did you have a bad day?" he asks.
    "It was fine," I mutter. I'm going to rub thedesign clear off the counter if I don't stop scrubbing this spot in my best Macbeth impression.
    "What did that counter ever do to you?" he asks quietly.
    I toss the dishrag aside and turn to face him, crossing my arms across my chest to match his.
    "You want to talk about it?" he asks when I don't say anything.
    "Not really."
    “I missed talking to you tonight,” he offers.
    “I had stuff to do.” I hear my clipped tone and wish I could calm myself enough that I could go back to our easy banter.
    He goes back to staring at me. Studying me. I can practically feel him peeling away the layers of my protective shell. I shudder involuntarily.
    "Okay. Well, if you decide you want to talk the offer stands.”
    "I can handle it," I say, moving to stand up straighter. There is something about the way he's looking at me that makes me want to look stronger than I feel. I don't want him to see the broken pieces. Still, at the same time, every time that he does - each time he sees through me and sees the broken girl, I feel a little less lonely. I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone take the time to see me. To care about it at all. It's confusing and part of the reason this push and pull has left me so rattled today.
    We stand in the kitchen in our silent stand off for a full minute before he speaks again. He levels his gaze at me, and I'm starting to love and hate that look all at the same time.
    "What happened to you up there? What did he do to you to make you lose yourself?" he asks quietly. I feel the words rip through me, the question buzzing in my ears.
    "People change, Cole. I grew up," I say quietly. He nods, giving me a pass. He doesn't believe me anymore than I do.
    "Maybe you're right,” he concedes thoughtfully. I swallow hard, feeling the tension in my entire body. He’s not finished and his next words hit me even harder.
    “I miss seeing that fire in your eyes," he admits.
    The truth of