Love, Emma

Chapter Fifty-Three: Nathan's Point of View

Slowly, I let my arms lower me, until I can rest my body on hers, and I still just enough to support my weight on my forearms.

"I-is th-this ok-okay?" I whisper against her skin, and she simply nods, smiling at me shyly in this way that makes me want to hug her impossibly closer.

"You're so strong," her palms span the length of my chest, rounding over whatever muscle may be there before rising up to settle on my shoulders.

She may not even realize it, but her words chip off just a slight insecurity, just the slightest weight that's been resting on my shoulders. It gives me the courage I need to kiss her, slowly and sweetly with all the tenderness in the world; all the tenderness a girl as wonderful as Emma Dawn deserves.

It's so easy to get lost in it, in the moment, in her. Lighting lights up the sky just outside the window, and yet here we are, a boy and a girl lit in the dim light of a lamp, her actions slowly breaking through the walls of insecurities he's managed to surround himself with. She's done it so softly, so patiently, that I can barely remember a time before her, a time before her sunshine amidst my darkness.

It's the kind of feeling that can be shattered in an instant, and it is, so easily, so quickly; the soft skin of her hands brush beneath my shirt, just barely skimming my stomach, and suddenly every single wall is back.

Every hour of internally hating my figure, every time I had to wait for the other guys to leave the change room in gym class just so I'd feel comfortable enough to change my shirt. Every curious look I got when I wore a swim shirt to the beach, every male clothing advertisement that shows a ripped, chiseled football player, making me pale in comparison.

It's physically shocking; it makes my movements still, until I have to sit up, have to remove myself from the situation, just slightly, enough so I can feel like I can breathe.

"Nathan?" She sits up with me, hand reaching out tentatively to hold my own.

"Hmm?" I close my eyes, I try to focus. I count my breaths, let the feeling of her thumb brushing over my knuckles draw me back, let it anchor me against her.

"Did I do something wrong, I'm sorry, Nathan we don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with."

I want to shake my head and nod at the same time; it's all too much, and yet it's all equally wonderful.

You're pathetic, getting all self conscious like this. You shouldn't even be here, shouldn't have gotten this close; she's only going to hurt you, she could never love you-

"G-give me a m-min-minute." My voice is so husky, so unaccustomed to being used after what feels like hours of silence. Just another thing to get self conscious about.

She's so patient it's killing me, so willing to let me have my time before starting to bring me back; easing me into her embrace, rubbing her hands over my arms and shoulders.

"Nathan," her voice is the first to break the silence, stilling her hands as she waits for me to turn and face her. I try to blink away the burning feeling in my eyes before I look at her.

It's so hard to look her in the eye, so hard to know I'm so vulnerable.

"I'm s-so-sorry." My eyes are burning and my lungs hurt as they strain to breathe.

She frowns in confusion, hands reaching up to cup my jaw, so that I have to remain eye contact with her.

"Nathan Walker, you have nothing to apologize for. I shouldn't have done anything you weren't comfortable with."

I clear my throat quickly, trying to make myself sound more assured.

"It's n-not th-that, it's j-ju-just, I'm, u-um, I'm j-ju-just, n-not a-as, u-um...I-I d-don't l-look l-li-like o-oth-other g-guys? N-not as g-good, I'm n-not b-bu-built l-like th-that, s-so, um-m..." My face is on fire, burning so harshly that it flushes down my neck.

She moves slowly, until she's sitting up in my lap with her legs on either side of my hips. There's this soft, shy smile on her lips, and it's so incredibly genuine that a part of me can't help but want to smile back.

The other part of me is too terrified to even breathe, let alone smile.

She's going to realize you're hideous, that you're sickly pale, so thin, so undefined, so ugly.

"Nathan, I can't believe how you can wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and not see how undeniably beautiful you are."

It's too good to be true, she can't be-

"This," she presses a chaste kiss to the top of my scar, just above my eye, "is beautiful, and so is this," lips brushing my own, "and this," they trail down my neck, across my shoulders," and I especially love this," her lips are feather light against my chest and stomach, over my t-shirt, but the action alone speaks louder than any words.

I can feel my chest expanding under her affections, my confidence rising, filling my heart and thrumming a living beat through my veins. It fuels me to ignore my thoughts, to ignore every insecurity screaming at me from the depths of my mind, and instead focus on the kind, shy look on Emma's face.

My hands grip the hem of my shirt, and in one swift motion, so I don't hesitate, I pull it up, over my head.

The cold air bites at my exposed skin, only adding to the vulnerability I feel being so exposed.

I'm afraid to look at her, terrified to meet her eyes and see even the slightest hint of judgement. I don't know if I could take that.

My nerves cause me to ramble, trying to talk over the impending rejection. "I kn-know I'm n-not a-a-as d-de-defined a-as, um, o-other g-guys- I'm a lo-lot sl-slim-slimmer, sk-skinnier, b-but-"

"Oh, you're so perfect," she's whispering, as if afraid to be over heard. There's this wondrous glint in her eyes, and her hands are shaking when she lifts them up to meet my skin. Her hands are so warm, tracing up over my chest, from my naval to my shoulders, across my ribs. They're everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and I can't believe it. I can't help the harsh exhale, I can't help looking at her like she's this unbelievable wonder; because she is.

She's Emma Dawn, and she's sunshine, she's fireworks on New Years Eve and shooting stars in the dead of winter. She's dancing to Christmas carols and kisses that taste like cannoli's. She's everything, and she has no idea.

.               .                .               .               .

I've officially decided kissing Emma is my favorite activity.

It's always different with her. There's the breathless kind of kiss, where my lips ache in this wonderful way, and my hands can't stop moving, and then there's the slow kiss. The kiss that communicates a thousand words with a few chaste pecks.

I'm yet to decided which I like better.

I bet she doesn't like either of them; not with you.

"You're wonderful," she breathes, fingers trailing down my chest and over my stomach, and unconsciously, my muscles tighten.

She doesn't mean that.

"So wonderful, so wonderful for me." Her palms press against my waist, pulling me closer over her.

She just doesn't want to hurt your feelings.

And then she kisses me in such a way that it physically hurts, but not in a way that even remotely relates to pain.

You can set them up all you want, every insecurity you can come up with, she shuts it down. She doesn't believe any of that.

It's such a happy thought, a thought that somewhere, subconsciously, I've been waiting to think, and practically dying to believe.

If I can believe in anything in this twisted, beautiful world we live in, it's Emma.

But then it all happens so fast; this man is yelling Emma's name, and he smacks a hand on my shoulder, trying to rip me away from her. It's my natural reaction to go on the defensive; not to defend myself, but to defend her. In a matter of seconds I'm up off the bed, spinning around so fast, I don't even feel my arm pull back, don't feel my fist meet his jaw.

All that registers are the small, warm hands, pulling at my waist, yanking me away from the suit adorned man standing before me.

"Nathan! Nathan stop, it's my-my Dad."