Wake you up
In the middle of the night to say
I will never walk away again
I'm never gonna leave this bed, oh
So you say "Go, it isn't working"
And I say "No, it isn't perfect"
So I stay instead
I'm never gonna leave this bed
Emerson watched Auden with great pride and kissed her when she finished. "It was beautiful darling." He smiled. "Though you aren't the only one with a surprise." With a deep breath, he walked to where they had put the band and Monroe handed him his guitar and he smiled as he began to play
The most accurate word in the English language to describe Emerson’s day-to-day life. Ever since Byron had been locked away for taking him a year ago, life was like this: same house, same experiences, same conversations, same questions, same responses, same preparing for taking over the company, same routine of make-out and retreat. Same everything. Other than the one-year anniversary of his sister, Noella’s, death approaching, he had come to a stand still and while Emerson would never ever wish for Byron back and he loved having Remy around, he did wish for something more. Something outside of his sameness.
His father would have defiantly agreed.
This was made obvious when he received a call from him one afternoon, the day before Noella’s deathiversary and the anniversary of the fight between him and Cassie that caused a rift between them forever. Emerson picked up, hardly listening as he father rattled on about wanting him to join him and his mother in New York for the opening of some new up-and-coming ballet. His father started listing off names Emerson didn’t recognize nor care about. It was all just white noise in the approaching sadness. Emerson was never particularly into ballet. It seemed more girl-ish and he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to get a story line out of the dancing. Though, to be honest, he never quite cared to try. Though…the alternative would be to spend the day in this sameness and, besides, if Emerson didn’t show up he’d have his father to deal with and he didn’t want to go through that. Emerson packed his bags with what he could find, told Remy he was off, and took a plane ride to New York, making back to his parents house just in time to pass out for the day tomorrow. Emerson woke up early the next day, slowly getting ready for the day. It felt like the funk that had settled upon him in Salem had followed him to New York. His parents came and got him not too long after he’d finished getting ready. As his father began to talk, his mother fixed his appearance. The whole way to the ballet, his father kept talking. Having nothing better to concentrate on—his thoughts wouldn’t occupy him when they were only about his dead sister—he tuned his father in.
"—Scott Karamakov…brand-new choreographer. Wrote the ballet with the help from his father, who’s a seasoned choreographer and writer. Normally I wouldn’t dare try to fiance someone new—" which alerted Emerson as to why they were taking the trip in the first place. He wanted to make more money for the company by working for this Scott-person, "—youngest principle dancer ever. Just got finished with the Moulin Rouge in France. I hear that her and her partner, Oswald Lloyd, are completely phenomenal. And both so young. You know you could learn a thing from Miss Atwell’s example. She’s only twenty and look at her. Accomplished so much and has her life all figured out. And here is my son…sitting as if he hasn’t got a clue about anything," he scoffed and opened his mouth again to speak. That was Emerson’s cue to tune him out. He didn’t think his father cared to hear that it wasn’t like Emerson didn’t have a clue. He just straight up didn’t. That would’ve started a whole new lash of criticisms, so instead Emerson just pretended to listen.
The seats to the ballet were great—front row, of course—but from the moment he sat down and the lights dimmed, Emerson was checked out. He didn’t know exactly where his mind went, just that it wasn’t focused on any of the dancers. He couldn’t stomach another one of these sappy, girly-frufru ballets. They were all the same—at least from what he could tell. There’s a boy, there’s a girl. Said boy and said girl can’t be together because it’s inappropriate because of a) their parents don’t like each other or b) they’re from “different worlds”. And that’s all he ever got out of the stories, not being one to ever pay attention much to ballets. He got away with just staring off into the distance for about thirty minutes until his mother delivered a small jab into his side, a sign that he should watch what was happening on stage. Emerson straightened his posture and prepared himself to watch one dance before checking out again.
Emerson looked up and saw a lone dancer on stage. At the moment she was still, waiting for her cue. She was probably the female lead—which he thought he recalled aa being the principle dancer—and was getting ready for her big solo dance. Emerson rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He didn’t want to be here, watching some girl dancing all delicate and about how she was falling apart without her true love.
Then the music started and the second it did, Emerson was taken aback. This wasn’t some delicate, damsel-in-distress dance. As Emerson watched the girl dance, he saw anger. He actually thought it was kind of messed up and, for some reason, he loved it. The tanned girl on stage drew him in with her passion and fierceness. Needless to say, Emerson watched the whole rest of the ballet, his gaze mostly concentrated on the girl onstage. He search back into his mind, trying to figure out her name. Atwell came back to him, but the first name wasn’t coming, however. He reached over, taking the program that his mother had on her lap. He flipped it open and quickly found her name to the side of her picture. Auden Atwell. Underneath her name was a description of the girl. Emerson scanned it briefly. It was a glowing view of the young girl’s achievements. Her and her partner, Oswald Lloyd, along with the director were all Australian and had all gone to the same academy of dance in Sydney. Then it talked about her in Moulin Rouge and how she was the youngest principle dancer to ever preform the show. Emerson began to think that his father had been right. This girl had accomplished a lot in her time—certainly a lot more legal things as well.
After the play ended and him and his parents had done the appropriate amount of clapping, his parents rushed off towards backstage. Emerson followed shortly behind. Being people of high power in New York meant that they could get in anywhere, so it was no difficult feat to locate the one named Scott and start talking business. Emerson, although he was to take over the company, found the conversation uninteresting. So, when he saw Auden and Oswald walking out the back doors, he quickly excused himself and followed them out, jogging lightly to catch-up to them. They seemed to be having some sort of debate.
"Oswald, I swear on my life that if—"
"And I swear on my life this isn’t like last time—"
"That’s what you say every time and what happens? It’s always like last time,”
"Auden, you’re being ridiculous,"
"Am I though? Am I really?"
Emerson cleared his throat and the two faced him, eyebrows raised, “Sorry, didn’t really mean to interrupt. I’m Emerson,” he said, the two glanced at each other, “Emerson Gallagher,”
There was a moment before Oswald nodded, "Ah, yeah, yeah. I heard of ya, mate. Well…ya family," he leaned a little towards Auden, "His family is some high-ranking economics/finance something or other," he told her. Auden nodded and glanced away, adjusting her bag as if she didn’t care. Which, to be fair, she probably didn’t, "Ya here to come and get some sorta…deal with us or somethin’?"
"Uh…no. Actually I just…" he looked towards Auden, "came to say that was…just…stunning. You guys were phenomenal," he said, echoing his father’s words.
"And by you guys, you really just mean her," Oswald said, nodding his head towards Auden.
"No, I meant—"
"You meant her," he insisted, causing Emerson to pause. Oswald sighed, "Another adoring fan for you. And a gutsy one at that," he looked to Auden, "Why is it always you? How come I never get any cute guys trying to hit on me?" he pouted towards Auden, who just raised an eyebrow, like she was used to this type of behavior from him, "After all I’m hot, I’m strong, I’m brilliant, I’m—"
"The cockiest cock ever?" Auden supplied.
"Yes, exactly. Confidence in spade. I really should have more fans trying to ravish me than I do," Oswald then looked Emerson up and down, "Can I have this one? I rather like the look he’s got going on," he smirked and leaned in a little, "delicious,"
Auden rolled her eyes and Emerson leaned away, “Uhm…”
"Oh, leave him be. You’re doing that creepy thing again," she scolded Oswald, then turned and began to walk off.
Oswald followed her, "I am not creepy,"
Emerson, for some reason, followed Oswald, quickly matching their speed. Oswald was standing between him and Auden, but he didn’t care, “Well, I was just thinking—”
"I’m sure you were," she said, not even looking at him.
"I mean, if you wanted—" he didn’t know why he was insisting on this. He wasn’t really one for relationships, hadn’t been in the slightest of one for over a year and a half. Just teased the girls before backing out. She, should she agree on joining him for dinner or something of the like, would surely be the same. He could’ve just let her go, found someone else, anywhere else, who would take hardly the effort.
"I probably don’t,"
"You didn’t even—" he kept going, remembering the passion of her dancing. The way she drew him in.
"I don’t have to,"
"But—" he was cut off from Oswald pushing him straight into the long fountain they’d been walking by. Emerson was immediately drenched, "What the hell!?" he said.
At the same moment Auden gasped, “Oswald!” she said in a scolding tone.
"What?" he shrugged, "He was irritating you,"
"You’ve got to stop doing that to every guy I meet,” Auden rolled her eyes and walked over, helping Emerson up and out of the fountain. Her skin was soft. She sighed, “Forgive him. He obviously,” she said, shooting a look at Oswald, “is mentally unstable. I just can’t prove it. Yet,” she looked back at Emerson after Oswald shrugged.
Emerson swallowed, feeling a bit of want for revenge on the man, “…No harm,” he said. Then Emerson took her soft hand and took out a pen, “But if you really did want…say..maybe dinner…?” he put the pen to her skin, “then just call—”
She took her hand out of his, messing up the digit he’d been writing, “Uh-uh. I don’t do the you-call-me thing,” she turned and started to walk away.
A short pause before, “What about if I called you?" was called out to her. Auden stopped, then turned and looked at him. She looked to Oswald and they exchanged a look.
Auden walked back, snatched his pen and wrote some digits down on a piece a paper she’d taken out, “Fine. If you can work up the guts to call me…maybe I’ll squeeze you in,” she finished the number, slid her arm through Oswald’s, and they walked off together.
Emerson looked down at the number, wondering if he really would call her. Of course he would. He knew he could do that.
What he didn’t know, however, was that Auden was going to be the one to pull him out of that sameness he’d been feeling.
