No, there was no way that was possible. Emmy was not equipped for this. Not right now. Not in the least. She should be; it had been years. Years. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Seeing him, that is. Being almost run over by him—by anyone—was sort of a big deal.
“Hey.” Brock nodded, barely glancing at Emmy’s phone and Krystal. His gaze was pinned on her.
“I’m…” Her voice broke. She was what? “I…” No better. Just stop. Pull it together. This was silly. “Hi.” She forced a smile. “So…” She could do this. Talk. Breathe. In and out. Easier said than done.
His mouth opened, then closed and the muscle in his jaw clenched tight. The staring continued.
I can’t do this. She couldn’t breathe, let alone string words together into something coherent. Especially since he just stood there, rigid, wearing an odd expression on his face. A face that, all weirdness and near-death experiences aside, she knew well. All too well.
Adrenaline was kicking in now. Enough to get her moving, anyway. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Move. Away. The sooner, the better. “Okay.” She hung up her phone, shoved it into her pocket, and started walking—do not run—toward the stadium door. No looking back. Just moving forward.
Did she almost slip? Yes. Did she go down? No. Had she managed to save a shred of dignity? Probably not. She pulled the door wide, stopping just inside to scan the signs and arrows that indicated what was where.
“Bathroom?” she whispered to herself, scanning the sign until she found what she was looking for—at the same time her phone started ringing. She didn’t have to look at it to know it was Krystal. But she did wait until she’d closed the door on the restroom and locked the door before she answered. This time, she denied FaceTime and kept it strictly audio. Her twin knew her too well to hide the maelstrom of emotions kicking her insides around and playing out on her face.
“Emmy?” Krystal asked. “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t get hit—”
“I know, I know but…it was Brock.”
Yes. Brock. She shrugged out of her raincoat and sat in the chair placed next to the diaper-changing station. “I know.” Her heart was still beating way too fast. Sitting wasn’t good. She stood, smoothing her pale blue blouse and staring down at her jeans, saturated below the line of her raincoat. She wiggled her toes in her rain boots, water squishing.
“This sucks.” Krystal cleared her throat. “I wish I was there.”
“I do too.” She stared at her reflection. “But I know what you’d do if you were here.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You’d remind me I made a promise to myself not to let him get to me anymore. You’d remind me that I already spent too many years and too many tears on him.” Which was true. Their breakup—rather, his sudden and complete disappearance from her life—had almost broken her. She’d cried until she was sick and Krystal knew it too. Krystal was the one who rocked her into the wee hours. Krystal was the one who pushed her to get up, to keep going, every day. Krystal was the one who told her it was okay to be angry with him for deserting her without a word. And when Emmy Lou was more herself, Krystal had turned all the tears and sadness and anger into their double-platinum single, “Your Loss.” “And you’d be right.”
“True.” Krystal paused. “But, after I was done telling you all that, I’d get up in his face and chew him out for almost running you over. And that’s just to start.”
Emmy smiled, using toilet paper to dab away the smeared make-up from her eyes. “I’m sure you would.”
“Then I’d tell him to stay the hell away from you,” she snapped. “Like away away from you. And I’d tell Sawyer to punch him in the face if he didn’t. Or the gut. Maybe not the gut, if he’s still solid muscle, the big oaf. Wherever it would hurt the most. I’d leave it up to Sawyer to decide—he’d probably know.”
Brock had made a habit of staying away from her so that wouldn’t be a problem. Starting six years ago—when she’d still been sending letters to him, begging him to tell her why he was suddenly cutting her so completely out of his life. She covered her face with her hands. Humiliating pathetic letters. They should have burned, not mailed.
“Emmy Lou. Is there anything I can do?” Krystal sighed. “I mean, besides booking a flight home—which I will do as soon as we get off the phone—”
“You will not.” Emmy sighed. “You and Jace deserve some time off. Enjoy each other. Away from…everything.” As in the latest media circus revolving around her sister. “I’ll be more upset about you two cutting your vacation short than running into Brock.” Which was mostly true. “I’m not going to fall apart. Okay, he’s here. Now I know. The chances of us running into each other again—”
“Literally,” Krystal interjected.
“Are slim. And, if we do, I won’t be dripping wet and suffering from shock so I won’t do what I…just did.” She shook her head. Meaning mumble a bunch of incoherent gibberish before running away? What was that about anyway? “Promise me you won’t come home. Finish your vacation.”
Krystal sighed. “Where is Daddy anyway? Why isn’t he with you?”
“He had a meeting and I didn’t want to sit and wait on him. I had Sawyer. Well, until Travis called. I’m fine.” She tugged the band from her hair and twisted, wringing out the water. “You’re right. I do look like a drowned rat.”
“Whatever. You’re you, Emmy. All you have to do is walk into a room and the clouds part and angels sing.”
Emmy laughed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“But you’re smiling now,” Krystal said. “And it’s true,” Krystal whispered, the words muffled. “Jace is here.” There was a smile in her voice.
“I’ll let you go, then.” Emmy put her bag on the counter. “Tell Jace I said hi, okay?”