Always Emily. Mary Sullivan

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      Not the least bit comfortable, he eventually fell asleep, but was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.

      “Go take care of Emily.” His father stood over him, illuminated by the streetlamp shining through sheer curtains. “She’s making noise.”

      Salem threw off his covers and took the stairs two at a time. Emily thrashed on the bed.

      “Hey, hey,” he crooned, lifting her into a sitting position, but she sagged against his chest.

      “Here,” he said, reaching for the glass of water he’d left beside the bed. She gulped it down, with him holding her head to still her shuddering. He laid her back against the pillow and got fresh water from the bathroom.

      Leaving it on the bedside table, he stared down at her. He couldn’t leave her like this, too small and fragile. Too alone.

      His Emily didn’t do fragile. What did he mean his Emily? She wasn’t his and never had been. She’d left too many times, dashing his hopes, for him to ever trust her again, the anger she inspired in him a constant throughout their relationship.

      What relationship? You don’t have one.

      Damn right.

      Remember that, Salem.

      But she was his friend; or rather, he was hers. Sort of. Maybe. Reluctantly.

      She shivered. He crawled in under the covers and nestled her against his chest. Gradually, the shaking stopped and she settled into an easier sleep.

      He, however, did not sleep, not while he held Emily Jordan in his arms.

      * * *

      “I’M NOT GOING to school tomorrow.” Aiyana stood in the doorway of the kitchen, scowling. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Dread hollowed out his gut. He couldn’t take tears. He could handle—had handled—a lot in life, but crying made him feel useless.

      “Are you sick?” Salem hoped this was physical, something the magic of chicken soup could fix. “What is it? The flu?”

      She shrugged. Her hair stood out in all directions. She must have washed it before bed and fallen asleep while it was still wet.

      “Dad, how about heating some of your soup?” Salem finished doctoring his coffee and caught his two slices of toast as they popped out of the toaster.

      “You got it.” His father retrieved the Tupperware.

      “I don’t want soup.” Aiyana sounded like an odd mix of little-girl sulkiness and teenaged defiance.

      Mika sat at the table eating her cereal, her brown eyes darting between him and Aiyana.

      “How about toast?” Salem asked Aiyana. “You can have these and I’ll make more for myself.”

      “No.”

      “But...”

      “I don’t want anything, okay?” she cried. “I just want to go back to bed. Just leave me alone today, okay?” She ran from the kitchen without waiting for anyone to respond.

      Salem stared at her retreating back and what he could see of her feet running up the stairs.

      His dad grunted. “I don’t think it’s the flu.”

      “Pardon?” Salem asked.

      “It ain’t the flu. It ain’t physical.”

      That’s what he was afraid of. “Crap.”

      “Why crap?”

      “The flu or a cold would be easy. Soup, medication, hot tea. Boy or girlfriend or school trouble? Not so much. I don’t know how to talk to her anymore.”

      Mika stood and picked up the present she’d wrapped yesterday. The social daughter, she was attending a friend’s birthday party for the day. Aiyana, the quiet studious one, was more like him than Salem suspected she wanted to be.

      “Boys,” Mika said, with a nod of wisdom and a shrug that said, isn’t it obvious? “See you after the party, Grandpa. Bye, Daddy.” Then she was out the door and off to meet her friends down the street, so blessedly uncomplicated Salem thanked his lucky stars.

      “What do I do about Aiyana?” Salem buttered his toast.

      “Get your woman to talk to her.”

      His knife clattered to the counter. Clumsy fingers. “She’s not my woman.”

      “Ask her to talk to your daughter.”

      “No.” He might have let Emily sleep here last night, and he might have held her while she slept, but he’d be damned if he would expose his daughter to Emily’s brand of heartache.

      “She has been good to Aiyana since that girl was born.”

      True. She had showered Aiyana, and later Mika, with gifts and stuffed animals and postcards from abroad. “I know, but—”

      “And Aiyana loves her.”

      Yes, he knew that, too, but maybe not so much lately. Anger at Emily had grown in Aiyana since her mother’s death. Perhaps she’d hoped Emily might replace her mom, but that hope had been dashed every time Emily left.

      Aiyana used to adore Emily, used to trail around behind her imitating her every move, and singing all of the silly songs Emily taught her.

      When Emily would leave at the end of her visits, it was okay because Aiyana had her mother. Once Annie started using, though, she became less and less available to her daughter. Aiyana looked forward to Emily’s visits too much after that, and was more devastated when she left.

      Then, after Annie died, the questions started.

      “Why is Emily going away? Doesn’t she want to be with me? When is she coming back?”

      Salem explained about her career, but it was hard to be convincing, because he’d always suspected there was more to it than there appeared to be.

      “Aiyana is angry with her,” his dad said, “but still loves her.”

      “Yeah, but—”

      “Who else is there?”

      No one now that her mother was dead. They didn’t have an extended family.

      “Ask her.” Dad could be as persistent as a bear in the mood for dinner.

      “No.”

      “Stubborn.” His father sniffed. “Like your mother.”

      He was not. “Emily is trouble.”

      “You need a little trouble.”

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