I knew part of her felt it was. Taking emotion from someone was intensely personal. It created a strong bond. And with Emerson, it was a bond I didn’t want to break, even though I knew I had to.
“You can tell him. I want you to. It was your pain, your business,” I argued, when she started to disagree. “It’s your place to share that, not mine.”
“Only if you promise to talk to him about it after I do.”
I nodded. She’d tell him how it connected us. I’d have to promise to disconnect it.
“Soon. And you need to talk to your dad, too. After the way you argued with him today—he just wants what’s best for everyone.”
“I’m not ready to talk to my dad.” I stared at the line of movie posters on the brick wall in front of the theater. They must have been running a revival of some sort, because all of the posters advertised black-and-white films, with the exception of Gone with the Wind.
“He loves you. He’s proud to have you as his son. His only son.”
“Yeah.” He loved me. But he trusted Michael. Everyone did. The last thing I wanted to do was to get into that with Emerson.
A faint breeze brought the smell of caramel corn and cider. It sent Em’s hair flying, and she tucked it behind her ears. “Also, about Lily—”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “You don’t get to yell at me now. Lily already took care of the shaming portion of the day. I won’t bother her again, swear.”
Em laughed. “I’m not worried about you bothering her. If you do, you’re the one who’ll be in trouble.”
I got a really strange feeling, and I looked around. We were in a crowd of people, but none of them were little kids in costume. The smells of the festival had disappeared and been replaced by the smell of popcorn.
“The line for the theater is really long,” I said, mostly under my breath. “What’s so exciting …”
“Everyone has on hats. Those are 1940s-style coats,” Em said slowly. “Hells bells.”
We looked up at the giant marquis at the exact same time.
GONE WITH THE WIND
MIDDLE TENNESSEE
PREMIERE TONIGHT AT 7:45
ADMISSION $1.10
“What do we do?” I asked, overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies lined up on the sidewalk. Em and I were the only modern people in sight. “Where did our Ivy Springs go? What happened?”
“Time slipped. Maybe you can help me pick it up?” Em extended her arm to touch a woman wearing red lipstick with hair in big, fat loops on top of her head. “And who decided to call a hairstyle a victory roll, anyway? Dumbest name ev—”
She froze.
Dread, the kind that makes your stomach bottom out.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They don’t see me.” Em waved her hands in front of the woman’s face, careful not to touch her. When the woman didn’t react, Em ran down the length of the movie line, stopping every few feet to try to catch the attention of one of the patrons.
I followed, almost knocking her over when she stopped short.
Em was shaking her head. “Why don’t they see me?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”
“Rips. I’ve had conversations with them. They notice me, and I notice them. These rips don’t see me.” She closed her eyes. “The rip at your house yesterday—the soldier I touched didn’t see me coming. The rip the night I went back to save Michael was the same way. I was in a house with a mom and her kids, a small house, but they didn’t see me.”
“Hey,” I said, concerned with her whirl of fear and anxiety. “It’s okay.”