Emma nudged the by now tepid ravioli with her fork. I had nearly cleared my plate as I shared with her anecdotes from my day, followed by a long-winded retelling of one of Charlie's and my more ludicrous shenanigans in an attempt to elicit a smile. Getting no reaction at all from her, I began to tell her of the foundation's latest program aiming to burn every book in Britain and force the masses to use e-readers.

Still... nothing.

Not even an eye roll at my blatant attempt to needle her.

"Ems?" I asked softly as I reached across the dinner table to cover her hand with mine.

She startled at my touch, jumping slightly in her seat. "Hm?"

I stroked the back of her hand with my thumb. "Where are you tonight, love?"

"Here," she sighed and then shook her head. "Sorry."

"You've seemed... off all evening."

"Sorry," she repeated with a tight smile as she set down her fork and reached for her wine glass.

I frowned. "Why are you apologizing?"

"I..." She took a sip and shrugged. "I don't know, sorry-shit!"

I frowned as Emma pulled her hand out from under mine. "Did something happen with Cynthia today? Did she say something to upset you?"

Emma shook her head adamantly. "No, of course not."

"You could tell me if she did," I encouraged her, scooting forward in my seat.

"She didn't-"

"I would want you to tell me-" I insisted.

"She didn't say anything! She just..." Emma's words trailed off as her gaze met mine. I could tell my eyes revealed my concern by how her voice softened then. "She just asked me about my ex is all."

"Ah," I said as I fell back into my seat and then reached for my own drink. "We haven't exactly had the talk, have we?"

"No," Emma mumbled. "We haven't."

I watched as she took a large swig of her wine, nearly draining her glass. "Should we?"

Emma gnawed on her lower lip before finishing the contents of her glass and setting it carefully on the table in front of her. "Cynthia..." she began but stopped to clear her throat.

"Cynthia," she started again, "thought he was abusive."

I nodded slowly, my mind drifting back to the night before Emma had left to Kerry and I had asked her if someone had hurt her and Emma had practically leaped from my lap, scrambling to get away from me.

I don't want to associate your touch with him, her trembling voice rang in my ear.

She'd changed the subject then, and I'd let her out of fear of pushing her further on it. Admittedly, that same cowardice had stopped me from returning to the subject later, even when she'd returned from Kerry.

That night, her eyes had been glossy in panic. I recognized a similar sheen to them now, yet she seemed closer to me somehow. As if she were resolved to use a superhuman feat of strength to stay... to let me in.

The wave of gratitude I felt to her managed to drown out the roiling rage I felt toward the prick who had so obviously hurt her. I took in a slow, steadying breath and nodded.

"And what do you think?"

"I..." Emma sighed heavily as she decisively reached for the bottle of wine. "I think he was an ass. At the time I thought he was just kind of manic, like artists can be."

"He's an artist?"

She nodded curtly as she refilled her glass. "A writer."

Unsure of what to say, I took a sip of my own drink.

"But he... he said he cared about me, obviously," she continued as she replaced the bottle and leaned back into her chair as if cautiously leaning back into memories she had so thoroughly locked away. "But when we were together I always felt like he just thought about himself, like I was an afterthought-if that even."

"And now?"

Emma began worrying her lower lip as she contemplated her answer.

"He was really controlling," she finally said.

She stared down into the full glass she cradled in her lap, her eyes wide and unblinking. When she spoke again, it was slow and sporadic with pauses between each memory. "He got jealous a lot. At first, it was just with other guys. He didn't like me being alone with them."

I had to fight not to grimace as I remembered my own jealous outburst after seeing Emma with Youssef.

"Most of my friends at the time were women," she continued, unnoticing. "So I didn't really mind it. I thought it was a good thing actually..."

I did grimace, then, at the hallow tin of Emma's laughter.

"A sign that he cared," she mocked herself ruthlessly before finally lifting the rim of her glass to her lips. "But once I started working at The Print, I had to have meetings and interviews with men. I mean in the publishing world there's just no way around it... Anyways, it got worse after that."

"How so?" I asked quietly.

Emma blinked up at me, considering me. "He... got jealous of my friends, even the female ones. He didn't like me going out with them, particularly with Trisha. Said she was a bad influence. He..." Emma closed her eyes and flinched in embarrassment. "Looking back on it, I know how it was messed up, but at the time... I didn't think anything of the things he did. And after having to handle everything for Dad with the hospital and his... it felt good to be taken care of."

I hesitated, unsure if I was allowed to ask the question. "What... kind of things did he do?"

Emma placed her glass on the table and brought one of her knees to her chest. Inhaling deeply, she hugged her knee and told me.

"He'd go through my phone and sometimes he'd call the office to see if I was at work when I said I would be, that sort of thing..." Emma rested her chin on top of her knee and tilted her head as if debating saying more.

"We used to read each other's work," she eventually continued. "This was after Dad passed and I was still trying to write then, essays and short stories mostly, but he always tore them to pieces. Everything I wrote was cliché or a cheap imitation of some other great writer-that's what he said anyways, and after a while, I would hear his voice when I was writing.

"I remember writing used to be so-fun! But eventually his voice in my head... well, it started to sound like my own, and it was like having the nastiest inner critic that I could never just shut up. So I eventually just... gave it up." Emma's voice developed a raspy quality as she attempted to swallow back her tears.

"I never really thought about why I stopped writing," she confessed in a whisper. Her watery eyes lifted to mine, and she shrugged helplessly. "It just sort of... happened."

Silently, I leaned forward and held my hand out for her to take. After a moment, she clasped hers with mine and I gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I used to really love writing, you know. Even if I was awful at it, I-"

"You aren't," I assured her with another squeeze.

Emma laughed and wiped at her tear-stained cheeks with her free hand. "You've never read any of my stuff."

"I've read your reviews," I countered. "And I don't believe someone who loves reading so much as you could possibly be a bad writer. And besides, I've heard you tell plenty of stories about your past adventures. You're a natural storyteller, Emma."

Emma smiled meekly down at our hands.

"Thanks," she breathed.

"So... how is the writing going now?"

"Rubbish," she giggled, her tear-filled eyes flickering to meet mine. "But... I'm trying, which I think is what counts. At least to Dad."

"Agreed," I grinned. "And I hope you keep trying, especially if it's something that makes you happy."

Emma's eyes narrowed slightly as a thin smile slowly began to spread across her lips.

"What?" I asked her.

Emma shook her head, but the smile remained. "Sometimes I just wonder what I did to get so lucky to have you in my life."

I gently tugged her hand toward my chest, and Emma followed it right into my lap. I settled my arms around her and pulled her in tight.

"Diddo."