Twelve and a half years before Save Our Stores was founded…
Emily sat on the bridge railing, watching Harmony Run race beneath the footbridge, the normally placid creek swollen from spring melt. Her senioritis had become critical this first warm day of the season, and she’d left both her hoodie and her fleece jacket in her locker before ditching fifth period. She was warm enough with just her T-shirt.
Not her T-shirt, not exactly. It was Jon’s T-shirt, the one he’d picked up at Career Day last year. ARMY STRONG it said, in black letters that were fading from too many washings. She ducked her head, sniffing deeply of the ragged neckline.
The shirt didn’t smell like Jon. It smelled like Tide, overlaid with Bounce dryer sheets, because Anne always complained that static electricity made her hair stand on end, and Mom would do anything for the baby in the family. They all would, of course, because Anne just made them want to help her. And it wasn’t like it was a great sacrifice to smell like Fresh Mountain Spring.
Emily glanced down at the picnic basket she’d carried to the footbridge. She wanted to surprise Jon. His birthday wasn’t until Saturday—that’s why she was sure this would be a surprise. She’d made roast beef sandwiches, spreading horseradish sauce thick on Wonderbread, just the way he liked it. She’d added two bags of kettle potato chips.
And she’d stolen a bottle of champagne.
She’d taken it from the refrigerator in the basement. It must have been left over from Christmas or Thanksgiving; she’d found it rolling around in the vegetable crisper when Mom had sent her downstairs with leftover deviled eggs from Easter dinner. Probably no one even remembered it was there, and if her parents ever did realize it was gone, they’d probably just assume they’d miscounted. Or maybe that Bran had taken it. Bran got away with murder.
Emily dug out her phone and checked the time: 1:23.
She’d arrived at the meeting place early. She always did. Good old Emily, never keep anyone waiting. That’s what Dad always said. Mom was always late, and Anne sometimes. But never Emily.
Jon wasn’t usually late either. He used military time; he thought it sounded cool to say they were getting together at thirteen hundred hours. But it was way past thirteen hundred. She texted him: Everything ok?
She imagined she could hear the tone he’d set for her, the clucking of a chicken that he knew drove her nuts. She pictured him reaching into his pocket and thumbing on his phone. She gave him time to type back a reply. Doubled that. Doubled it again.
Something was wrong. She swung her leg over the bridge railing, ready to head back home. Maybe a teacher had caught him sneaking out Door 3. He might be sitting in Principal Davis’s office right now.
But before she could pick up the picnic basket, her phone chirped. She hadn’t realized how nervous she’d become until she read the note on her screen: Yeah. Running late.
She typed back immediately: Meet under the bleachers?
Because while Jon would ditch his afternoon classes without thinking twice, there was no way he’d ever be late to baseball practice. Not when Coach Gunderson spent every afternoon comparing Jon to the Living Legend of Matt.
She’d barely hit Send when her phone chirped again: Just E. CU @ Hyland in 5. XXX
She blinked at the message, confused. Just E. What did he mean by that? Was he saying they should meet at E, whatever that was, instead of under the bleachers?
But no. He said he’d see her at Hyland in five. That didn’t make any sense at all. The only Hyland she knew was the rat trap motel out on the county road.
And she’d never received a single text from Jon signed with kisses.
Jon always said Xes and Os were stupid. That any guy who typed them was too dumb to live. Pussy-whipped, he said, even though he knew she hated that word.
She started shaking. Her fingers trembled so hard, she could barely mash the button to place a call. It rang four times, then Jon’s recorded voice said, “You know what to do.”
Except she didn’t. She had no idea what to do now.
She hung up without saying a word.
Harmony Run looked like it was flowing faster now, but maybe that was only because her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t draw a full breath. Her belly tightened, and for one horrible moment, she thought she was going to be sick.
Who had Jon been texting?
Because she could tell herself a story that the text was meant for her. She could figure out a way that “Just E” meant he only cared for her. That he’d shortened her name even more than usual, from Emily, to Em, to E, because that was how he showed his love. That he was five minutes away, less even. That he’d finally decided he could type kisses, that she’d been right all along.
But if that story was right, then he would have answered his phone. If that story was right, he wouldn’t be meeting anyone at the Hyland in five minutes. If that story was right, they’d be laughing about this even now.
Her phone rang. Jon. She ignored it.
He tried again, thirty seconds later. One more time.
Then he started texting: Pick up, Em.
Another call. She stared at her phone like it was possessed.
A new text: Come on, Em.
One more: Kaylie never pulls shit like this.
Kaylie. Kaylie Putnam. Kaylie Put-out, Jon said the guys called her.
But Jon had said he was willing to wait. He said she, Emily, got to make the decision. He wasn’t going to pressure her, wasn’t going to keep trying to get inside her pants.
She’d believed him. She’d trusted him. And that was why she’d made them lunch, why she’d stolen the bottle of champagne. Because she couldn’t think of anything more romantic than lying on a blanket under Old Man Marshall’s apple trees, staring up into the pink-white blossoms. She’d finally decided she wanted Jon to be her first. To drink champagne after, because they loved each other, they really did.
Her eyes blurring with tears, she reached into the picnic basket. She shoved aside the blanket and dug deep until she found the sandwiches. The sharp smell of horseradish punched her in the stomach, and once again she thought she was going to be sick right there, over the side of the bridge.
But she wasn’t sick. Instead, she took the sandwiches out of their plastic bags and dropped them into the river. They spun away, little white triangles rushing back toward town. She thought about drowning the bags of potato chips, but that would be polluting.
She reached back into the basket and came up with the bottle of champagne. She’d never opened one before, but she’d watched Grandpop do the honors at Thanksgiving. It was easy enough to rip off the foil cap. The ends of the wire basket cut into her fingers, but she used sharp, short motions to twist it free. The cork felt weird under her palm, rough and smooth at the same time.
Grandpop had turned it carefully, easing the mushroom shape out of the bottle with more of a whisper than a pop. She couldn’t get the cork to move, though, couldn’t get it started, so she grabbed it tighter and cranked, hard.
The sound, like a gunshot, startled her and she realized she was crying. Champagne poured out, streaming over her hand. She lost half of it, maybe more before she lowered her head to the flow. She drank like it was Coca-Cola foaming over a cup at the McDonalds out on the county road.
The bubbles made her sneeze, but she licked her fingers clean. She raised the bottle to her lips, tipping it up cautiously, because it was weighted funny, so much heavier at the bottom.
She drank fast, swallowing hard, like it was medicine. When she stopped to catch her breath, she burped, and that embarrassed her. She looked around, but of course there wasn’t anyone to hear. Nevertheless, she decided it was stupid to stay on the footbridge, visible to anyone walking down from Old Man Marshall’s house.
A breeze picked up as she crossed to the far side. Apple trees started shedding their petals, soft pink rain that drifted slowly to the ground. Still crying, Emily walked to the closest tree. She spread her blanket and leaned against the trunk.
Now she took her time sipping the champagne. It burned a little at the back of her throat, the bubbles tickling the slow ache that bloomed after she forced herself to stop crying. She could feel the wine heating her stomach, which was funny, because her arms were getting cold, here in the shade beneath the tree. She rubbed away goosebumps and drank some more.
She shouldn’t have thrown out the sandwiches. A sandwich would be good right now. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, since she’d gulped down a bowl of Mom’s steel-cut oatmeal, “porridge” Mom called it, complete with currants and chopped hazelnuts.
Emily dug in the basket and came up with the bags of potato chips. No reason to save Jon’s. She might as well eat them both.
The salt made her thirsty, so she drank more champagne.
She should think about getting home. She had trig homework, and she was running out of time to finish her project on Ode on a Grecian Urn. She had to read a whole chapter for AP Chemistry, and she had a calculus problem set, too.
But it was way too much work to get to her feet. It was so much easier to sit here. To watch the apple blossoms fall. To listen to Harmony Run. To think about all the times Jon had said he’d wait for her, he wanted her, he loved her.
She must have fallen asleep for a while, because when she opened her eyes, the sun was low on the horizon. The temperature had dropped, a lot, and she wished she hadn’t left her hoodie in her locker.
“Emily!”
She realized she’d already heard her name called, at least once. For a heartbeat, she thought the voice was Jon’s. She saw him, standing on the far edge of the bridge. He’d come for her, and now he was going to explain, tell her it had all been a horrible mistake, a really bad joke.
But it wasn’t Jon.
It was Matt. Matt who was home on spring break from his sophomore year at University of Richmond. Matt who was a scholarship baseball player, whose whole future was mapped out for him. Matt the Living Legend.
“Hey, Emily,” he called, crossing the footbridge. He came up to the edge of the blanket and squatted to meet her at eye level. “How you doing?” he asked.
She heard the words. She understood the question. But all of a sudden, she realized she was shivering too hard to answer. She swallowed and tried to set her jaw, but she couldn’t quite stop the tremors from shaking her arms. “F—fine,” she said.
Matt rocked back on his heels. He slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The flannel lining felt like heaven—soft and warm and it smelled like soap. “Jon said you might be out here.”
“Why’d he s—say that?” She pulled the jacket closer around her, hunching her shoulders as if she could disappear.
“Because he knows he’s an asshole.” Matt sat down beside her. “Kaylie made him call your house. When your mom said you weren’t home, he sort of panicked. Called me and said he was afraid you’d jumped into Harmony Run.”
The sound that came out of her was probably supposed to be a laugh. “He’s not worth it.” She didn’t say the words to Matt, though. She rocked forward and said them to the water.
“Tell me about it.” He leaned back against the tree.
“I made us a picnic. I brought potato chips. A—and roast beef sandwiches!”
And champagne. She started crying again, before she could confess how stupid she’d been, stealing the bottle from home. The thought broke something inside her, and her sobs scraped the back of her throat, rasping it raw.
She couldn’t say exactly when Matt moved. But she felt his arms around her, holding her tight. He was sitting, half-leaning against the tree as he gathered her onto his lap. No. Not his lap. She sat between his legs and it was like they were spooning. His arms were warm around her, and that only made her cry harder, because she’d always thought spooning was one of the most romantic things two people could do—no sex, no pressure, just being there, just holding onto each other.
“Hush,” Matt said. His arms tightened, and she tilted her head back until it rested on his collarbone. His chin was right beside her ear. He shifted, just a little, raising his knees to cradle her closer.
She’d never cried in front of Jon. She’d never let him see any weak part of her. Boys didn’t like girls who were needy, who were drama queens. Besides, she needed to win. She always did.
But she hadn’t won today. She’d lost Jon to Kaylie. Lost him the very day she thought he’d be hers forever. Her sobs melted into a hopeless wail.
“Come on, Em,” Matt said. He’d never used her nickname before. It wasn’t like they spent a lot of time together, not really. He’d been at college for the past two years, and before that, he’d been a senior, galloping through the Dawson kitchen on his way out to baseball practice, on his way to see friends, leaving his sophomore little brother behind.
She swiped at her face, trying to dash away her tears. Her nose was running—great—but she wasn’t about to use the sleeve on Matt’s jacket, so she just sniffed, hard.
He shifted, moving onto one hip as he reached into his back pocket. Before she realized what he was doing, he handed her a handkerchief. The white cotton square was impossibly clean, shimmering bright in the afternoon light as she swiped at her nose, as she wiped away her tears.
Jon was the only other guy she knew who carried a handkerchief. He was embarrassed about it, said his dad made him do it. Something about how a real man always had a handkerchief, comb, watch, and wallet.
A real man.
Maybe she was flushed because she’d been crying. Maybe it was the heat from Matt’s jacket that still draped over her shoulders. Maybe it was the warmth of his arms around her, holding her tight.
But she wasn’t cold anymore. In fact, she felt hot, as if she’d just won the fifty-yard dash on Field Day. As if she’d just won a spelling bee in front of the entire class, just been named valedictorian.
Her fingers tingled and the roof of her mouth felt sparkly. She twisted around to face Matt, to tell him she was okay, that Jon was a jerk and she wasn’t going to care about him anymore. She wasn’t going to let Jon win.
And she was startled to find Matt’s face right next to hers.
His lips right next to hers.
She’d been thinking about this day for a long time. She’d made her plans weeks ago; she’d even made Rachel drive her all the way to Winchester, so they could go to a Walgreen’s where there was no chance they’d run into anyone they knew. That morning, before she’d left for school, she’d slipped a foil-wrapped square from underneath her mattress, snapping at Anne when her sister started pounding on her bedroom door, saying they’d be late.
She was ready for this. It seemed like she’d been ready forever. But thinking about Jon at the Hyland Motel with Kaylie—don’t think about Jon—she felt like an idiot for waiting. For insisting on love.
What was love, anyway? They were going to graduate in another month. Did she really think they’d spend the rest of their lives together?
She was kneeling now, turned all the way around to face Matt. His jacket was slipping off her shoulders but she didn’t care because she wasn’t cold at all, could hardly remember how it had ever felt to be cold. One of Matt’s hands slid up her side, and she melted into him.
She thought he’d kiss her on the lips, but he didn’t. Instead, he tangled his free fingers in her hair. He tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and his hot mouth found the pulse point in her throat. His tongue did something, flicking back and forth, and a glowing warmth flowed down her spine.
This was what it felt like to be with a man. Not a boy, like Jon. Matt knew what he was doing, knew what he wanted. What she needed. His lips shifted to the hollow behind her ear, and no one had ever kissed her there before. Nothing had ever felt that good. She moaned deep in her throat, then froze at the embarrassing sound.
But Matt laughed. She felt him chuckle, the vibration echoing up her fingertips, into the palms she’d spread across his chest. His amusement gave her courage, and she slipped her right hand low, tugging on his shirt to free it from his jeans.
He jumped a little when she set her fingers against his belly, and she started to pull away. But his fingers closed around her wrist, trapping the back of her hand against the line of rough hair that trailed into his jeans. He stroked her palm. It was like he was telling her fortune, edging out to her fingertips, over and over and over again, until she thought her hand would burst into flame. She curled her fingers, desperate to hold onto that energy, that incredible, amazing wash of sensation. Before she could make a fist, though, he settled her hand over the bulge in her jeans.
She wasn’t naive. She’d touched Jon before. She’d put her hands inside his shorts and stroked until he’d shuddered and gasped, breathing hard and fast as a racehorse. He’d thanked her awkwardly before he’d shuffled off to the bathroom and closed the door, running water in the sink for ages, almost forever.
But Matt was different. Because when she touched Matt, he didn’t just brace himself with his hands and let her do the work. Instead, he worked the button on her jeans with his nimble fingers. He steadied her with his free hand, spreading his wide grip from her hip to the bottom of her rib-cage. He arched against her, reminding her to stroke, to trace the rigid outline of his erection with her own hand, even as he slipped his fingers beneath the elastic edge of her panties.
She caught her lip between her teeth. No boy had ever touched her like that, not without a double layer of underwear and pants. She was wet down there, hot and slick, and she might have been embarrassed if Matt hadn’t gasped with obvious pleasure, “Em…”
A little appalled at how brave she was, she shifted her knees, giving him better access. He answered by quickening his pace, stroking fast and sure. Tension spiraled toward her belly, tightening her focus. She knew she should be touching Matt, should be giving him the same rush of pleasure he was giving her. But need was drowning out her concentration. Hot, sweet heat flooded away every conscious thought.
“Now,” Matt whispered, his fingers slipping home. “Yes,” he said as she tumbled toward the edge of a cliff. “Em,” he sighed, and she collapsed around him, crying out his name as her thighs slammed closed, as her entire body clutched tight and he pulled her close with his free arm, nestling his lips close to her ear, kissing her hair, her cheek, her eyelids.
When she could finally think again, she considered being embarrassed. She’d finally relaxed enough for Matt to slip his hand from between her legs. He was leaning back against the tree, a goofy smile on his lips.
She’d read books. She’d watched movies. She knew she wasn’t supposed to take, take, take; it was her obligation to give as good as she got.
She shifted, just enough that she could slip her hand inside her pocket. She found the foil there, crumpled but untorn. Palming the condom, she reached for the buckle on Matt’s belt.
She wasn’t as coordinated as he was. It was hard to hold onto the square of foil while she worked his belt free from its loops. She was afraid to pull the leather tight enough to release the metal tongue; she didn’t want to hurt him. But the buckle was nothing compared to the button on his jeans. How had he snapped hers open with one twist of his fingers? His denim seemed as stiff as cardboard.
Embarrassed by her clumsiness, she bit her lip again. She refused to meet his eyes, even when he folded his hands over hers. “Hey,” he said, but she wouldn’t look up. “Emily.”
Her full name sounded strange on his lips. She definitely couldn’t look at him now. She reached down, intending to stroke him through his jeans, to let him know that she knew she still owed him, to let him know she cared.
“Emily,” he said, and this time, his fingers locked around her wrists. “You don’t have to—”
“I do!” She threw herself at him, draping her arms around his neck. She found his lips, kissing him the way she knew Jon loved, with her mouth open, her tongue exploring his.
And he pulled his head away. “Jesus, Emily.” He wiped his lips against the back of his hand. “Champagne?” he asked.
She felt ashamed. “It’s okay,” she said, words bubbling up from some place deep inside her. “That’s why Jon was supposed to meet me here. That’s what we were supposed to do. I’m ready! I have protection!”
The condom looked pathetic on her open palm. They both stared at it, it seemed like forever, and then he finally curled her fingers over the square and guided her hand back toward her pocket.
She sank to the ground, mortified.
So what, if they hadn’t actually had sex? What they’d just done, the way he’d touched her, the way he’d said her name as she folded herself around him, that had been a million times more intimate than what she’d expected that afternoon.
She’d written the scene with Jon long before she’d walked out to the bridge. She’d imagined how the ground would feel against her shoulder blades, how heavy he’d be on top of her.
In her mind, though, she’d never imagined how she’d feel inside. She’d never dreamed of that explosion, binding her to him. Binding her to Matt.
She hugged her arms around her knees, barely watching as Matt cinched his belt tight. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry! I want you to let me make it right. Make it even!”
His laugh sounded sad. “There isn’t an even, Emily.”
Em! she wanted to say. Call me Em! Instead, she pulled away to the far edge of the blanket, to the corner obscured by fallen petals.
“I’m sorry,” Matt said again, and this time she didn’t interrupt him. “But you’re drunk. And you’re my little brother’s girlfriend. I never should have gone this far.”
“I’m not drunk!” she said. And she wasn’t, not anymore. But she wasn’t exactly sober either. She was on a lot firmer ground when she said, “And I’m not Jon’s girlfriend.”
“Come on,” Matt said. “He’s a jackass. Anyone who’s spent one day with him knows that. But deep down, he’s really a good guy. And he didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Right.”
“He never means to hurt you. You or anyone else. He’s like a puppy who just can’t remember the rules.”
“Then what does that make me? Some old shoe, gnawed to pieces? It’s over. Jon and I are done.”
He didn’t answer her. Not with words. But he climbed to his feet and offered a hand to help her up. She stood on her own.
Matt leaned down to gather up the blanket. She scrambled forward, rescuing the discarded champagne bottle and his jacket. She watched as he folded the blanket, matching the corners and creasing the seams. She reached out for the basket once he’d closed the lid, but he shook his head, shifting it easily to his far hand.
Exasperated, she shoved his jacket toward him. He took it by reflex, and she tried not to gloat. But she’d won.
She led the way back to town, crossing over the bridge, skirting the meadow at the bottom of Old Man Marshall’s property. She slipped the champagne bottle into the first trashcan they found, on the very edge of town, trying not to feel guilty that it wouldn’t be recycled. And she crossed her arms over her chest as they walked the rest of the way, telling herself that she wasn’t cold. She definitely wasn’t chattering. The last thing in the world she needed was Matt Dawson’s jacket.
They didn’t say a word to each other as he handed over the picnic basket on the sidewalk in front of her house. She wasn’t going to look at him as he walked away.
But then she dared herself to watch him disappear into the gloom.
After all, Jon broke the rules, and he never had to pay a price. He skipped class all the time; he barely scraped by with Cs and Ds. He hooked up with Kaylie Putnam, lying about it and telling Emily she was the one who was nuts.
Well, Emily could break the rules too. She could stare at Matt Dawson’s butt as he walked away into the twilight. And after he was gone, she could head into the house without an apology for being late, for failing to set the table on time.
She was tired of being the good girl. Tired of being the perfect middle child who did whatever it took to maintain peace and harmony at home, at school, wherever. She needed to add a little more of Jon’s philosophy to her day-to-day life—do what she wanted to do and who cared if people didn’t like the result.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and cranked her music through her speakers, not bothering with earbuds. And she didn’t feel guilty when Anne needed to come all the way upstairs to get her for dinner. Not even when Anne said she’d called from the foot of the stairs three times. Not even when everyone else was already gathered around the table, waiting for her, hungry.
She loaded a second Cornish pastie onto her plate because she was ravenous, even though it would have been more polite to pass the dish around the table for everyone to have firsts. Because she was through following the rules. A new Emily Barton was ready to face the world. And everyone else would just have to deal with that.