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  Or maybe I should just let it all crush me and then I won't have to worry about anything ever again.

  Bad thoughts to have, she knew. CPS had been called on Margo enough to ensure Emma had spent a lot of times in and out of counseling offices. She had a whole buffet of psychological problems – addictive personality, low self-esteem, thoughts of self harm and suicide. She knew all the terms, they were like old friends.

  So instead of dwelling on the latter ones, she turned to addiction. She pulled a shiny silver cigarette case out of her back pocket and flicked it open, revealing a couple of hand rolled cigarettes. She delicately picked one up, then snapped the case shut. After she slid it back into her pocket, she pulled out her lighter and flicked it on, inhaling the flame into the tip of the paper. She took a long drag, then exhaled the smoke on a deep sigh.

  There. That was better.

  Stacey's party was in full swing. There seemed to be a keg in one corner of the living room, and a bar of sorts had been set up on the back deck – a table covered in bottles of liquor. Stacey had been standing at it for a while, pouring drinks and handing out shots, but she'd eventually wandered inside to join the rowdy crowd on the makeshift dance floor.

  It all looked like a good time. A great time. A year or two ago, Emma would've gotten right in there with everybody. Would've danced on a table, downed a fifth of vodka, and fucked some stranger in the bathroom. Because hey, fucking a stranger is better than feeling alone and empty, right? Right?

  She closed her eyes and took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs for so long it started to burn.

  Emma wasn't technically at the party – she was outside it. Stacey had practically begged her to come, and after Emma'd run out of Jerry's house, she hadn't had anywhere to go. So she'd walked the whole way to Stacey's house, prepared to go inside and pretend to be a normal girl. For just a little while.

  But once she'd gotten there, she hadn't been able to handle it. All those bright and shiny faces, so foreign to her. She hadn't had a happy life, like all those other people, and she couldn't pretend anymore that she had. No, what she really wanted to do was walk into the middle of the party and scream. Just scream and scream until someone called the police. Maybe hit someone, or break something. Wake them all up and let them know that no, nothing was perfect, and none of this would last, because sooner or later, the good times would end. They always ended.

  Her eyes narrowed into a glare as she spied on the party. No, she wouldn't go in there. She would hold out for something better. That's what this year would be about – striving for greatness, in whatever form she could get it. Getting away from Margo, becoming a more evolved human being, getting what she deserved. She'd experienced the lowest lows life had to offer. She was ready for the highest highs, or at least certainly something higher than some stupid fucking college kegger.

  So instead of joining the festivities, she walked a circuit around the house, just observing everyone. Getting a glimpse of what normality looked like. When she finished her cigarette, actually started feeling a little giddy about having all her thoughts in order. Greatness, yes. It was coming, she could feel it. She dropped her burnt out butt to the ground and stubbed it out with her foot, then headed across the back yard. It was cold outside, most people had gone in, but there were still a couple half empty bottles left out on the deck. Making sure no one was looking outside, she snagged a bottle of vodka and took it with her. It was a long walk home and Margo would be at the end of it – Emma would need something to keep her warm.

  By the time she got to her neighborhood, it was after midnight. Every light in the house was off, including the porch light.

  What a bitch.

  She smoked another cigarette, standing under a street lamp and taking sips from the bottle the whole time. Then she threw her butt into Jerry's begonias before heading inside.

  She'd been wrong. Once in the house, she saw the stove light had been left on. How thoughtful. She glared at it while she struggled to get out of her jacket.

  She waited till she was in her room to take off her pants. She stumbled into a book shelf and almost fell over, but finally managed to wrestle the skinny jeans away from her legs. When she stood upright, she looked over everything. It just depressed her and made the alcohol roll around in her stomach.

  Fuck that lumpy couch, I'm sleeping in Paul's room.

  Grabbing the liquor bottle, she marched into the hallway and promptly ran smack dab into someone.

  There was a man standing there. A tall man. She blinked up at him, trying to figure out if she was drunk, or if this was a home invasion. A lamp was on in Paul's bedroom, casting light onto the stranger's back and leaving his face in shadows.

  She should've been scared. She should've screamed, or swung the bottle at him, or at least run away. But Emma didn't do anything. She stood there in her long sleeve shirt and her underwear and she just stared up at the shadowy figure.

  His pose struck her as odd, and she finally realized he'd been in the act of pulling on a shirt when she'd bumped into him. The shirt was over his shoulders and arms, and he was in the process of unrolling it down his torso. He was completely motionless, though, clearly as caught off guard by her as she was by him.

  She flicked her eyes to the open door at the end of the hall. Paul's room. Then back at the stranger. What kind of home invader stole a t-shirt? Or froze at the sight of a girl, for that matter? She glanced at the door again. Then back at the man.

  “You're Paul,” she blurted out, her voice sounding loud and flat in the quiet house.

  He didn't respond, just slowly pulled his shirt the rest of the way down. Then he froze again. She frowned and reached out for the wall, feeling along it in the dark. When she got to the light switch, she flicked it on.

  Oh, wow.

  Emma had assumed Jerry's son, Paul, would've looked like him. Not too tall, but not too short. Heavy. Pasty. Boring.

  But this guy was the complete opposite. He had shockingly bright blue eyes, almost glowing against his pale skin. His hair was a thick, messy mop, hanging clear into his eyes with the way his head was tilted down. She realized she was having to tilt her head back to look up at him – at her height, she didn't have to do that often, so he was very tall, indeed. And even though it had been dark when he'd had his shirt up, her shadowy glimpse at his half naked torso had shown her lean and well defined muscles.

  He's fucking gorgeous. He can't possibly be Jerry “Potato-Head” Logan's son.

  “Are you Paul?” she double checked.

  He stared at her for another long second, then she saw his lips press together tightly. He gave a curt nod, then moved around her and headed towards the living room.

  Maybe he's lying and I just let some burglar get away ...

  He didn't make some great escape, though. When she came out of the hallway, he was in the kitchen. She moved so she was standing in front of the breakfast bar and she watched while he went through the cupboards.

  “There's nothing good,” she warned him. “Margo's on a health kick, which means everyone's on a health kick.”

  He glanced at her and she sucked in a quick breath of air. He was so intense, she was afraid he'd steal her breath away. She finally turned her head, pretending like she was looking for a stool, and he moved his search to the fridge.

  “I didn't know you were here,” she tried talking again. “I mean, no one told me you were coming home.”

  More silence. He lifted a carton of coconut water out of the fridge and didn't bother with a glass, just put the spout right to his lips and started drinking. She watched his jaw stretch and the muscles in his neck chord up and bunch together.

  “You know, I've never even seen your picture. Jerry's not real big on hanging shit up, huh? But not even in your room. Not that I went in there. Just stood in the doorway once. You don't look at all like your dad,” she realized she was babbling. Paul lowered the carton and looked at her again while he put it away. She found it unnerving, his di
rect stare, but she refused to look away this time.

  “I must have startled you,” she offered. “It's late, I shouldn't be wandering around the hall in the middle of the night. You probably thought I was an intruder or something.”

  Smooth, Emma. Super duper smooth.

  Paul moved towards the breakfast counter. It wasn't a big kitchen, not at all, but it seemed to take him forever. She couldn't get over the feeling he was prowling; his movements seemed almost ... predatory. By the time he finally reached her, she realized she'd started holding her breath. He braced his hands against the bar top, then leaned down so he could see beneath the cupboards.

  “You're not wearing pants.”

  She'd been waiting for him to speak this whole time, yet she was still startled by his voice. It was soft. Quiet. Unnerving. Just like him.

  She glanced down at her lap and was shocked to feel a blush coming over her face. She never blushed. She'd once jogged around an entire trailer park in the nude, just to win a bet. She didn't get embarrassed or nervous or shy.

  Paul Logan made her feel all three.

  “Yeah,” she finally chuckled. “Yeah, good point. What kind of intruder doesn't wear pants? I mean, besides the really weird kind.”

  He didn't say anything else, and she got the feeling conversation was done for the night. He stood upright, his head disappearing from view, and she listened as he started rifling around in the cupboards above them.

  Oh well. Just one more person in her plastic life. Someone else to be rude to her or treat her badly or use her or ... ignore her. Please, god, just let him ignore her. She got off her stool and started walking away, taking a swig from the vodka bottle. Two steps later she froze, stared at the alcohol, then whirled around.

  “Welcome home, Paul,” she said, and she sat the bottle on the counter before walking away.

  2

  Emma felt like shit the next morning, and not just because of the vodka.

  Jerry's pull out couch was old, some sort of relic from the 1980s. All lumps and pokey springs. It was some kind of bullshit, making her sleep on it when there was a perfectly good unused bed in the room next door.

  Paul's room.

  She pushed herself up and glanced around the office. Had she dreamt last night? It had been very late, the memory was fuzzy in her mind. Surely Jerry couldn't produce something as beautiful as the vision she'd seen in the hallway.

  Snorting at her own thoughts, Emma climbed off the makeshift bed and rummaged around her room. She pulled on the first clothing she came across, then raked her hand through her heavy hair, settling out most of the tangles before heading out into the living room.

  “She graces us with her presence!” her mother chirped as she made her way to the breakfast counter.

  “If I sit down,” Emma spoke slowly. “Am I going to be hit again?”

  There was a heavy silence. Not that Jerry noticed. Jerry just sat at the table and read his newspaper.

  I like you more and more every day, Jer.

  “I don't know,” her mom hissed in return. “Are you going to open your mouth again?”

  Emma glared at her mom. Her mom glared at the egg whites she was scrambling in a pan. God, she wanted to hit her. Wanted to smash her face into the hot, greasy pan. Leave a big burning mark on her skin, the same way she'd left a big burning mark on her daughter's soul.

  “Our chats are so productive, I'm almost sad to leave,” she finally snapped before turning around.

  “Really? I always feel such ... elation when you go.”

  “Big word, Margo. Is vocab part of you and Jerry's foreplay?”

  “That is enough!” Margo snapped, slamming her spatula down. “I don't have to take -”

  “Oh, Emma,” Jerry suddenly came to life, shocking them both into silence. “You're up. Good. I'd like you to meet my son.”

  Emma blinked rapidly in surprise as Jerry actually stood up from the table and spoke to her. Well, spoke to her-ish. Jerry had never once made actual eye contact with Emma. He seemed somewhat scared of her, which she rather liked. So to have him standing and facing her and looking in her general direction, it was a big deal.

  “I'm sorry, who?” she asked, not hearing everything he said.

  “His son,” Margo snarled from behind her.

  Jerry broadly swept his arm across the space, gesturing to the living room. Emma turned her head and sure enough, there sat her vision from the night before, taking up a small corner of the couch. She hadn't even noticed Paul when she'd walked into the room.

  Which was bizarre, because once a person did notice him, they couldn't look at anything else.

  He had an interesting way of looking at things; very direct, yet not quite looking at anything in particular, either. This morning, it seemed to be settled on the window across from him. He didn't look at Emma once as she walked closer to him.

  He looked different in the light of day. More solid, yet also more ethereal. He was good looking. Pretty. The wild mop of hair from the night before had been tamed, styled and brushed away from his forehead. He wore a slim fitting button up shirt, untucked, over a pair of dark jeans. Next to his feet sat a leather bag, portfolio style.

  Emma stared down at him for a second, willing him to look at her.

  He didn't.

  “You look different,” she said. But he didn't respond. All she got was a flick of the eyes. A glance at her legs, then he was back to the window. He didn't say anything, but she could almost hear his thoughts in her mind.

  “You're finally wearing pants.”

  “Paul is quiet,” Jerry said in an awkward voice. Emma glanced over her shoulder at him.

  “I've noticed.”

  “He didn't start to speak until the age of three, and he still hasn't said much since then.”

  “Really,” Emma turned her gaze back to the enigma on the sofa. “Strange. I heard you were in an Ivy League school. What are you doing back in this dump?”

  Still no response.

  “He was attending Columbia,” Jerry explained, and there was something very much like pride in his voice. “But I ... we got a letter, from his school. Best for him to take a break.”

  Huh. A letter from school. Suspension? What could Jerry's darling son have possibly done that got him suspended from Columbia? She watched him, wondering what was going on his head. Wondering what his deal was. Wondering if he could hear her thoughts the way she felt like she could hear his.

  “Don't you have school, young lady?” her mother barked out. Emma sighed.

  “It must be nice to ignore the whole world,” she whispered to Paul, then she looked back at the kitchen. “Yeah, I'm leaving right now, don't worry, Margo.”

  “I told you, don't call me that.”

  “I have a wonderful idea,” Jerry suddenly sputtered. Both women looked at him. “Paul can take you.”

  Emma and Margo glanced at each other, and for once, they seemed to be on the same page.

  “Oh, honey,” her mother cooed. “I don't think that's a good idea. Paul's so busy and he has so much on his mind, I don't want Emma bothering him.”

  “Yeah, and I would totally bother him. He doesn't have to go out of his way. I have a bus pass, I'm fine, really, it's no big -”

  Paul ended the conversation by abruptly standing up. Emma turned to face him and for a second, just a split second, their eyes connected. That shocking blue met her tranquil green and cut her right in half. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Greatness ...

  Then his gaze slid away and landed on the front door. He stood still, clutching his portfolio in one hand.

  He's waiting for me.

  “It's not out of the way – Paul is going to the same school,” Jerry explained.

  “You're going to a community college?” Emma directed all of her questions and statements at Paul, though Jerry was the one doing all the responding and answering.

  “Well, he's going to be working there. We felt it was best if he had something
to occupy his mind while he's ... taking a break here.”

  Paul didn't say anything, but it was like there was a sudden frisson of tension in the air. She stared up at him and noticed a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  He's annoyed. Jerry thinks he's taking care of his son, but I'm willing to bet Paul hasn't needed anyone to take care of him in a long time.

  “I just need to grab my bag,” she spoke softly, staring at that muscle on his jaw. “Two seconds.”

  When she finished speaking, Paul walked away, not giving any indication he'd heard her. As he went out the front door, Emma went back to her room. She slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed her backpack, then glanced in a mirror. She didn't exactly look chic, but she'd do until she could get to a bathroom at school and tidy up.

  When she went back out into the hall, Margo was blocking her path.

  “You stay away from Paul,” she hissed. “Do you hear me? Jerry doesn't care about anything in this world, except that boy. You mess with him, you're gonna mess things up for all of us.”

  “How would I 'mess' with him?” Emma asked.

  “Oh, you'd find a way. He's special, alright? I know he's supposed to be some kind of genius, but I think he's some kind of retard,” Margo grumbled, and Emma winced. God, her mother was a disgusting human being. “He doesn't even know how to talk.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because he doesn't talk. Ever. To anyone.”

  “That's not possible,” Emma shook her head. “You don't go to school and college and get good grades without speaking.”

  “This boy does. I've met him five times, and I've never heard him speak a word. So if you start flirting with him or trying anything with him, I will kick you out on your ass. You hear me? It's just sick, messing with someone who's mentally ill,” Margo informed her.