The Righteous and The Wicked by April Emerson Page B

and this language is not foreign.
    “What does that mean?”
    He leans in closer to her, and his hand slides onto her knee. She is blazing, scorching.
    “It means . . . that I’m happy I met you, Emma.”
    She wants to tell him, to show him, how much she yearns for him and that she can give him what he craves. She wants to kiss him again, right now. She wants him to slide his hand up her thigh . . .
    “I’m happy I met you, too.”
    As the waiter approaches again, Eric removes his hand from her leg and she feels her skin scream at the loss of his touch. If Emma were less of a Catholic, she would tell the waiter to go the hell away. She narrows her eyes at him, furious at his interruption. He shows them the bottle and waits for Eric’s approval before he fills each glass. Eric sips and nods, dismissing the eager waiter. Emma drinks. The wine is sweet and dry, she relishes the flavor. Eric knows what he’s doing.
    She continues to push for more of Eric’s story. “Where is your family?”
    His brow furrows. “I don’t know. The last I heard, they were living back in Ireland. I was never close to them.”
    “Not even when you were little?”
    “No. My father traveled a lot for work. He was always busy, always away. My mother . . . my mother was an alcoholic. I was pretty much raised by a nanny. Her name was Mary.” He stares into space.
    “And where is she?”
    “She died when I was thirteen.” He gulps his wine.
    “That must have been hard for you.”
    He clears his throat and sits up straight. “Yes. Well, what can you do? People come and go.”
    She recognizes his attempt at minimizing his pain. She hears it underneath the layers of his rehearsed response. She’s familiar with the effort it takes to look effortless when you try to remove your heart from your own life story. It’s like looking in a mirror.
    “Yes. Yes, they do.” It occurs to Emma that they have more in common than she thought.
    After dinner, Eric pulls the Jeep into Emma’s driveway, feeling relieved to have shared some of his memories with her. He let her in, he allowed her to attempt to scale his insurmountable wall. The wine has made him warm inside, but he can see it has made Emma drunk. She giggles as he puts the car in park and her eyes shine with a blissful haze.
    “That was a nice dinner, Eric. Thank you.” She shifts in her seat, and to Eric’s disbelief, her hand moves across the console and onto his thigh.
    This is too easy, too tempting. She could become a victim in an instant. The powerful urge to grab her and drag her into his lap seizes him. He wants to kiss her and let his lips drift to her neck. He wants to grind himself against her and let her feel how hard he is for her. He fights to resist his impulses, but it’s not easy. Instead of relenting and gratifying himself, he takes her hand and interlaces his fingers with hers. She squeezes it, and leans closer to him. Their mouths are so close, almost touching, but he moves his lips away from hers and kisses her forehead.
    He wants her to understand why he can’t touch her the way he wants to. He can’t give her what she craves, because his soul is at stake.
    “Emma, have you ever needed something?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Has there ever been something you had to have, or you just couldn’t keep going? Something you couldn’t resist?”
    “Yes. I mean, I have to have coffee every day. I can’t live without it.”
    He laughs and runs his hand over his jaw. Her attempt at identifying with him is adorable. There is no way she could ever imagine how damaged he is.
    “Well, sometimes people need things that aren’t good for them and they have to work very hard to stay away from those things, no matter how much they want them.” He’s saying too much. If he reveals his true self, she’ll run. She will be disgusted by him, the way he’s disgusted with himself. He will never see her again.
    He lets go of her hand. “Emma, I have to go. I have a