Craving

Chapter 9

Emma pulled frantically at her trapped ankle, sure she was dead. If not dead, then going insane. Because a ghost was standing in front of her, illuminated by the sun like some sort of demented angel. How could this be?

Standing before her was Neal; the man she had loved, the man who had betrayed her, the man she had shot, the man she had watched die. That fateful night he had dropped to the pavement, blood spreading across his chest like wildfire. His eyes had rolled back in his head, his body limp with blood pooling beneath him, as she turned and fled. Out of town, out of her current life.

Not only was Neal alive, but he looked... somewhat healthy. He had packed on a few pounds, but not enough to be overweight. His dark brown hair was cut short, his face hiding a five o'clock shadow. His brown eyes looked clear and alert. Surprised to see her. No longer was he the cracked out, drug-stricken man she had been in love with. He was alive. And she had to face him.

"Let me help you." Neal stooped down and gently grabbed her underneath her arms, freeing her ankle before just as carefully letting her go.

Guilt washing over her, Emma forced herself to face him. "You're alive."

Neal smiled and spread his arms. "In the flesh. The living accommodations are a bit of a downer, but I'm working on it."

Emma's mouth opened and shut. She had so many things to say, so many things to ask. For starters, how could you? How are you here right now? Do you blame me for things going wrong?

Instead, she started with, "You look... good."

Neal's expression sobered. "I'm clean. I guess getting shot and arrested really changes perspective, huh?"

Emma shook her head, wondering how he was living so close to her this whole time. She had countless nightmares about him, yet he was significantly better now without her around. He was alive, for one.

"Can we... go get a meal somewhere? Catch up?" Guilt struck Emma again as she realized once again why she was out here. She should be searching for Mary Margaret. But also... questioning Neal might be a step in the right direction. Maybe he has seen Mary Margaret.

Neal hitched his thumb over his shoulder. "Sure. The chef is on vacation so I've had to fend for myself." He smiled, his brown eyes shining playfully.

Emma led him back to her car parked just outside of town and headed for the next town over. She couldn't believe Neal was being so jocund; he should be yelling at her, accusing her of the horrible crime she committed. Instead, he was acting like he did when they first met—before drugs had consumed them.

They pulled into a diner/motel parking lot and headed inside, finding a quiet booth in the corner despite the lack of diners occupying the place. A chipper blonde woman with a southern twang gave them menus and smiled a little too much, finally leaving them be after trying and failing to initiate small talk.

Neal glanced over at the menu with a ravished look while Emma just stared at him. He finally met her gaze and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "You were dead," Emma managed to say.

Understanding the weight of the sentence, Neal sighed and set the menu down. "Technically, no. You shot me, true. The cops showed up right after you fled. They found the bag of money and drugs, pinned it on me. My heart stopped for three minutes in the ambulance. But, by sheer will or fate or whatever you want to call it, I made it. As soon as I was out of critical care, I was arrested. Shackled to the hospital bed. They cut my morphine, after realizing I was a user."

The blonde waitress reappeared, telling them she had ordered the special for them both. Neither of them cared; there were more pressing matters. Once she had left to welcome a new set of diners, Neal continued his story.