"Um. She's got red hair. Around my age, pretty-"
"Yes, I see," Trey interrupts you. "Yes, I think I know who you're talking about. If you follow me, I'll show you where she's sitting."
He leads you through the restaurant, which is surprisingly crowded considering it's not even six. You draw your shoulders in more, trying not to draw any attention to yourself. Most of the people aren't paying attention to anyone beyond their own tables, but some of them glance curiously at you as you follow Trey in. You retreat further into your hood and shy away from them.
"Here we are," he murmurs eventually. He's led you to a table up at the back end of the restaurant, one with faux-bamboo dividers around it as though to provide the people inside with some privacy— or trap them inside. Instinctively, you take a step back, but then Trey steps aside, and you spot Emma inside. Your feet die, and your throat closes up. Trey seems to sense that something is wrong, because he hesitates from where he was standing just before, where he was beginning to move away as though to resume his job, and steps forward to clasp you on the shoulder. "Good luck," he whispers softly, a message for you alone. You watch forlornly as he strolls through the building again, casually weaving his way through a mess of toddlers with practiced ease.
You turn back to Emma, who's watching you with guarded eyes. She looks... like you imagine you do. She's wearing her own jacket, a heavy maroon thing with thick black buttons at the front. On her head sits a woollen beanie, and the hands clutched around what you think is a hot cup of tea are clad in thick black gloves.
But it's not her clothes that draw your attention. Reluctantly, you drag your gaze up to her face, taking in her expression. She looks... guarded, fearful. Similar to how you feel. Her eyes are sunken and bloodshot, as though she hasn't been getting enough sleep for the past few weeks, and she's barely wearing any makeup, just some lip gloss. You can't remember the last time you saw Emma without any makeup on.
You slip inside the booth to the seat opposite her. Her eyes watch you warily as you slide inside, and her grip tightens on her mug.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi," you reply. You wish you didn't sound hesitant and fearful saying it.
Neither of you says anything more for a few moments. Emma opens her mouth a few times as though to say something, then visibly bites back whatever she's going to say and closes her mouth, only to repeat the process seconds later.
Your hands start shaking beneath the table. You wish she'd just say whatever she wants to say. Let you get out of here. Let you run away. Again.
But instead of saying that, you just clench your jaw and dig your hands into your thighs.
Before you can help yourself, your power snaps out, settling over Emma's mind. You quickly try to reel it back, but it's uncooperative. It's a strange feeling, like your power is mentally dragging its heels.
Or, no. You can't blame your power for this one. It's not your power that wants to stay there. It's you. You hate not knowing what she's feeling— no, that's not right. You just... You want, you need to know what she's feeling. You can't— you can't sit here, right across from Emma, and just trust that she's not going to hurt you. You don't— you can't trust her like that.
It's a double-bind situation. You can't sit here, not knowing what she's feeling. But you can't use your power on her, either. You can't trust her because she might be toying with you, but you can't not trust her, because if you use your power to verify that and it turns out she is, you... you can't trust yourself. You don't know what you'll do.
(Yes you do. You just can't admit defeat to yourself. Can't admit that you'd rather run away and cry than admit that Emma beat you, again. Can't admit that you're not sure what your power will do if you're using it in a situation like that, what effect it'll have on her if you use it when you're stretched out to breaking point.)
You pull your power roughly back, before you can get a taste of what she's feeling. There are other people around, you tell yourself. She can't do anything here.
There are other people at Winslow, too.
"Do-" Emma says, then stops, shock spreading over her face, as though she's shocked that she managed to say anything. "Do you want a drink? There's tea, if you-"
"I don't drink tea any more," you interrupt harshly. You haven't drunk tea since Mom died. Emma should remember that. She remembered enough of the other little details about you.
Emma pauses, then subsides. "Sorry," she mutters. "There's coffee, too. Or juice, or milkshakes, or, I don't think they'll give us any wine, but-"
"Just water." You shake your head briefly, trying to interrupt her flow of words. "Water's fine."
"Right." She stares at you for a moment, a forlorn expression briefly making its way over her face before she turns away from you and waves a waiter over. You're left waiting for a minute or so, the nearest waiters busy with other tables already, but soon a waitress comes over— a different one, this time, a girl named Violet. She's a cute girl. College-aged, most likely. She has a generous bust, with a streak of her hair dyed violet, contrasting well with the rest of her platinum-blonde hair. "Could we grab a drink of water, please?"
"Sure," Violet replies. "Anything else?"
You look over at Emma, who quickly drops her hand away from her own hair with a faint blush. "Do you know what you want for dinner?" she asks you.
You're tempted to go for the most expensive things on the menu you can, just to spite Emma's wallet a little, but you refrain. You need familiarity more than you need to win one over her right now. "Just a bowl of minestrone," you tell her. "And some herb bread."
Emma nods as Violet writes down your order. "I'll have some insalata caprese," she instructs the waitress. "And another side of herb bread."
"Sure," the waitress agrees easily. "That'll be about twenty minutes." With that, she turns and walks away, giving you a great view of the girl's tight ass.
Emma coughs, and your attention is drawn back to the other girl, who is currently trying to hide an annoyed expression. You can't hide the flicker of annoyance that flows through you, and the annoyance fades instantly from her expression as she almost flinches back.
"Sorry," she mutters. "A bit of tea went down wrong." She hasn't touched her tea since you sat down.
"It's fine," you mutter.
Awkwardness stews in the air between the two of you now that your distraction has left. You don't attempt to say anything. What can you say?
Emma slowly retreats more into herself as the quiet stretches on. You let her.
A few minutes after Violet rushed off, another waiter— this time, a guy named 'Andrew'— comes over with your glass of water. You take it, thanking him quietly, but don't take a drink. You just clutch the glass tightly in your hands, watching the water inside ripple as your hands shake.
The silence stretches on for long minutes. Occasionally, you glance at the watch on Emma's wrist to watch the time tick past, but that's as far as you dare to look at the girl.
Twenty-five minutes pass from the time the waiter brought your water over before you see someone heading over, bearing a bowl and a large plate. It's Trey, you recognize when he gets closer.
"Alright, here we are," he says faux-cheerily when he finally makes it over to your table. "One plate of insulata caprese for the fine lady over here, and one bowl of minestrone for the lovely lady over here." You suck in a breath at the comment, but let it go in a sharp exhale when he just smiles pleasantly at you, not a hint of flirtation in his manner. Good.
"Thank you, Trey," you mutter. His grin grows a little more genuine, and he pats you on the shoulder as he stands and leans in.
"Don't stay quiet too long," he murmurs into your ear. "Women like that, you have to catch their interest and hold it if you want them to stay around." He winks at you as he stands, and you can feel heat burning in your cheeks.
Emma gazes between the two of you, a light frown on her face. "Thank you," she says loudly. "That's fine, thank you for bringing our meal." She straightens her posture, clutching her fork tightly.
Trey gives you another wink as he before he turns to walk away from you, then spinning back momentarily and mouthing the word "JEALOUS" in an overly-exaggerated manner. Your cheeks burn hotter, and you shrink back down into your chair. Yes, you already know that Emma is a jealous woman, does he really have to point it out so obviously where everyone can see?
You pick up your spoon and try to eat a mouthful of the minestrone, but your hands are still shaking slightly. Most of the minestrone just splashes out of the spoon and back into the bowl. Across the table, Emma gazes at you with concern written over her face, but she doesn't say anything. Good. Instead, she just pushes her plate of food over to the side, not caring at all about the meal set in front of her, and seems to gather herself for a moment. You drop the spoon into the bowl. You're not hungry any more.
"Taylor..." She closes her eyes and gathers her courage. "Thanks for coming today."
You scoff. "Yeah, well, you're not leaving me with much choice," you say a little harshly. You immediately regret it when you see her stiffen again and retreat into herself. Not enough to apologize, though.
She visibly has to gather her courage again. You can't help but feel a little impressed despite yourself. You're pretty sure that if you were in her position, you'd have just left. Not that you'd mind if she did. Then you could leave, too.
"Yeah," she says. "I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important, Taylor. You know that."
You don't know anything about her any more, but you refrain from saying that.
If anything productive is going to come out of tonight, you get the feeling that you're going to be refraining from saying a lot of things you really, really want to say to her.
"Okay," you say instead, not agreeing with her, but not fighting over it, either. "Well, I'm here. Say whatever you asked me here to say."
She shakes her head for a moment, then lets out a huge sigh. "Great," she mutters, quietly enough that you're pretty sure you aren't meant to hear it. "Isn't this going swimmingly. Alright." She says the last word louder. You're meant to hear this now. "I need to tell you that I'm sorry."
Anger rises in your gut for a moment, quickly fought down, shoved into that same place you've been shoving your simmering anger since you decided to talk to Emma this morning. You can't help but scoff again, though. "Yeah, right." You shake your head disbelievingly.
"Taylor-" On the table, you can see her hands beginning to shake. Absently, you note that your own are still shaking, harder this time. You're not sure whether you're shaking with anger or fear, now. Maybe both.
"No," you cut her off. "You're sorry? That's what you asked me here to say?"
She shakes her head quickly. "No," she says, an undercurrent of fear in her tone. "No, that's— I just— I needed to say that. First. I needed to say that first. In case you walked out. In case I don't get to say anything else tonight, I wanted you to hear that."
You subside somewhat, but don't say anything, choosing to pick up your glass of water and raise it to your mouth. It's difficult to swallow any with your hands shaking this badly, but you give it your best shot.
"Right," she breathes. "Well, um. I guess you want an explanation then, huh?"
You roll your eyes. "It'd be nice, yeah."
She nods to herself. "Right, um. Where should I start. Okay, um. Do you remember that summer you were away at camp? A year after your Mom died?"
You nod. How could you forget? That was the last time— well. You'd enjoyed that camp, enjoyed the chance to get away from Dad's misery for a while and go to a place where people legitimately seemed happy in your presence.
And then it'd all gone to hell when you returned.
"Good," she mutters. "That— It all started when, um. It all started... Sorry. It's hard to talk about this."
You give her a curt nod. It's hard to not feel sympathetic for her when she's blinking away tiredness from her eyes and cringing into herself.
"Do you remember that phone call?" she asks. "The last one we had, where I hung up on you. It started that night. I hung up on you because we'd driven into a bad part of town, and Dad started getting nervous when he saw someone had blocked our path with a dumpster..."
Over the next five minutes, neither of you touch your food as she haltingly describes a horrifying tale of what you can only assume was an attempted assault on her person when a group of gang members— she doesn't know what gang they're from, doesn't care— stopped their car and violently dragged her out. Her voice trembles, and at times falters entirely for long moments, as she describes how she felt through it all— the way she almost went into shock, the way her thoughts spun away from the situation, the way she could only distantly register the pain and the horror until they actually started in on her— and, yeah. You know exactly how she felt through all that. It's not how you'd felt when she'd dragged you out of that shower and shoved you in that locker, but, it's close. You know that helplessness, that fear, that sense of the world slowly slipping away from you as you struggle helplessly against it.
You look up at her. She stares back at you with a fragile expression. Her hands tug nervously at a frayed thread on the cuff of her jacket. There's a small pile of broken threads on the table in front of her.
Your hand is tight enough around your glass that you're afraid it might break.
You don't let go of it.
"Emma," you say evenly, "could you pass me the pepper?"
She pauses in her recollection of her tale, looking down at the table. The pepper is in easy reach. You could just reach out with your free hand and pick it up. She knows it. You know it.
She looks at you, at the rigid set of your shoulders, at your hand tight around the glass. You wonder, absently, what you look like. Do you look angry? Scared? Defensive? All of the above?
Emma lays a trembling finger on the pepper shaker and pushes it over to you. Your shoulders relax, just slightly.
"Thank you," you say, voice still carefully even. You don't pick up the pepper, though. You just let it sit there, your gaze focused on it. Your hands stop shaking quite so hard. "Keep going."
You can feel her looking at you, but you don't let your gaze rise from the jar of pepper. After a short pause, she picks up where she left off.
