First Look: You Can Always Come Home (Magnolia Blooms Book 2)

Enjoy this first look at You Can Always Come Home, Magnolia Blooms Book #2, featuring Emerson Calhoun and Noah Boone.

This standalone, small town x second chance x sports romance is coming Fall 2025!

TW: alcoholism, DV, child/teen trauma

Chapter 1: Emerson

I flinch as I hear the front door slam closed behind my father. I peel my eyes from my notebook and laptop to glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s half past midnight. Hmm, he’s home early. While it will be nice to fall asleep knowing he made it home alive, relief is the last thing coursing through my body.

I tug my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them as I listen to the symphony of grunts, growls, and breaking glass as he stumbles through the house. My father is an alcoholic. He spends his days working on our family farm. At least, he tries to. Sometimes he’s too hungover from the night before to climb the steps into the tractor cab. The one thing he does do, without fail, is go to the bar. It’s a few miles out of our small town, yet it’s more his wife than my mother. More his child than I ever was. Though my father’s drinking is only half of our tragic story.

My head snaps toward my bedroom door as my father’s footsteps stall just outside it. I gasp and quickly fumble for the remote to turn off the fairy lights draped across my canopy bedframe. Please, please. Not tonight. I learned recently that locked doors aren’t allowed in this house, which leaves me with no defense against his drunken tantrums. And while I haven’t done anything to make my father angry, that doesn’t mean anything. When he’s drunk, he’s unpredictable.

The one time I did lock my door, because I was studying, he pounded on it so aggressively, threatening me, until I finally gave in. He said he’d rip the door off its hinges and spank me silly. I’m seventeen. Though, when he does acknowledge my existence, he doesn’t treat me like it. To him, I’m either seven or forty-seven. Emerson Calhoun doesn’t exist behind his bloodshot, glassy eyes. No. I’m invisible, only not nearly enough.

He went on to accuse me of having a boy hidden in my room. Why else would I have locked the door? He searched every inch of the twelve by twelve square I call mine. He ripped the covers off my bed, tore the green curtains from the wall. He destroyed my little woodland-themed haven. And when he found he was wrong, that my virginity was still intact, he finally turned his attention to me.

Tears drip down my cheeks as I get the lights off. Left in darkness, I relive the encounter with my dad and wonder who his victim will be tonight.

That night, he wrapped his hand around my throat—not to hurt me, just so that he was sure I was paying attention. At least, that’s what he said, despite the marks his fingers left on my skin. He told me there’s no such thing as love and that I can’t trust anyone. He looked around at all my books, which he’d ripped from the shelves. I cried as he tore the pages from my favorite one. He said, “I know you like to live in fairytales, but this is the real world, Emerson. And the real world will break your heart.”

I wanted to say, “Is that why you did it first?” But I knew better. My father has never hit me, but I know he’s capable. His violence is what drove my older brother, Emmett, away. His aggression is what has my heart racing while anxiously watching my doorknob for movement.

As my father’s boots pound against the hardwood floor as he continues down the hall, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I pinch my eyes closed and sink my head between my knees, as if it’ll cancel out what happens next.

My mom went to sleep hours ago. It used to make me sad, maybe even a bit angry that she didn’t seem to care whether my dad made it home alive or not. Hell, maybe she doesn’t? Maybe I should stop caring too? But, now that I’m older, I know the truth.

She goes to bed early—with the help of pills that make her no help at all when my father takes his frustrations out on me—because it’s the only time she is at peace. Peace from the sadness that clings to her. Peace from the darkness that follows my dad wherever he goes. My mother is as much of a ghost as my father is. Or perhaps I’m the ghost, the one floating in silence, doing my best to escape the living.

Some nights, my dad falls asleep quietly—not even bothering to discard the clothes that smell like whiskey and cigarette smoke. Other nights… As the sound of his voice drifts from their bedroom, I know it’s time to reach for my headphones.

Shuffling through the songs on my iPod, I opt for Avril Lavigne’s “My Happy Ending.” Like the lyrics of the song state, I wonder if I’ll ever get mine—if I’ll ever get out of Magnolia, like my brother. He left almost seven years ago and hasn’t been back since. I don’t blame him. I just wish he’d taken me with him. Now, all I can do is follow in his footsteps.

Turning back on my fairy lights, my small room illuminates with a warm glow. I spend my time at home here, while making sure I spend most of my time out there. I cast my gaze out my bedroom window, finding nothing but darkness. Though I know what’s beyond it—the forest, wildflowers, bunnies, squirrels, and birds that prove to me my father is wrong. Love does exist, even if not between these walls. And so, while I made my room look like the world I love—with a moss colored rug, floral print wallpaper, ivy, moss, and blush pink flowers draped over my bed, and dark green curtains that hang from the ceiling like trees—I dream only of escaping it.

I dream of a world where I don’t anxiously await the arrival of a man who doesn’t love me, a man who scares me, a man who yells and tries to make me as hopeless as he is. I dream of a world where I feel safe, where I don’t feel the need to lock my door, a world I don’t want to escape and a love that makes me smile instead of tremble.

My books—fairytales—allow me to believe a world like that, a love like that, could be mine. My books will also be the bridge that gets me there.

Returning my attention to my laptop, I continue my studies until my yawns overtake me and my eyelids are too heavy to remain open. It’s not that I hate my hometown. Magnolia is a beautiful place. It’s just this house. It’s never felt like home. One day, I will have one of my own. One day, I will have my happily ever after.

As the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day, I’m in no rush to pack up my belongings. School is another of my havens. My teachers may not know what goes on at home, but they do know I’m looking for every opportunity to pad my college applications. I may not feel comfortable standing in the spotlight, not that my classmates would vote me in as class president or anything close to it. I’m as invisible here as I am at home, only receiving attention when I’m trying to avoid it. Still, I’m quite the involved Magnolia Mallard.

I work for the school newspaper and yearbook, which gives me the perfect excuse to attend various school functions—sporting events, dances, banquets. All things my father would never allow if it weren’t for academic purposes. I’m also a member of the Students Against Destructive Decisions (SADD) club and have just signed on to assist with ACT Prep. The busier I stay, the better. And while my grades are good enough to get me into any school of my choosing, I still don’t want to take any chances. With my dad’s drinking, I’m not really sure what our financial situation is. A scholarship is my only hope for getting out, for finding home.

With all the other students flooding the hallway, I finally stand from my desk and pull my book and binder into my arms. Today is Tuesday, which means it’s off to the computer lab to work on a story for the paper. Though, just as I wave goodbye to Ms. Ashley—my favorite teacher—a loud beep draws my attention to the intercom overhead.

“Ms. Ashley, is Emerson still with you?”

“Yes, she is,” she replies, raising her brow. Mine furrow in confusion.

Never in all my life have I been called to the office and I know I haven’t done anything to deserve it. Unless… The cafeteria lady did give me a second warning today. My balance is overdue and she can’t give me a pass anymore. I hope it’s not about that. That would just be embarrassing. Worse than embarrassing, they’d probably call my parents or send a letter home, which would only result in some form of argument or lecture. Regardless of which parent got the notice, they’d be mad I didn’t say anything sooner. I just…don’t feel comfortable talking to them, which is probably why I don’t feel comfortable talking to anyone else. An invisible wallflower—as much as I loathe it, I like it.

“Please send her to the baseball field. Coach Wilkins wants to speak with her.” What the—?

Chapter 2: Noah

The warmth of the September sun is accompanied by a welcome breeze as I stand atop the pitcher’s mound. The pine trees surrounding the field sway, filling my ears with the sounds of rustling leaves. I pinch my eyes closed and savor the serenity of this moment.

Come February, when our season officially begins, this field won’t be so quiet. The stands will fill with parents and friends who want us to win almost as badly as we do. They’ll curse at the umps while coaches yell, and opponents will whisper trash talk from the bases behind me, creating a symphony of chaos that only hones my focus.

Imagining it—my final season—makes me smirk. I can’t wait to end my high school pitching career with a hunk of gold hoisted over my shoulder. We were so close last year. This time, I’m not letting the championship slip through my fingers. But this, this moment, might be just as sweet. Perhaps because I know, even though baseball won’t end with my graduation from Magnolia High, the simplicity of the sport will.

Opening my eyes, I hike my leg and use my body weight to propel the ball directly into my catcher’s mit. As the ball connects with the leather, the snap echoes around us, bouncing off the tin roofs of the nearby spectator stands. It’s through the metal benches of the stands that I see her.

Emerson Calhoun walks from the parking lot, up the hill toward the field, with confusion etched on her perfect face. The sight of her gives me another reason to smile.

Evan tosses the ball back to me as I move from the mound toward the dugout. “Where ya going?” he calls out.

“I’ve got to cut it short today, man. See ya tomorrow.” Reaching the dugout, I discard my mit and ball on the maroon-painted bench and use the back of my practice tee to wipe the sweat from my face.

Baseball isn’t my future, but it is the vehicle that will get me there. Scouts have been watching me since my freshman year when our starter got injured and I had to step in to win us our first championship in over twenty years. I’ve led competitive teams here at Magnolia ever since. And now, those scouts are offering scholarships—with one caveat.

While another championship will only sweeten the deal, it’s not necessary to get me into college. A halfway decent ACT score is. My test is in December and I want it aced before the spring semester so that I can give all my attention to the team. Enter Emerson.

She’s the smartest person I know, though I don’t know her nearly well enough. We’ve attended the same school and church our entire lives. But she always keeps to herself, usually with her head buried in a book. And while I’m used to studying people, mostly my opponents, I’ve never been able to figure her out. She’s…she’s a mystery—a beautiful riddle I’d love to solve, perhaps even more than my upcoming test.

As I round the dugout and head over to where she and Coach Wilkins talk in the bleachers, saliva pools in my mouth. My nerves draw a fresh sprinkle of sweat from my pores. The reaction my body has to this little girl is nothing new. She’s had me in a tizzy every day since we were seven-years-old and she handed me a flower on the playground. That was before she became shy or just uninterested in the world, in me. Though, it’s never quite made sense to me.

I’m a solid three feet taller than her and probably weigh more than twice her body weight. And I’m a genuinely confident guy—calm under pressure, disciplined and dedicated when it’s something important to me, and easy-going when I need to be. All of these qualities make me a good friend, pitcher, and leader. So why does she intimidate me so much? And is it really intimidation or just the nerves that come with wanting to impress the one girl who couldn’t care less?

Coach Wilkins is talking when I reach the two of them, but I don’t hear a word he says. My eyes are trained on Emerson. I watch closely as the breeze lifts her wavy, brown-blonde hair and flings it over her shoulders. Her scent drifts to me, as do her hazel-green eyes. My breath catches as I meet her gaze, though I still manage to offer her a shaky half-grin. While her captivating scent of raspberries and violets lingers, her gaze does not. She quickly returns her attention to Coach, leaving me with a blank expression and desperate for more.

She reminds me of a nymph, like the ones in the book we read in middle school. She’s dainty-looking with a heart-shaped face and slender frame. But there’s something powerful and inquisitive about her almond-shaped eyes and slightly arched brows. As distant, or disinterested, as she may appear, she’s very much present—registering everything one may think goes unnoticed. Perhaps that’s why she makes me a bit uneasy.

It’s not just that I don’t know her, but I don’t know what she thinks of me. Both are things I hope to change, which is why, when Coach suggested ACT prep, I demanded Emerson be my tutor. As much as I want to win—and I will—I can leave high school behind without another championship. But I can’t leave without knowing her. She’s held my fascination all these years. And I may not be as smart as her, but I’m smart enough to know that won’t change just because our zip codes do.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then,” Coach says, drawing my attention from Emerson’s lips. He stands abruptly for someone who wasn’t paying attention, and leaves the two of us alone—alone with Emerson Calhoun. Shit, fuck, damn. This has never happened before. Instinctively, I shove my hands in my pockets. At least I try to. Forgetting I’m wearing baseball pants, the movement ends in nothing but an awkward exchange that draws Emerson’s eyes to my groin.

She blushes and smiles as I play off the movement by tossing my arms behind my back, interlocking my fingers. Her smile is contagious and somehow is the antidote to the nerves and awkwardness her presence evokes. Okay, so she doesn’t hate me. That’s good to know.

“So, my schedule is pretty flexible at the moment. What days work best for you?” She asks, while flipping through her binder with her pen at the ready.

“Every day,” I quickly answer. She looks up at me then, her brow arched. Her dark lashes threaten to hide her gorgeous eyes. How dare they? “Uh, I mean, I could use a lot of help. I think the more often we meet, the better. And my schedule is pretty flexible too, until the spring.”

“Hmm,” Emerson hums. She sits down on the metal bleacher where Coach Wilkins was sitting, and I take the excuse to get closer to her and sit beside her. She glances in my direction as my knee bumps into hers.

“Sorry,” I mutter, sliding approximately two inches to the left. She wordlessly returns her attention to her printed-out calender, which I see is full of scribbles in various colors.

“Jeez. Flexible, huh? I don’t see a blank space for another—” Grabbing her binder from her, I flip through the pages, finding each month until May marked in similar fashion. This girl is busy! No wonder she never has time for socializing, for me.

“I have a system,” she says, allowing me custody of her prized possession. “The things written in red are important deadlines, like due dates for classes, the yearbook, and the newspaper. Things written in black are homework assignments or related to my study schedule. Purple is for things that could pad my college application like volunteering. Green is for when I tutor online and pink is for flowers.”

“Flowers?” I look at her in surprise.

“Yeah, I um, I like flowers.” Suddenly, her voice gets quiet. Hmm, she seems more comfortable talking about her schedule, or should I say school, than herself. “So, um…” she reaches for the binder, but I don’t let go of it.

“What’s your favorite flower?” As the question crosses my lips, I’ve never wanted to know something more. Emerson looks between me and the binder once more. Letting out an exasperated sigh, her cheeks go taunt and her lips press into a flat line. She redirects her attention to the empty baseball field in front of us and I wonder why my simple question no longer feels simple.

My brows furrow as I watch her. I have a younger sister, so I know how girls can be. They’re both strong and soft and everything in between. Seeing Emerson’s softness in this moment makes me realize I’ve never seen it before. She’s always projecting strength, even in her solitude. I wonder why.

“My favorite flower is the Louisiana catchfly. Not because it’s the prettiest. It’s actually a little ugly, considering all the other species to choose from.” I smile at her remark. There’s something cute about her direct assertion. “But…of all the flowers there are, it’s the one that most reminds me of me.” My eyes narrow as she lowers her gaze to her hands now clasped in her lap. She fidgets with her fingers and I nearly reach out to stop her, to tell her she’s the furthest thing from ugly, but as she opens her mouth to speak, I dare not interrupt her.

“I was out walking one day when I discovered it. It’s a small scarlet-colored wildflower that acts more like a wallflower. It’s easy to miss and prefers to grow in the forest, surrounded by pine trees—like me.” She smiles to herself then. “The only reason I noticed it is because of the butterflies it attracted. I guess that’s the other reason it’s my favorite. Seeing the butterflies hovering around it, appreciating it for what it was, it gave me hope that one day I’d find my people too, or they’d find me—notice me amongst the more impressive surrounding me.”

I bite my lip to suppress the word vomit readying to spew from me. Emerson sighs as I direct my attention to the field. We sit in silence.

This girl, this beautiful, intelligent, undoubtedly impressive girl thinks she’s the equivalent of some ugly little flower that only thrives in the most obscure parts of the world. She feels invisible and unwanted and suddenly, my entire view of Emerson Calhoun shifts.

All this time, she hasn’t been disinterested. She’s been scared, insecure. She’s felt like an outsider or wallflower, as she puts it. Little does she know, she’s the furthest thing from invisible. She’s been the sole object of my desire for years. I could kick myself for never speaking with her until now. She just needs love. She just needs to feel seen. She needs a butterfly to hover near her and appreciate her for everything she is. As absolutely elementary as it sounds, I want to be her butterfly. I want to be the one that shows her she’s not a wallflower. She’s worthy.

Emerson reaches for her binder once more, but I tighten my grip. She lifts her head as I turn to face her. Our faces only inches apart, I give her the same look I do my teammates when I need them to listen closely. Her lips part as she takes in my narrowed, intense gaze.

“Emerson Calhoun, you are anything but invisible, unimpressive, unwanted, and ugly. You are the most impressive person I know. It’s why I requested you by my tutor. I wouldn’t have anyone else.” That statement is true in more ways than one. “And you are…” I shake my head, allowing my eyes to study her face up close. “A kind of beautiful that only exists in mythology. Hopefully, over the next few months, I can teach you to believe that.”

Tears well in Emerson’s eyes, but she quickly stands, walking away before I can catch them. I push myself up off the bench, but don’t follow as she puts several yards between us. Maybe I was too intense. Maybe I said too much. Just because I’ve held my interest in her inside all this time, it doesn’t mean she’s ready to receive it. As far as I know, today is the first day I’ve crossed her mind. And even that was forced upon her.

When she returns to me, her tears are gone and her strong, reserved expression has returned. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday. We can meet after school three days a week until your test, leaving you at least two days for pre-season training.”

I nod. There are so many other things I want to say, so much more I want to know. Why is her self-view so low? Why doesn’t she let anyone in? Did my words make her uncomfortable?

“Can I have my binder back now?” She asks. Again, I nod. Grabbing her things from the bleacher, I take the few steps toward her and hand her her belongings. I’d offer to walk her to her truck, but the tautness in her cheeks and slight tremble in her fingers tells me she needs space. She doesn’t feel comfortable breaking in front of me yet, in letting me see the real her. Today, I got a glimpse and I’m no longer interested. I’m invested.

As she walks away, I watch her as she does. Senior year objectives: score high on the ACT, win the state championship, and love my wallflower into embracing her worthiness.

Chapter 3: Emerson

Noah’s words wrap around me like a warm hug as I walk from the main school building toward the cafeteria. The warmth his kindness granted me is welcome as an early-fall breeze swirls around me and nips at my exposed collarbone. Yet, I don’t quite know what to do with it. I don’t know how to receive his words and warmth, which he surprisingly noticed based on his promise to make me believe him by semester’s end. I shake my head.

Pulling my binder tighter against my chest, I slow my pace, allowing the throngs of fellow high schoolers to continue on the gravel path ahead of me toward the barn-turned-lunch-hall. The truth is, it’s more than his kindness I don’t know how to receive. It’s him.

Noah Boone is the town golden boy, Mr. Popular, or should I say Mr. Magnolia. He’s a literal baseball star and has been ever since our freshman year. Even before his crowning moment, he was the most handsome boy in school. Tall with dark blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, he’s a classic kind of handsome. In his own words, we’re from two different worlds. Mine is a world of mythology and fairytales, a world of solitude and escapism. He is grounded in the real world. Except, unlike my father’s assertion, Noah Boone’s reality is one that basks in the glow of the morning sun, not the darkness of bitterness, disappointment, and addiction.

He wears a kind smile instead of sunken shoulders. He spends his days surrounded by friends, his ears full of chatter and laughter. I spend my days surrounded by trees or classmates who don’t even register my existence. I’ve become so accustomed to it, I no longer hear their conversations—only the constant hum in the background that reminds me I’m not alone, but I am. I’m always alone.

Resting my head against the brick wall of the schoolhouse, I sigh. Noah Boone and I walk two very different parallel paths, despite sharing the same small town our entire lives. Yesterday, they finally collided. And now, I don’t know how to feel.

He called me…beautiful. He spoke to me as if he saw me, or at least a version of me that only exists in my dreams. All these years, I’ve felt invisible, or perhaps I’ve made myself invisible, feeling it safer. But I’m not, at least, not to Noah. That notion surprises and scares me.

Of all the people to be noticed by, to be seen by him feels…good. While there are a million other words I’d like to use, good feels the safest. It doesn’t convey too much excitement. It doesn’t hold any expectations. It acknowledges that his attention feels nice, for now. But just as the winter winds chase away the warmth of summer, semester’s end will rip away any warmth being in Noah’s presence grants me. His attention, this feeling, won’t last. It’s not reliable. It’s not…real? I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s a small glimpse of what’s to come when I finally make it out of here.

Regardless, being seen by Noah scares me, because I don’t know what else he’ll discover. The reason I keep myself so busy? The reason his words brought me to tears so easily? The reason I don’t want to go home? The reason I want to leave this place and never return? He can’t know the truth. No one can. But how can I hide from him when his eyes are so piercing, so, so…magically mesmerizing?

“There you are, my little wallflower!” I jump as Noah sneaks up behind me. As my head snaps toward him, he casually takes my books and binder in one arm and wraps his other around my shoulders. Before I can even register what’s happening, we’re moving down the Magnolia-lined gravel path toward the white-painted barn. When I say we, I mean the two of us and several of his baseball buddies.

I glance side to side, noting their confused expressions. All but one of the guys seems as thrown as I am. The one who isn’t surprised and offers me a warm smile is Evan Henderson, Noah’s best friend and catcher. Nerves swirl in my stomach and I look straight ahead without returning his smile. It’s there, at the entrance of the cafeteria, that I see a group of girls staring at me with nasty scowls. It’s the same group who tends to follow Noah everywhere he goes and who thought it’d be funny to share a story of my father’s drunken escapades they’d heard from their parents with our entire P.E. class.

Apparently, my dad became so inebriated, he fell asleep on the pool table at the local bar and peed himself, staining the green velvet. It’s stories like that that make me worried for my father’s safety, that allow me to feel some sense of relief when he finally makes it home. Even though his arrival is swiftly followed by a sense of dread.

As my cheeks blush bright red in embarrassment and nausea continues to coil inside me, I come to a sudden stop. No way in Hell am I eating lunch with those girls. And with my father’s recent obsession with my non-existentent love-life, I realize even Noah’s presence could lead to confrontation, just a different—more dangerous—kind.

Noah matches my step, remaining with me while the rest of his friends continue on to their fan club. “You okay, Ems?” he asks. His voice is low and steady. It carries the same gentleness, warmth as his words yesterday. His grip on my shoulder tightens, allowing me a moment to register how it feels to be touched by him. And the warmth between us as our bodies inch closer helps calm my stomach. That and his scent. I suppose it was masked by sweat yesterday. But today, he smells of pepper and amberwood—a spicy earthiness that only adds to the natural warmth and groundedness he exudes.

Okay, I lied. The feeling Noah Boone’s presence grants me is more than good. Though, as I look up, meeting his sweet gaze, I know his presence in my life is dangerous—not just because of the emotions he evokes, but the attention he draws. One day, my reality will be more like Noah’s. One day, I will step out of my books and into the sun. But, for now, I just need to survive senior year. And the best way for me to do that is to remain in the shadows, the shadows of this school and of my home.

“Noah, I…I can’t be seen with you,” I say, taking a step back. As I do, I slip from underneath his arm and immediately miss his touch. That’s a problem, a big one. But one thing at a time.

“Uh, okay…” Noah stands up straight, almost rigid, as confusion contorts his features. He looks wounded, as if I’ve slapped him.

“No, no, I’m sorry.” I wave my hands awkwardly. “It’s not you. It’s just…” I bite my lip and glance back at the crowd of on-lookers from the entrance of the cafeteria. Two different worlds—one where even my screams wouldn’t be noticed and his every word is memorialized in their brains.

“Emerson, are you okay?” Noah asks again. This time, his voice carries more power, more authority. His tone draws my attention back to him as an all-too-familiar sense of fear crawls up my spine. After spending so much time analyzing my father’s every move, I pick up on subtle shifts in body language, tone, and demeanor with ease. Noah’s tone makes him appear more commanding, though the concern I find in his eyes reminds me of his gentleness, reminds me he isn’t my father. He won’t hurt me, at least…I don’t think he will.

“My dad, um, my dad is very…” Struggling to find the words, I lower my gaze to our feet. Noah places his finger just underneath my chin and prompts me to look at him when I speak. There’s something nice about it as well as something unnerving. “If word got back to him that I was hanging out with any boy, it wouldn’t be good for me. So, it’s best we keep our distance aside from when we meet for tutoring.”

Noah holds my gaze a few seconds longer, his ocean eyes studying mine. Like I said, he may not hurt me, but he’s dangerous. Finally accepting my answer, he pulls back and his energy shifts from heavy to playful. “Ah, I see. You’ve got a protective pops. Strict boundaries are probably a necessity when he’s got a daughter as stunning as you.” Noah hands me back my books. Our fingers brush as he does. The subtle touch along with his compliment steals my breath.

I want to tell him protective is the last word I’d use to describe my father, but instead I force a smile and nod. It’s a trick I learned from my mother long ago.

“Alright, well ladies first. I promise to walk behind at a safe distance.” Noah takes a big step back and motions for me to walk ahead of him. I do, but remembering my overdue balance and the lunch lady’s last warning brings me to another sudden stop just before the cafeteria entrance.

“Oh, I’m actually not hungry,” I lie. I place my hand over my stomach, praying to God it doesn’t betray me by growling right here and now. As my insides feel like they’re ripping apart, I realize maybe all that nausea could’ve been more hunger pains than nerves. “I’m just going to head to the patio,” I say, moving past Noah to head around the side of the cafeteria.

“Are you sure?” He asks. Jeez! Does this boy ever just accept what he’s told? I nod without another glance. One, I don’t want him to see the lie in my eyes. Two, I’m exerting way too much energy here. If I’m this hungry now, how on earth am I going to make it through two hours of ACT prep with him after three more hours of school? “Alright, well, see ya later!” He calls after me.

Chapter 4: Noah

I replay my interaction with Emerson as I mindlessly push my tray down the aisle of lunch ladies. I’m vaguely aware of their smiles and kind words as they pile my plate high with today’s menu—baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and garden veggies. I guess I can’t be upset at her for wanting me to keep my distance, although it will make it harder for me to get to know her, help her, love her. After our talk yesterday, I’d planned on asking her to hang out this weekend and be my date to the Homecoming dance. But it sounds like she’s not allowed to date at all. Maybe her father’s overprotectiveness is why she keeps to herself so much.

“Have a good day, dear,” the lunch lady with the short salt-n-pepper hair says as she scans my student ID.

“You too, Mrs. Maggie.” I leave her with a big smile and then make my way to the guys. That is until Emerson is mentioned.

“Alright, that’s the last of um. Thank God the Calhoun girl isn’t here today. I would’ve hated having to turn her away,” Mrs. Maggie says, presumably to another cafeteria worker. I turn around, my brow arched. Why would they? “But it’s policy. Her balance is just too overdue.”

“Probably because her daddy spends all their money on the Devil’s juice. Evelyn hired my grandsons to handle most of the farm work last summer. They’re still helping out now as they can. I guess she can’t count on her husband to do anything and that son of hers—” another worker goes on.

“Makes you wonder why he left,” Mrs. Maggie says in a hushed, yet knowing tone.

I don’t like gossip, which is why this is the first I’m hearing of this. Maybe there’s more to the story when it comes to Emerson’s father. I was sure I saw her hesitate when she was describing him, but I don’t know her well enough to pinpoint a lie. She’s so guarded. But she’s more than that, isn’t she?

I remember the way her fingers trembled yesterday as she asked for her binder back. And the way she jumped when I snuck up on her today. The way she became uneasy in a large crowd. The way she tried to avoid eye contact when I demanded to know if she was okay. The way her voice shook when she started speaking of her dad. I thought it yesterday and now I’m all but certain. Emerson is scared. The question is why and of who?

“What’s the balance?” I ask, setting my tray on the nearest countertop.

Mrs. Maggie and the other lunch lady look open-mouthed between each other. Clearly, they didn’t realize I was listening. “I’m sorry, honey. We shouldn’t have been speaking like in front of you. Go on and enjoy your lunch,” Mrs. Maggie says.

I take a step forward, pulling my wallet from my back jean pocket. “Emerson Calhoun is a friend of mine, and I’d like to pay her overdue balance. Is that not allowed?”

As I approach the computer lab, I pause, admiring Emerson through the glass windows before entering. She sits at the same computer she always does—the last seat in the row furthest from the door—wearing a v-cut plum-colored quarter-sleeve with a black lace camisole underneath. That black lace is eye-catching, although the entire point is to offer more coverage, protecting her modesty. So I’ve learned from my younger sister. But after what I overheard in the cafeteria, I want to unravel her modesty.

I want to undress her mind and learn her naked truth. In fact, it’s imperative, because I can’t focus on anything else and I do have a test to prepare for.

Entering the computer lab, Emerson’s eyes immediately meet mine. As she piles her wavy hair on top of her head in a messy bun, she lets her pen slip from between her lips. “You’re late,” she says. Her tone has a bit of bite to it and it makes me smile. She must be warming up to me.

“I had to make a pit stop.” I round the corner of the aisle and Emerson’s eyes drift lower, taking in the to-go box clasped in my hand. The heat radiating off it leaves a subtle ache in my palm, but I wanted to make sure everything would still be warm for her. Her mouth drops open and her eyes glaze over. Though, only for a second, before she catches herself.

“Well, I hope you can multi-task. We’ve got a lot to cover today.” She quickly turns away from me, her lips pressing into a flat line. It’s then that I notice her hand resting over her stomach and the hollowness of her cheeks.

My heart aches for her and any smile her presence usually brings abandons me. I take the few remaining steps to close the distance between us. Sliding my backpack off my shoulder, I move her keyboard out of the way and steal her ACT prep book.

“Hey!” she protests. As her dark brows narrow and I watch the hazel in her eyes glisten with fire, I realize she isn’t warming up to me at all. She’s just starving.

Gently, I place the box of the ballpark’s finest—Frito pie with chili, cheese, and jalapenos, an extra long hot dog with the fixings on the side, extra links, and a Hot Pocket—in front of her. I watch her closely as she realizes the food is for her. She bites her lip and her cheeks go taunt. As tears well in her eyes, I glance toward the entrance to make sure no one followed behind me. Thankfully, we’re alone as Emerson breaks. And this time, she doesn’t run away. She doesn’t hide from me.

“Come here,” I whisper, sinking down onto the chair beside her. Our thighs touching, I wrap my arm around her shoulders. With a gentle tug, Emerson takes my cue and rests her head in the crook of my neck and her hand on my thigh. It’s not long before her tears seep through my grey polo. The damp sensation on my shoulder and the way her body trembles against mine only makes me pull her tighter to me. Softly, I move my fingers up and down her arm to soothe her.

I have so many questions, so many concerns. But, in this moment, silence, presence—nourishment—is what she needs.

After a while, Emerson’s breathing slows. Her body stops shaking as her tears cease. As she lifts her head, her teary eyes meet mine. “How did you—?” She stops herself, perhaps not wanting to admit the truth about why she didn’t eat lunch today and all the other truths that accompany it. “Why did you?” Her voice cracks as her eyes drift down to her growling stomach.

I take a deep breath, considering my words carefully. I don’t want to confront her. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I want her to open up to me because she wants to, because she feels safe to, not because I overheard something I shouldn’t have. But…if she is truly afraid—afraid of her father—or suffering because of his financial mismanagement, I can’t just turn a blind eye. This is greater than my desire to get to know her romantically. This is friendship, and friendship is the heart of humanity.

“I just…didn’t feel comfortable with you not eating. From the sounds of that stomach, I’m glad I followed my instincts.” I manage a playful smile and press my finger beneath her chin to draw her attention back to me. “Besides, you mentioned you tutor online, which I’m sure you get paid for. It only seems fair you’re compensated for our sessions as well.” Her cheeks blush and her lips draw into a half grin. She sighs and her shoulders sink in relief, which only makes me more concerned.

“Well, I do get compensated for our sessions, just not monetarily. But…thank you. I honestly needed this,” she says, turning her attention to the box. I wonder which will be her favorite. “Clearly,” she motions toward her face, still damp from tears, as she uses the plastic fork to dig into the Frito pie. I smirk. That’s my favorite too.

“Was that really the reason for your tears? Hunger? Not that that isn’t a good enough reason. In fact, you don’t need an excuse to cry at all. I just want to know if there’s something else?” Emerson snaps her head toward me as she takes a big bite. “Some other reason for your emotions, why you skipped lunch?” Emerson’s brows narrow. Shit! So much for not pushing her. “I’m not implying anything.” Yes, I am. “I’m just curious, curious about you.”

Emerson swallows slowly as she looks toward the blacked-out screen of the computer in front of her. “Well, I don’t understand your curiosity, but to answer your question—PMS can be a real bitch. You should know. You have a sister.” She takes another bite. This time of her hot dog, which she’s slathered in ketchup and relish.

Seeing her eat makes me feel better. I’ll have to pay a visit to the concession stand at the field more often for her. “Oh, so you’ve been keeping tabs on me?” I tease her.

Her cheeks—full of hot dog—blush. “You’re Noah Boone. Everyone knows you.” Once she’s swallowed, she leans back in her chair and faces me.

“Uh uh, eat,” I command. “Or do I have to feed you?” I reach for her fork and scoop another heap of Frito pie onto it.

“I can manage,” she says with a little laugh, taking the fork from me. As she does, her body relaxes and her face glows, this time not because of embarrassment or forthcoming tears. I think she’s starting to relax.

“There you go. That’s a good girl,” I cheer her on as she swallows another bite of Frito pie and tears into the Hot Pocket. She laughs and rolls her eyes, which only makes me like her more. She’s…warm, once she lets her guard down. And her warmth, her presence and authenticity, makes me feel—good. However simple that word is, the feelings I have when I’m around her aren’t. Perhaps she can teach me some new words, so I can better articulate my feelings.

“And everyone thinks they know me. I want you to actually know me. And I want to know you, Emerson.”

“Why?” Her brows furrow in confusion, her attention remaining on the food in front of her.

“Because I like you.” The words come out without my thinking. There’s no hesitation in them, although they surprise us both. I know I like Emerson. I’ve liked her forever. But…I’m surprised I said it so plainly, so quickly. We haven’t even begun our tutoring sessions yet. She could walk away before we even get started, before she has a chance to truly know me, fall for me the same way I’m falling for her. Maybe I messed up.

“But you don’t know me,” she says then. Her voice is quiet as she lowers her fork and turns to face me. I can practically see the wheels churning behind her eyes.

“We’ve established that,” I say matter-of-fact.

She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. Lowering her eyes to her thighs, she says, “This is…confusing.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Is it though? Why wouldn’t I like you? Why wouldn’t I want to get to know you? You’re gorgeous, smart, driven, and kind. These are all things I know from simple observation. I can’t imagine what else there is to discover with an up-close exploration.” Exploration? That’s a good word and one that gets my brain thinking about everything else there is to explore—mentally and physically.

Emerson shakes her head once more and I can see her walls going back up. The glow leaves her cheeks, and the smile vanishes from her lips. She sinks into her chair rather than sits in it proudly, welcoming the kindness and compliments I offer her. In fact, it seems my compliments make her uncomfortable more than anything else. She doesn’t understand them or think she deserves them because she doesn’t see herself the way I do. Suspecting her home life isn’t as good as it seems, I assume that’s why. There’s a difference between being shy and guarded. Emerson Calhoun is definitely hiding something, a secret that isn’t hers but hers to keep.

“The only thing you need to explore is that prep book.” She nods past me to where I hold her textbook hostage.

“I will. But, to respond to your earlier comment, I am a good multi-tasker. I can learn you and this at the same time. Now, pick your poison, princess.” I open my backpack and withdraw various drinks and packaged snacks, again from the concession stand. “Something tells me you’ll like these.” I hand her a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos.

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Emerson sighs in exasperation.

“I do, but you never said no.”

“You never asked me a question. You only assured me of what you want.”

Ah! She’s right. Now it’s my smile that wavers as I lower my gaze. I suddenly feel deflated. Both because I know there’s a very good chance she’ll say no and because I let the curse of popularity win. I consider myself a grounded and humble guy. I know the difference between attention and genuine friendship, even love. Which is why, despite being surrounded by people all the time, I call very few friends and don’t entertain the flirty entourage. Yet, it’s obvious being used to getting what I want has granted me a certain level of confidence in my interactions with Emerson, confidence now gone. While I no longer find myself intimidated by the beauty in front of me, my chest aches knowing whatever I’d hoped to start may end with that two-lettered, one syllable word.

“Okay, Emerson Loreali Calhoun,” I say, sitting upright and directing my attention back to her. As I do, her lips part and her face appears to mirror the uncertainty of my features. “With respect to whatever rules your father may have, is it alright with you if I get to know you?” There it is. A yes or no question awaiting an answer that will change the course of my senior year, perhaps my entire future, for better or for worse.

“How do you know my full name?” She asks quietly, and I break out in a fit of nervous laughter. I’m over here with bated fucking breath and an aching heart and she’s worried about me knowing her full name?

“Jesus, Ems. We’ve co-existed our entire lives. I remember the name of your pet frog from second grade. And that’s still not a no.” I raise my brow and lean forward in my chair. Emerson blushes as I close our proximity and rest my palm on her knee. My touch seems to soften her. The tension in her shoulders relaxes as well as the tautness of her cheeks.

“Fine,” she whispers. “We can get to know each other.”

I toss my hands over my head, wearing a beaming smile, as I’ve just scored the winning homerun. Though, truthfully, this moment feels sweeter than any championship ever has. Standing, I crouch over her and wrap my arms around her, giving her a massive hug. She laughs.

“Oh, so you want to get to know me too, huh?” I say into her ear. “Good to know.” I inhale her intoxicating scent, fighting the urge to nip at her neck. Instead, I opt for the safer option and plant myself back in my chair.

Emerson shakes her head with a glowing smile. As she logs back into her computer, she playfully asks, “Why are you so annoying?”

“Annoying? Hmm, what about me do you find annoying, sweetheart?” I ask, rubbing my palm up and down her back. Shit. Maybe she was right. How am I supposed to focus on the ACT when I’ve got her sitting next to me?

Emerson looks at me then, and I see the truth in her eyes when she says, “Nothing, Noah. I don’t find one thing about you annoying. I just…am confused by you and afraid.” Her voice gets quiet towards the end. Noting the truth in her expression now makes it easier for me to recognize the times when she hasn’t been honest.

“Of me or…?”

“Of…everything,” she admits. “Being seen makes me uncomfortable. I learned long ago that it’s safer to remain invisible.”

I bring my hand to her cheek and caress her soft skin. I want to know the story behind that cruel lesson. I want the name, the face, and the facts. But, more than anything, I just want her to feel safe and that starts with me being patient, calm, and trustworthy—not me forcing her to reveal her deepest wounds before she trusts me to hold them.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Ems. You’re safe with me. And if there is something else going on, something you don’t feel comfortable telling me now, it’s okay. When you’re ready, I’ll be here and whatever you tell me—” I stop myself. I want to say her secrets will remain between us, but I’m not sure I can make that promise.

“Thank you for not lying to me,” she says softly as I move my hand from her cheek to intertwine our fingers. Emerson’s eyes drift, watching as I squeeze her hand. “Because you know, if there was something to tell, you couldn’t keep it to yourself.”

THE END...FOR NOW.

Emerson and Noah's story is coming this fall to Amazon. Follow me on Amazon, Instagram, or subscribe to my mailing list to make sure you're notified of the release. In the meantime, have you read the first book in my Magnolia Blooms series? You Can Feel It In The Silence is available to preorder now and will release on July 1st!