His expression twists, his mouth creasing. “What’s so horrible about it? Why do you hate it so much?”

“I—” My mind goes completely blank, even though I was able to list off ten things the last time he asked. “Well, I...”

There’s a loaded silence weighing down the air around us, impossible to ignore.

A wistful smile crosses Emmitt’s face. “I don’t think you hate New York City at all. What do you really hate?”

“You,” I say, but saying that feels even more wrong.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think you hate me, either.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words are weak.

Emmitt tilts his head, looking me up and down slowly, and my skin feels like it’s being set alight by the weight of it. It’s so different from the first time we met—now his eyes are understanding, compassionate, tender. “You know, you remind me of a bird.”

“A bird? Why a bird?” I ask, despite the fact there’s an entirely new voice in my head telling me to back away slowly and then never stop running. It’s almost as loud as the one that picks at me endlessly.

He shrugs, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hair behind my ear. “You look like you might fly away at any second. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

My mouth is too dry. “Don’t have any wings.”

Emmitt shakes his head, his fingers trailing down my shoulder until he can give my braid a light tug. “I don’t think you need any.”

I don’t have anything to say to that, my heart pounding unevenly. Emmitt doesn’t seem to mind, instead taking a step back and looking around. “This is a good place for the prompt,” he says lightly, lifting his camera to take a quick photo of me against the railing. “I’ll be back in a few, love.”

He wanders off, taking photos as he goes, and I stare after him, the word flight flashing in my mind like a broken neon sign.

40

Emmitt must sense my reluctance to go home, because he comes back twenty minutes later, holding his phone to his ear.

“Yeah, thank you, that’d be great,” he says. When we meet eyes, he offers me a wink. “Absolutely. We’ll see you later.”

He hangs up, and I give him a questioning look. My volatile emotions have settled in our time apart, enough that I feel comfortable flicking him on the arm. “What was that about?”

“Can I take a picture of you?” he asks instead.

“Oh, you’re asking now?” I raise my brows. “I suppose. But only if you tell me what that phone call was about.”

Emmitt silently contemplates that for a moment, before he nods. “Deal.”