"You want to what?"
Emma takes a deep breath.
"I want to go see my dad. He sent me a letter a couple of weeks ago saying that he wanted to meet me."
No one says anything and Emma feels the tension thick throughout the room. Mike and Susan sit on either side of the sofa, an improvised audience. Susan isn't looking at Emma. She's staring off towards the kitchen, her face in profile.
"I haven't said anything, but I want to go see him. And Killian said he would go with me."
"The Jones boy?" Mike asks.
Emma doesn't know him well, hasn't taken the time to really, but she is touched by the concern she sees on his face, settling in the creases in his forehead and furrows of his eyes.
"Yes," she says, "We're both eighteen and I'll be back before school starts."
"I know the town. Storybrook, you said?" Mike says.
"Yeah," Emma says, letting out a sigh of relief. This is going over better than she thought it would.
"How are you even sure this is your dad?" this is from Susan, her eyes now fixed on her sweater's hem as she fiddles with a loose strand.
She is still avoiding Emma's gaze. Emma wishes she would look at her
"I'm not," Emma says, "but I talked to Marvalyn and she says he got in contact with the agency two years ago, but he wasn't allowed to contact me till I turned eighteen. They're not sure he is my father, but they think it's a definite possibility."
"You've really thought about this?" Susan asks, finally meeting her eyes and Emma feels like she can breathe again.
"Yeah," Emma says, "Yeah. I have."
They leave the second Monday of break. The day is sharp and clear and Emma can hear her heart beating as she walks down the driveway towards Killian's car, a duffel thrown over one shoulder. She can feel Susan watching her from the living room window. She meets Killian's eyes through the windshield and feels her heart clench. She can't believe she's doing this. She can't believe she's doing this.
She feels awkward once they're actually on the way, nothing but the empty road stretching out in front of them. She watches the landscape rush past, strip malls flying by and then just trees, their branches dipped in snow. She's very aware of Killian's presence. Too aware. He's close enough that she could reach over and touch him if she wanted to. She wants to.
An hour in, Killian turns on music. It should be soothing, but Emma just feels suffocated. The heat is blasting in her face and she feels like she can't breathe. Her skin feels feverish and clammy and too tight, like everything is pressing down on her. She rests her head against the window, feels the cool glass press against her cheek. She closes her eyes, tries to trick herself into calming down, but she can't seem to turn her brain off. She can't stop thinking about what will happen once they reach the end of their journey. She can't stop thinking. She can't.
They pull into a motel late that night.
"You okay?" Killian asks once they've parked.
Her hand is on the door handle and she's looking out towards the motel, the street lamp by the car turning everything black and white, as if all the color had leaked from the world.
"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds weird and tight.
"Emma," he says, "talk to me."
"Let's go check in," she says.
She hears his frustrated sigh, but she's already pushing the door open, letting the cold air wash over her. There is snow on the ground, the white mixing with the dirt and grit of the parking lot so that's it's mainly piles of grey slush. She shivers.
"Here," Killian says, already starting to shrug out of his jacket.
"I'm fine," she says brushing past him, "I'm fine."
Emma takes a shower, letting the hot water rush over her, draw the tension from her back and shoulders, drown out everything, until she can't hear anything but the pounding of the water. The steam fills up the room and when she steps out she can't see herself in the mirror. She moves her hand across it until her face appears, damp blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and worried eyes staring back at her. Her breath comes in sharp gasps and she buries her head in her hands. What is wrong with me? she wonders. What is wrong with me?
When she exits the bathroom, Killian's lying on his bed watching tv. He's taken his shoes off. Seeing his bare feet is strangely intimate and Emma stifles the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it.
"Hey," he says, when she enters, sitting up and turning off the tv.
"Hey," she says, "bathrooms free if you need to-" she gestures with her hands, "-whatever."
"Okay," he says, standing up and heading towards her.
He brushes past her on the way to the bathroom, close enough that he invades her personal space, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that she wants to lean even closer. She steps back quickly, allowing him to access to the bathroom door. She feels his eyes on her, too intense, before he leaves the room. She takes a deep breath, her eyes on the door, before crossing to her bed and sitting on the edge of it, smoothing her hands over the stiff comforter. She hears the water running in the bathtub and then the sound of the shower turning on. She tries not to think about what's going on behind the closed door. She really doesn't need those images in her head. She lies down, wet hair soaking the pillow as it fans out. She can smell the hotel shampoo, fragrant and tropical. She closes her eyes, listens to the sound of the shower, like the pounding of rain against the ground.
She keeps her eyes closed when he comes out of the bathroom, pretending to be asleep. She hears him pad around the room and then the click as the lights go off and the rustle of covers as he slides into bed. Emma listens to his breathing, the inhale and the exhale stark against the silence of the room. She can hear every breath, the way the air catches in his throat, the exhale as it brushes past his lips. Emma doesn't know what she thought this trip was going to be like, but it's not this. She couldn't have imagined the awkwardness and the intimacy and the lying awake with him right there and just wanting. Wanting him. And it terrifies her.
After lying awake for what feels like hours, she sits up. The room is dark, only a sliver of light coming through the crack in the curtains, causing a line of light to cut across the room. She glances over at the other bed and looks at Killian, his face slack with sleep. She swings her legs out of bed, the carpet scratching against her bare feet. She stands, crossing to the door, grabbing a sweatshirt-hers or Killian's she doesn't check- and her room key, glancing back at him one more time to check that he's still sleeping and then slips out the room.
She goes to the pool on the ground floor, swiping her card and shouldering the heavy glass door open. The air is humid in the room, despite the cold outside and Emma can feel condensation gathering on her exposed skin. She sits on the edge of the pool, rolling up her pajama pants and dangling her legs over the water. The water is tepid, but it feels good against her bare skin. She can see snow through the screen door in the middle of the wall, a weird contrast to the warm water against her feet.
"I wondered where you went. I woke up and you weren't there."
She turns to see Killian standing behind her, hair mussed with sleep and eyes bleary.
"Sorry," she says, kicking the water and feeling it slosh up and soak the hem of her pants.
"It's okay," he says, sitting down next to her, "I was just worried."
His feet join her in the water and she can feel his gaze on her, though she's still staring off out the door.
"Emma. Do you regret asking me to come? Is that what this is about."
She doesn't know how to answer, so she's silent.
"I feel like I've done something wrong. But I don't know what it is."
"No," she says, "It's me. Something's wrong with me."
"What do you mean?"
"I just-I don't know."
She falls silent. She doesn't know how to explain and he doesn't press her. The silence stretches on and on. She moves her feet against the water, feeling like she needs to do something with her body. She almost wishes he would leave, but he doesn't. Just sits there until she starts to talk.
"Just. Everyone leaves me. My foster parents keep getting rid of me, because they get their own kids or because they don't have room or because they don't-" her voice breaks, "don't love me. And then Graham. And Neal. And I know that he probably wasn't good for me or whatever, but I just. I needed someone and he was there. But even he left me."
He's quiet for a long moment. Emma can't look at him. Can't believe she said any of that to him.
"Is this about your dad?" he asks.
Emma wishes it was that simple.
"Yes," she says and it's true. Of course it's true. But it's not the whole truth.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Emma," he says, "I promise."
"I'm scared, Killian," she says, her voice small.
His hand falls over hers, taking it from it's place in her lap and interweaving her fingers with his.
"I know," he says, "But you don't have to be."
The closer they get to their destination, the tighter the knots in her stomach get. She feels all nervous and terrified and she can't breathe. Her lungs ache and her head hurts and she feels like she's going to explode.
"Breathe," Killian says, his eyes flicking from the road to her, "Just breathe. You can do this. I know you can."
She sucks in a breath and feels oxygen return to her brain. She can do this. She can do this.
They pull into his neighborhood. All the houses look the same. Nice. They look nice. Nicer than any house she's ever lived in. Pastel colors. Big yards. Gardens. The GPS beeps, announcing their destination is on the left. Killian pulls over, parking on the side of the street and shutting off the car. Emma glances out the house, her eyes darting everywhere, trying to take it all in, and then looks away. Is this where she would have grown up? Taken her first steps? Gone on her first date? Had a family?
She pushes the car door open and hears Killian do the same. She feels the wind ruffling her hair as she takes her first steps towards the house. It all feels so surreal. She can't quite believe that it's her doing this. Her feet walking up the front steps. Her body here on his front porch. Her hand against the wood of the house. Her breath coming in harsh gasps.
"Emma," she hears from behind her, a hand touching the small of her back, "are you okay?"
No. No. She's not okay. She can't do it. She can't. What if it's not him? What if he's not her dad? What if this is the wrong house? She should have called. Why didn't she call? Or look him up? Or stalk him on the internet or something? What if she's not she's not what he wanted or expected and this was a really really bad idea. She just wants to go go go go.
She turns abruptly, moving to leave the porch and feels Killian's hands on her waist.
"Emma," he says, "what are you doing?"
She struggles against him and feels his arms tighten around her.
"Please," she says, "Please, Killian. Let me go."
He loosens his hold and she breaks free of his grip.
She's sitting on the side of the street when he finds her and sinks down beside her.
It's cold.
She can feel the sidewalk leaching the warmth from her backside and the heat of his leg as it presses against hers. He doesn't say anything and neither does she, but he takes her hand, rubbing circles on her palm. After awhile she lets out a long exhale, her breath misting in front of her, and feels her shoulders relax.
"Why did you run?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.
"You know why," she says, her voice small and thick with emotion, "I told you why."
"But I don't understand, Emma. Please look at me," he says, his hand turning her face towards him.
His eyes are bright and clear and his brow furrowed. He's close. So close there's barely a breath between them.
"Why can't you see how wonderful you are?" he asks, his hand still cupping her cheek and he's so beautiful Emma doesn't know what to do with herself.
So she kisses him. At first his mouth is unyielding against hers and she remembers another time when she kissed him with alcohol on her breath and she's afraid, but then his hand moves into her hair and he surges forward. She clenches the material of his jacket and pulls him closer.
When they break apart for air, her fists keep him rooting in place, their foreheads touching. Her heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest.
"Go," he says, his voice throaty and breathless.
"As long as you come with me."
They walk down the street hand and hand, their fingers interlocked, their palms pressed all the way together. When they reach the house, she looks up at it, so large and beautiful and full of impossible possibilities, and she's scared. But she trusts him. She trusts him. As she raises her hand to the doorbell, she meets his eyes and he looks back at her, his whole face smiling, and she thinks maybe everything will be alright.
She's not running anymore.