Page 3 of Worth the Fall

“Emmy?”

Her eyes widen, and her lips part. And for that split second, I see the little girl from my memories. The one with the mess of strawberry blonde tangles and emerald eyes. The one who made pinky promises, mud pies, and agreed with me that Batman was far superior to Iron Man when it came to superheroes.

My best friend who told me she never wanted to see me again.

All the emotions come flooding back unexpectedly as I watch the familiarity flashing across her face vanish. Visibly flustered, she shakes her head and takes an abrupt step back, bumping into her friend behind her.

“No. I’m not her. She’s not me,” she denies.

“Emerson?” It’s the brunette again, and hearing that name—her name—after all this time is like being sucker punched with a battering ram.

“I’m fine.” She shrugs off the hand her other friend has put on her shoulder. Gone is the fun, flirty demeanor she had before turning to see me, Grant Malone—the boy she said she hated. Panic I can’t understand, but desperately want to, has replaced it.

“Emmy—”

“It’s Emerson,” she snaps with a resolute nod before breaking our eye contact and looking at her friends. “I have to go . . .”

“What are you doing here?” I ask a question, but it’s so much more than what it sounds like. How are you? Where have you been? Why are you back? Tell me you’re staying around. But she just stands in front of me and stares as if she can’t believe it’s really me and, at the same time, frightened that it is me.

“Em?” I reach out, needing to touch her to make sure she’s real, but the minute my hand touches her bicep, she jerks her arm back.

“I can’t . . . I didn’t want . . .” She shakes her head and then looks to the tall brunette before turning back to me with wide eyes as the color slowly drains from her cheeks. “Travis just texted. He needs me to help. I . . . have to go.”

Travis? Who’s Travis?

And with that, Emmy Reeves—the girl I haven’t thought about in years—turns on her heel and walks away.

“No. Wait!” I call after her as she makes her way through the crowd, her mane of strawberry blonde hair the last thing I see of her.

Just like before.

“And you are?”

There’s impatience in the voice that breaks through the cobwebs of memories suddenly spinning in my mind, but it takes an elbow from Nate to bring me back to the present.

“An old friend of hers,” I murmur to the tall brunette, eyes glancing to the crowd Emmy melted into, as if she were a ghost I was trying to find again.

“An old friend, huh?” She crosses her arms and juts a hip out as her eyes narrow and she decides if she wants to believe me or not.

“From childhood.”

“And your name is?” The other women lose interest in our conversation and begin chatting with Nate, but she’s laser focused on me.

“Grant Malone.” I stick my hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

She stares at my hand for a moment before speaking, “Desi Whitman, and I’m still figuring out if it is indeed nice or not.”

I look down to my hand and then back up to her with a lift of my brows, prompting her to reluctantly shake it.

“So, tell me, Desi Whitman, why is it you automatically believe I’ve done something to hurt Emerson?”

“First off, you called her Emmy. No one is allowed to call her Emmy. She hates it.”

“First off?” I laugh. “It’s been less than five minutes, and you’re already suspicious enough that you’ve made a list?”

“Not suspicious. Curious. There’s a difference,” she says as she shifts her feet. “And yes, I like to make lists.”

“Okay.” I nod, fighting my smile. “Let’s continue with that list of yours then. Why else have you assumed I did something to Emmy, er, Emerson?” I glance over to the crowd passing us by, making sure I don’t see any signs of Donnely’s crew and the rumored trouble they were going to cause before looking back to Desi.