EMERY

The long stem of the cigarette crackles and burns as I perch uncomfortably on the bathroom counter, rows upon rows of cookie-cutter houses in my peripheral. Toxic, cancerous, and liberating smoke fills my lungs and I hold my breath so it seeps deep into my organs. I blow out the smoke, tainting my parent's idyllic neighborhood.

Scooting over to the edge of the counter, I extend my leg and turn up the dial of the standalone fan I smuggled inside the bathroom. I'd escape through the window if I could but last summer my father installed steel security bars on the perimeter of the bottom floor. What an idiot. Such a waste of money. It's true. The last time Chesterfield had a B&E was in '78. That's because no one would willingly spend more than ten minutes in this fucking town. Maybe the bars are meant to keep people in versus out.

"Emery! Honey!" Mom calls out. "Are you alright in there? Dinner's ready!"

"Coming!" I holler back, putting out the cigarette on the side of the house and flushing the evidence down the toilet. Better spray up, bitch. Can't have mommy finding out. I douse the room with air freshener before brushing my teeth twice and spritzing on a copious amount of perfume. Checking my breath, I tilt my head, running my hand down my light brown sweater dress. Why did I buy this? It has no form, no shape, nothing special. You literally look like a turd. Nice. Thanks for that. Your words, not mine.

"Emery!"

"I said I'm coming!" Ignoring my inner voice, I grab my purse and head toward the dining room. The table is set with crisp white linens, catalog-ordered dishware, and a plastic bouquet centerpiece. My mother says real flowers are a waste of money. They die. These live forever. Seeing as my parents have had the same arrangement for over a decade, her point is valid. "Sorry about that."

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," Tom says, wiggling his brows. "No shame in that."

Ew. "I wasn't—" I sigh, sitting down in front of my mother. "Never mind."

"So, Emery," Mom dishes out the casserole onto everyone's plate while Dad distributes dinner rolls, "How's everything going at work? Tom tells us that you were recently passed up for a promotion?"

I shoot Tom a concealed glare. Fucking blabbermouth. "I wasn't passed up," I state, digging my knife into the butter dish. "I withdrew my application." Liar.

"You withdrew it?" Tom asks, frowning. "But you said—"

"Butter anyone?" I ask, aggressively grabbing the dish and holding it over the table. "Hmm?"

"You withdrew it?" Dad asks.

"Watch the butter, Emery," Mom comments at the same time. "Remember what the doctor said, right?"

God help me. I think you're on your own with this one, babe. Breathe. A topic change is needed. A-fucking-SAP. "I saw a moving truck on the way up here. New neighbors?" Yes. A safe segue. Shine the spotlight away. Always away. "Are they nice?"

Dad snorts. "You mean the truck outside The Linchfields?"

"I guess?"

"Oh, the Linchfields aren't moving, honey," Mom chimes in, lowering her voice to a gossiping level. "Their oldest daughter is going through a divorce, that poor thing. Her husband, or should I say ex-husband, kicked her out after he found her in bed with the pool boy." Oh god, it's a fucking real-life telenovela. "And now she's back in her childhood bedroom, isn't that sad?"

"I hope the sex was good at least," I mutter into my bread roll.

"What was that?" Mom asks.

"I said I hope she's doing okay at least."

"Oh." Mom takes a sip of juice, shrugging. "Only time will tell. It's a real shame though, I always thought Amber and Lyon were so good together." She glances between me and Tom. "Like you two."

I nearly choke on my bread.

"Thank you, Susan." Tom reaches across the table and grabs my hand. He stares affectionately into my eyes, his own full of narrated fantasy. "I'd like to think Em and I here would defy those nasty divorce statistics when the time comes."

"Are you..." Dad clears his throat, eyes wide. "I mean, did you ask—"

"God no!" I yank my hand away, laughing nervously. I immediately give Tom a reassuring smile. You're such a fucking bitch. It's almost funny. "I mean, we're definitely not there yet, you know?"

"I did ask Emery to move in with me though," Tom proudly announces, and my smile dwindles into an unappreciative frown. The man is a damn billboard tonight. He addresses only my parents when he adds, "Your daughter still hasn't given me an answer."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mom clasps her hands. "Emery! What are you waiting for? I think this is a fabulous idea. Simply fabulous." She snaps her head at my dad. "Did you hear that Phillip? Emery and Tom are moving in together!"

"Are you deaf?" I blurt out. "He said I haven't given him an answer yet. God, why do you always do that?"

Mom's face falls, and I feel immediate guilt. "Emery..."

"I'm sorry." I close my eyes. "I didn't mean to—"

"I think she's just a little nervous to live with a man," Tom pipes up, cutting the tension between me and my mother. He tosses me a wink. "But don't worry, Em. I promise to keep the toilet seat down."

"I'm not concerned about—" I stop myself. What's the point? It's not like they care. "Tom, why don't you tell my parents about that new project at work, hmm? He's working on this... What it's called again?"

For the rest of dinner, I sit between my parents and Tom. Smiling. Nodding. Offering a laugh at the appropriate time. They talk around me. To me. Through me. Like I'm not there. Like I'm fucking invisible. I could leave right now and they might not even notice. They're discussing my life, my future, and I'm not even a part of the conversation. I could speak up. I could say something. I could let them know my thoughts and feelings. I could...but I don't want to. Just like they don't care, I don't either. What difference does it make?

"What's on your mind, Em?" Tom asks, glancing at me as rain pitters against the windshield of his hatchback. "You haven't said a word since we left."

I haven't said I word since dessert actually.

"Why do you like me?" I ask honestly.

A frown mars Tom's brows. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I asked," I say, following a raindrop as it collides with another and fuses into one. "Why do you like me?"

"What's not to like?" Tom grins. "You're intelligent, you're beautiful, you're easygoing—" He pauses, chuckling, "You're a whiz at Sudoku, which, I might add, is a huge green flag."

"Right," I hum, leaning against the seatbelt. Easygoing? That's one of my top three attributes? Does that mean I'm a pushover? If you were a pushover, I'm sure Damon would be force-feeding you caviar right now while naming your tits, Tatiana and Tonya. I chuckle to myself, our conversation replaying in my head. "Tom..."

"Yes?"

"Do you think I'm..." I alter his comment. I don't like riddles. "Difficult to read?"

Tom laughs. "Of course not, Em. That's one of the many things I like about you. What you see is what you get."

"So you think that you know me?" I mumble, talking more to myself than to Tom. "You think you've got me all figured out?"

"You make it seem like it's a bad thing." Tom reaches over the center console and takes my hand in his. "What's gotten into you, Em?"

I wish I knew. I wish I had a morsel of a clue as to why I'm being so combative with Tom. Sweet, reliable, and dependable Tom. Oh, you know. No! No, I don't. Tom possesses all the qualities the majority of women would kill to find in a man. He's good with kids, he's polite to service staff, and he's financially stable. Boring. Boring. Boring. No, it's not boring. Safe isn't boring. Yawn. Stop it! Tom is great, and the fact that he knows me and loves me is great. Tom doesn't know shit. Enough! This is stupid. Why am I overthinking? Everything is fine. This is my life. And I like it.

I. Like. It.

"Do you umm..." This is my choice. I get to decide how I feel. Me. "Do you want to come upstairs?" I glance nervously at Tom as he pulls up to my apartment complex. "Maybe spend the night?"

Tom checks the time on the dashboard. "It's pretty late, Em. You sure you want to—"

"I'm sure," I reply quickly, getting out of the car. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"Alright," Tom agrees lethargically, climbing out of the car and locking it behind him. He trails behind as I unlock the front door. "Maybe we can finish the documentary on the Sahara?"

"Sure," I say, entering the hallway. A desert, huh? How fitting. Hush. "Or..." I spin around, dropping my chin down a degree and giving Tom my foolproof Luna stare. "Maybe we could..." I shrug, hoping he can read me as well as he thinks he can. "Do something else?"

Before Tom has a chance to reply, Mrs. Finnegan's door flings open and she pokes her cockblocking head out. "Emery! I thought that was you!" She gives Tom a wide grin. "Thomas! What a lovely surprise! I haven't seen you around in ages."

"What are you doing still up, Mrs. Finnegan?" Tom playfully scolds my neighbor. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Mrs. Finnegan giggles. "Oh now, stop that. I know I'm an old lady, Thomas, but a quarter past nine is hardly late." She stifles a yawn and Tom perks up a brow. "Alright, it's a bit late for me but Artie just fell asleep. He's got sleep apnea and that dreadful machine is so stinking loud, I'm lucky if I get five hours of sleep a night." She sighs, glancing between the two of us. "Anywho, what did you kids get up to tonight? Something exciting I hope."

That's your future. Behind those doors. That's exactly what you should expect.

Shut. Up.

"Dinner with Emery's parents," Tom says. "Her mom made her famous chicken casserole. I don't know exactly what she puts into it, but it's incredible. I think it's cumin but she refuses to divulge the secret family recipe."

Mrs. Finnegan chuckles. "Maybe she'll be more forthcoming once you are part of the family," she says, not at all trying to hide her insinuation.

"We can only hope," Tom says, patting Mrs. Finnegan on the shoulder. "Have a good night, okay? Try and get some sleep."

"Fingers crossed," she says.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Finnegan," I say, forcibly dragging Tom to my front door.

"Maybe we should invite her over to finish the documentary," Tom muses as I unlock the door. "She looks lonely."

"She is not lonely, Tom. She has Artie," I state, entering my apartment and tossing my keys to the side. "How can she be lonely when she's with her husband? Are you saying that she's unhappy with her husband?"

"Woah..." Tom throws his hand up in the air. "That's not what I meant, Em. I'm just saying—"

"Well, stop," I snap. "I don't think it's very polite of you to make assumptions about other people when you don't even know them. You met Mrs. Finnegan what? Seven times? And suddenly you're an expert on her wellbeing?"

Tom runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Emery. Will you relax? Seriously, what's gotten into today? First, you snap at your mom at dinner, and now this?" He tilts his head. "Did you take your meds today?"

"Seriously?" I scoff, crossing my arms. "Emery has an opinion, so she must've forgotten to take her meds. Nice, Tom. Thanks for that."

"It's a valid question."

"Seriously?" I flap my arms, bewildered by his nerve. "And where exactly did you get your MD? The University of the Overstepping Idiots?" I glower at him. "I take antidepressants, Tom. Do I look depressed to you right now?"

Tom sighs. "No, Emery. You do not look depressed." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Listen, I don't want to argue, okay? I... I think I should just go. It's late and we've got work tomorrow. So, I'll just see you in the office, alright?"

"What are you going to do when we live together, Tom?" I ask flippantly. "Where are you going to go when we fight then?"

"We don't fight, Em." Tom's voice softens as he strides toward me. He wraps his arms around my waist, kissing the side of my head. "Tonight was just an... anomaly." He pulls back, gaze sweeping across my face, searching for the woman he's certain he knows. "I'm sorry if I upset you, okay?" He gives the tip of my nose a quick peck. "Try and get some rest, Em. You'll feel better tomorrow."

I'll feel better on Friday when no one fucking tells me how I feel.

There she is.

And I hope he'll be there too.