“Vik?”
“Emma?”
Five seconds passed as we regarded each other, locked in a strange back-and-forth.
Was this real?
A shout from a nearby child drew her back to the moment. She clamped a firm hand on his shoulders, steered him into a corner, and ordered him to stand still. By the time she stormed back, spitting harsh commands, the spit-dripping toddler and the older one under the rack cowered on the floor at her feet.
She straightened again, breathless now.
Emma Goldmann in. the. flesh.
Time hadn’t been kind to Emma Goldmann. The last I’d seen her had been graduation day, when we walked off a stage at different times, caught eyes across a crowd, and never saw each other again.
Fifteen years was too soon.
“Hey,” I managed. I lifted my hands, then let them fall. “How are you?”
She cleared her throat, nudging the squirmy youngest with a foot and a dire glare. “Fine.” A limp smile followed. “Just visiting my parents for the summer and came to get some tackle kits for the boys. They want to go fishing.”
“Great. Yeah, we have those over here. I’ll take you to them.”
Cognizant of her following train, I waited until all the kids gained their feet to wind through the maze of racks, towers of shoes, and mountains of boxes toward a kids section at the back. The boys, sensing a future present, tagged along with a little more decorum.
A few minutes later, all four boys chattered like squirrels, comparing different packages in high-pitched voices. Emma stood awkwardly nearby, half her attention on them, the other half on not studying me too intently.
What did she see?
I saw a tired mother of four, a heartless girl who broke my heart while she attempted to destroy my reputation, and a woman that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t seem happy. Did she presume I was a wash out who couldn’t figure out a career path? A guy stuck in the small mountain town while working at the Outfitters?
Probably.
That seemedpartiallyfair. Not the washout part, though.
“Those two are on sale.” I pointed out a bright red pole in her eldest child’s hands. “Just for today, though.”
She didn’t look at me.
“Great. Thanks.”
The urge to bolt away threatened. With it, a morbid sense of embarrassment. When was the last time I had run away from any woman?
Fifteen years ago.
From this very Emma Goldmann.
She had wrenched out my heart and laughed at me in front of the whole school. After accepting my request to take her to prom, she showed up at the school with the baseball pitcher—practically high school royalty. While others looked on, she made fun of my tux, my partially stubbled chin, and the fact that I’d believed she would go with someone like me.
Every student in the room had laughed, or turned their back. Eye rolls, scoffs, derision followed for weeks.
That had been the last time I let a woman call the shots.
The last time I committed to liking a woman with my whole heart. The last time I let anyone inside far enough to matter. This tired mother of four—maybe more—had significantly altered the course of my life. Based on her furtive, almost-nervous glances, I had a feeling she knew it.
“Need anything else?” I asked brightly.
“No, thank you.”
