Emersyn
"I can't believe none of you will be here for Thanksgiving!" I pout.
"You know you can always come home with me. My parents love you," Val says.
I know she's right. Fowler, Locke, and Cruz all invited me to their families' Thanksgiving dinners as well, but I don't want to impose. Usually, I spend all the big holidays with Lyle and his family, but that obviously isn't going to happen this year.
"It's fine. I'll just stay here. I already got the stuff to make a small dinner."
Val looks at me with those understanding eyes of hers. "If you change your mind, my offer stands. No one should be alone on Thanksgiving, especially not you, Em."
I manage a smile. "I'll be fine, Val. Maybe I'll finally master that turkey recipe or just end up with a pizza. Either way, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet." But even as I say it, I wonder if the quiet will be comforting or simply underline my solitude.
She gives me a tight hug, and I feel the warmth of her friendship seep into me. "Okay, but call me if you need anything, or if you change your mind."
After Val and guys leave, I stand in the middle of the living room, looking around. The festive decorations I'd put up seem out of place now, mocking in their cheerfulness. I walk over to the small kitchen, start pulling out ingredients for the dinner I had planned, a smaller, simpler version just for me. As I begin to cook, the motions familiar and somewhat comforting, I decide to make the best of the situation.
I know I could go to my parent's house. It's where my brother and his wife are going to be. But I haven't talked to my mom since my brother's wedding, and honestly, I don't want to talk to her. I would rather be here alone, than be there and feel out of place.
"That smells good."
I jump at the sound.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Marx!" I yell, dropping the bowl I had been mixing onto the counter. "You scared me. What are you even doing here? I thought you would be with your family today, too."
He's quiet for a moment before he responds.
"I don't talk to my family." His words are soft.
How had I not known this about him?
"Why aren't you with yours?" He asks, turning the question back on me.
"Well," I start. "I'm still not exactly on speaking terms with my mother."
"Understandable."
I want to ask about his family, but he doesn't seem to want to talk about it. Instead, I ask him if he wants to help with dinner.
Marx hesitates for a moment, then a small smile cracks his usually stoic expression. "Sure, why not?"
The kitchen suddenly feels less empty with Marx standing beside me. We work in a comfortable silence, occasionally bumping into each other in the cramped space, which leads to a few quiet laughs. The tension eases out of my shoulders. I didn't realize how much I was dreading spending the evening alone until now.
As Marx and I move around the kitchen, the clinking of utensils and the sizzling of the sauté pan fill the air. He picks up a bottle of spice, squinting at the label before turning to me.
"What's this one for?" he asks, holding up the bottle of thyme.
"That's thyme. It gives a nice earthy flavor to the stuffing," I explain, taking it from him to sprinkle a bit into the mixture. "A Thanksgiving must-have in my book."
He nods, setting the bottle back down. "And what's your all-time favorite dish for Thanksgiving?" Marx asks, genuinely curious as he stirs the vegetables in the pan.
"Definitely the mashed potatoes. But not just any mashed potatoes—my grandma's recipe. Loaded with butter, garlic, and love," I say with a chuckle, thinking back to the countless holidays spent under my grandmother's watchful eye.
Marx smiles, "Sounds like a winner. And I guess everyone has a turkey disaster story, right? Ever had one?"
I laugh, a particular memory surfacing. "Oh, absolutely. My first turkey was a disaster. I was so proud, thought I had followed all the instructions. But when we cut into it, it was like a scene from a comedy show—half raw, half burnt to a crisp."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse. But it taught me to always have a pizza delivery on speed dial just in case," I quip.
Marx looks around the small kitchen and then at the modest but growing spread on the counter. "You've come a long way from that, it seems. Everything looks amazing."
"Thanks," I say, feeling a little surge of pride. And he's right. I really have come a long way with my cooking.
The hours slip by, and before I know it, the table is set with a modest but hearty spread. The house is filled with the rich, savory scents of our combined efforts.
"We did good, huh?" Marx says, taking a seat at the table.
I nod, looking at the two plates set out. "We did."
We eat in silence for a while, but it's comfortable.
"So," I start, not sure I should be asking. "Can I ask about your family?"
Marx raises a brow. "Aren't you already asking by asking that?"
I give him a flat look. "You know what I mean."
He sighs, and I can see the wall go up. He doesn't want to talk about it. But I can also see the hesitation.
"It's just... my family is a mess." He stops and I'm not sure he's going to continue, but then he does. "I'm not close with my parents. We have a lot of bad history. I haven't talked to them in ten years. I was an only child, so no siblings. My family wasn't very close-knit with our extended family either."
"Ten years is a long time."
"Yeah," he says, his voice quiet.
I feel like there's more to the story. But I don't want to push him.
"I'm sorry, Marx. That must be hard."
Marx nods, the silence growing between us. Then, unexpectedly, he changes the subject. "You know, I've always found it interesting how people can create their own families. Not just blood relatives, but the people they choose to bring into their lives."
His words strike a chord with me, and I look up, meeting his gaze. "Yeah, I guess that's true. Sometimes the family you choose can be more of a family than the one you're born into."
He smiles slightly, an almost wistful look in his eyes. "Exactly. People like Fowler, Locke, Cruz... they've become more like family to me than my own ever was."
I think about Val and how she's been more of a sister to me than just a friend. "I know what you mean. Val's been that person for me. After everything with Lyle, she's been my rock. Even before that, though."
After dinner, we clear the table together, the clatter of dishes a familiar, homely sound. Marx surprises me by suggesting we watch a movie. "Nothing too festive," he says with a grin. "How about an action movie? Something mindless and entertaining."
I laugh, agreeing, and we settle on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us. The movie plays, but my mind is only half on the screen. Instead, I find myself stealing glances at Marx, appreciating the simple pleasure of his company.
To my surprise, this arm lifts until it's placed around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I snuggle into him, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him. It's a comforting presence, his body solid and warm. I lean into him.
I'm settled into his side for only a moment when I realize what I'm doing. This is the same back and forth that we've been doing. And I can't keep doing it.
I pull back from Marx, letting his arm fall off me. He looks at me, confused.
"I can't do this," I say abruptly, my voice shaky.
Marx looks at me, feigning ignorance. "Do what, Emersyn?"
"This," I gesture between us, my frustration growing. "This dance we're doing. The constant back and forth."
He watches me, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. "I like you, Marx. Really like you. But I don't know what you want or how you feel. After we get close, you become distant, and I feel like... like I'm being toyed with."
Marx's face softens slightly, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Emersyn, I..."
I cut him off, needing to get it all out. "I need more than this. More than these moments of closeness followed by you pulling away. It's confusing, and it hurts."
He looks at the ground, nodding slowly. "It's just... complicated."
"Complicated how?" I ask, my voice softening.
Marx sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I have a lot of baggage, Emersyn. Things from my past that make it hard for me to... to let people in. To trust. I like you too, more than I've admitted to myself. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I pull away. It's not fair to you."
I listen, my heart aching for him and for us. "I understand having baggage," I say gently. "But we can't keep going in circles. I can't." I turn my back to him, ready to storm to my room, but his words stop me.
"I was-" he starts, his voice cracking a little bit. "I was married once."
I spin to face him. "Married?"
"Well, not exactly married, but we might as well have been," Marx continues, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "It was a long time ago. Ten years ago, actually. I thought she was the one, but things... they fell apart. And it broke me in ways I didn't even realize were possible."
I sit back down, the anger seeping out of me as curiosity and empathy take their place. "I had no idea," I whisper.
Marx lets out a humorless laugh. "Not many people do. It's not exactly something I like to bring up. But it's why I am the way I am. It's why I can't seem to let anyone in, not really. Every time I get close, I remember how it felt when it all came crashing down. I can't go through that again."
I reach out, tentatively placing my hand over his. "Marx, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. But... don't you think it's time to try and move past it?"
He looks at our hands, then meets my gaze. "I want to, Emersyn. More than anything. But I'm scared. I'm terrified of opening up and then losing everything again."
The room is silent, filled with the tension of our conversation. Finally, Marx speaks again. "We had a little girl. Well, kind of."
"Wait, what? What do you mean kind of?"
Marx takes a deep breath, his voice heavy with emotions he's long buried. "Her name was Lily. She was everything to me. For what felt like the longest time, but it was only a year, I believed she was my daughter. We were a family, or so I thought. But then..." He pauses, the pain evident in his eyes.
"But then?" I prompt gently, my heart racing with anticipation and dread.
"Then I found out the truth. The worst kind of betrayal. My partner... she had been having an affair. Lily wasn't mine. She was the result of that affair. I discovered it all when Lily needed a blood transfusion due to a rare condition, and I wasn't a match. The doctors were puzzled, ran some tests, and then the truth came out."
The room seems to close in as he talks. I can hardly breathe, imagining the pain of such a revelation.
"I was devastated. Not just by the betrayal, but by the loss. You see, despite everything, I loved that little girl. She was my world. And suddenly, she wasn't mine. And the woman I loved, the person I trusted most in this world, had lied to me in the most fundamental way."
Marx's voice breaks, and I see a single tear trail down his cheek. I reach out, unsure of what to do or say, but feeling an overwhelming need to comfort him.
"And after that?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"After that, everything fell apart. They left. I tried to fight for Lily, legally. Tried to gain some kind of partial custody of her, but I lost in court. I never saw Lily again. It was as if my family had been a mirage, and I was left with nothing but sand slipping through my fingers. I've been... I've been unable to trust, to open up since then. The idea of loving someone, of building a family, terrifies me because I can't face that kind of pain again."
He looks away, a mix of shame and sorrow marring his features. I sit there, numb, processing his words. The Marx I knew—the distant, guarded man—suddenly makes all the sense in the world. His walls, his reluctance to get close, it wasn't about me. It was about a wound so deep, so raw, that he couldn't bear the thought of it being reopened.
"I'm so sorry, Marx. That's... that's unimaginable." I find myself saying, my own eyes moist with unshed tears. "And I understand now. I understand your fear, your pain."
"But," I continue, gathering my thoughts, "while I understand your past, I can't let my emotions be played with. It's not fair to either of us."
Marx nods slowly, his eyes meeting mine. "You're right, Emersyn. It was wrong of me to pull you into this without being upfront about my fears and my past. I'm sorry."
We sit in silence for a moment, the gravity of the conversation settling around us. Then, he speaks again, his voice more steady.
"Can we agree to be friends, Emersyn? I don't want to lose you from my life, but I understand if that's all it can be."
I consider his words, the pain and hope mingling in my heart. Finally, I nod. "Yes, we can be friends, Marx. That's something I can do."
He smiles, a small, relieved smile. "Thank you, Emersyn. That means more to me than you know."
We stand up, the distance between us more tangible now, but also more honest. As he leaves, I finally feel a sense of closure, a sense that while things aren't perfect, they are, at least, clear and open.