Sincerely, Emma

It’s funny how I remember at a time like this, when Ian’s at work and I’m home sick, exactly how it was we met at his twentieth birthday party.

“Hurry up, Emma, or we’ll be late!” Mom hollered upstairs at me, where our family hairdresser, Shania, was just finishing the elaborate bun-like thing. “You can’t be late to your possible fiancé’s twentieth birthday party!”

“Who decided he was a possible fiancé?” I muttered darkly, only after the hairdresser had left the room. I wouldn’t want my soft remark to be relayed to the devil queen herself, now would I? I called back simply, “I’m coming! I just have to put my shoes on!”

It turned out that the new person they hoped would become my beau was actually the most handsome guy I had ever seen. I was only just past eighteen, and he was turning twenty. We were introduced nearly immediately, and then our families suddenly disappeared from the scene.

I took a few minutes to examine him. He had a slightly messy blonde hairstyle, kind of like a bed head but just a tiny bit neater than that, and green eyes. I’d always been a sucker for green eyes. They were just so rare! Whenever I had the chance to gaze into them, I wanted to so badly, but I didn’t. That would have been a bit creepy, especially to a guy I had just met.

“Emma, huh?” he asked, glancing at me for a minute, then looking around. “Short for anything?”

“Nope,” I said looking pointedly in another direction to resist looking into his eyes. “Although Mom constantly repeats how much she wishes she had named me Emilia. The sad thing is that I do kind of like the name Emilia. For a kid of mine, if I ever have any, though. Not for myself.”

I felt like I was babbling, but he just grinned.

“That’s a pretty name, Emilia,” he said after a minute, looking down at me with an actual genuine expression. “I always kind of liked Nicolette for a daughter. It just sounds so…exotic.”

“That’s a nice name, too,” I said after thinking for a minute, smiling at him in return. “Your wife - whoever she might be - would be crazy not to like it, too.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here for…?” he asked blankly. “That’s what half of the other women and girls are here for - the possibility of marrying into the Owens Inc. family. They’d be rich, get the newest fashion designs - not like they don’t get those, anyway.”

“You’re saying you don’t think I’m different?” I asked tartly, the ease with which we had been conversing melting slightly. “You don’t think I’m just here because my parents dragged me? You think I give a damn about marrying into your family’s company when my father’s company makes too much for his own good? I’m not like that. I don’t even like being rich, not really. If the money is all you’re looking for in a wife, then I don’t think I even want to consider someone like you - but it’s not like I have a choice in who I marry as long as I live under my parents’ roof,” I snorted then, slightly annoyed. “I’m not like that,” I repeated, “so don’t even compare me to them.”

Without looking back, ignoring whatever he called after me, I walked straight out of the mansion and got a cab to the expensive hotel we were staying in for some strange reason unknown to me.

*--*

It’s funny, I realize in my reminiscing, how much I really did despise him after that. And I know I wasn’t being fair, because I know he was trying to apologize as I stalked off and didn’t pay any attention to him whatsoever. Thinking back on it now, I feel bad about it, but then I think to what we have now. It’s nothing serious, but it’s an easy going connection. I sometimes find myself wishing it was serious nowadays, though.

“This is embarrassing,” I murmured to myself, laying my head back on the arm of the couch and listening to Cartoon Network.

What’s embarrassing?

That no matter how hard I try to reign it in, my imagination runs wild. It’s bad how much I enjoy my brief little daydreams of what Ian and I would be like as an item, walking hand-in-hand down the streets and kissing on the corner, or on a park bench. And it seems like I’m always imagining us. It’s like I can’t help myself anymore. Sure, we’ve been living together for five months now, and we get along as well as anyone can, but these feelings just keep developing and I can’t shake them.

I groaned, and sat up. I decided it was night time I wrote another postcard to my mother and father.

November 9th, 2009

Dear Mom and Dad,

Guess who?

I decided it was about time to update you again.

Everything’s going fine here. Sally Ann’s as hyper as ever, and we’ve finally got a small house so that we can keep her when she gets too big for the apartment. We’re actually in the process of unpacking now that we’re in the house, but that’s not moving very quickly. We’ve got the essentials unpacked, like bathroom and kitchen stuff, and we’ve got all our furniture and stuff, so I guess that’s really all we need. It would be nice to put a few pictures and things up soon. I would’ve done that today, but I’ve got a bit of a cold and Ian made me swear to stay laying down most of the day.

Speaking of Ian, he’s at work right now, but he should be home in the next hour or so. To tell the truth, I never expected him to be so adept at the little jobs - being raised in families like ours, I didn’t think he’d be able to adapt very quickly. Just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover - or by its family.

Well, I’d best get something cooking. I think it’ll be soup, since that’s a common food for when one has a cold, plus it’s easy to make.

Love you guys!

Sincerely,

Emma.

After finishing, I got up and went outside to shove the postcard in the mailbox, then I went to make soup. I let it get done and simmer a while, then got myself a bowl of the Campbell’s Tomato Soup and downed it. I went to lay down a while, watching whatever came on the kid channels.

Five minutes or so before Ian was supposed to get home, I lumbered to my feet and turned the stove on low to let the soup heat back up before I returned to my nice cozy cocoon of blankets on the couch.

*--*

I must have fallen asleep before he got home, because when I woke up dazedly, bleary eyed and warm, he was sprawled across the floor in front of the couch, fast asleep. I glanced at the TV to notice that Adult Swim was on, and I watched the show that was on briefly before leaning over and nudging Ian.

“Ian,” I said, my voice kind of nasally from my congestion. “Ian, get up.”

“Just five more minutes…”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the totally clichéd line, and he rolled to where he was looking at me. I snorted and said, “Morning, sleepyhead. Even though it’s not morning…”

“Good morning, beautiful,” he retorted, giving a lopsided smirk.

My heart froze in my chest at his words, combined with that heart stopping smirk. I was speechless, and merely continued looking at him for a few minutes longer. His cheeks turned pink after a few minutes, and after another few seconds he rolled to a sitting position and then got to his feet. He held out his hand to me.

“Let’s get you up to bed - your real bed, not some lumpy old couch,” he said, kind of glancing away.

“You’re one to talk,” I snorted again - a very unladylike habit. “You’re the one that was sleeping on the floor.”

He laughed, pulling me to my feet and quickly releasing my hand.