Bubble Wrap

chapter one

THE WORLD STANDS still as he stands in front of me with tears running down his cheeks. I want to reach out and wipe them away, blending the pain into nothing but numbness, but I can't. He took that away from me. I'm frozen, and it's his fault. And for a small moment, I wish it was yesterday. Before everything changed.

It was easier.

Today is new, and it's harder to ignore the storm we've created. We can't hear each other anymore, not through the cracks of thunder in the air. No matter how loud we scream—it won't change. We're stuck. And my biggest fear is that we can never leave each other.

We are destined for ruins.

"Em!" Maggie shouts through my made-up reality, waving her hand in front of my face until my attention is off the manuscript pages in front of me and on her. "Earth to Emery!"

"What?" I ask with a frown, my fingers curling into the sharp edges of the stacked paper.

"Nice to see you too." She laughs as she leans into the edge of my desk, tucking a piece of her dark—nearly black—shoulder length hair behind her ear. "Put the book down. It's time to get you home," she tells me as a smile creeps up on her pouty pink lips.

"Mags!" I frown. "You can't ask me that! It's so good. I have to finish it."

"Em, you've been in the office since seven," she argues and stands as she pulls on my arm, unsuccessful in her venture to get me off my chair. She does, however, pull it along the hardwood floors of my office and away from my desk. "It's six. I think it's time to call it a day, don't you?"

"How do you even know I was here at seven?" I ask as I pull my arm out of her grasp and fix the sleeve of my black long sleeve turtle neck. The ruffled edges peeking out from under my grey plaid print blazer, the matching pencil skirt creeping up my thighs as I cross my legs. "You don't start until eight-thirty."

"I have eyes and ears all over this office, babe," she tells me. "You can't spend your life in between the pages of a book. It's unhealthy."

I grin up at her. "I can, actually. It's why I became an editor."

"Ha-ha." She rolls her eyes at me and reaches for my hand again. "When was the last time you ate?" she asks.

"I've had my snacks," I tell her, about to lean over my armrest for the bottom drawer of my desk where I keep a stash of snacks. An array of things I shouldn't be eating, but do because I can't help myself and deserve a treat every once in a while. Or always.

"I mean, real food." She shakes her head, her mother bear instinct passed down from her strict Indian mother showing. "Not Oreos and peanut butter."

"That is real food!" I argue before sighing when I realize she won't leave me alone until I leave the publication house—where she works as the office receptionist, and I work as a senior-level editor—with her. "Okay, fine! I will go home."

"Good," she says and extends her hand to help me onto my pointed suede heels. "Or you could come over for dinner so I know you'll actually eat."

"I've still got leftovers from the last time I was over," I assure her. "I'll be fine."

"You sure? Zane's making fajitas," she says, knowing that I can't say no to fajitas. Especially not Zane's.

I smile, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" I ask as I reach for my purse tucked into the cabinet behind my desk.

"What?" She grins. "Ask my husband to make your favorite to force you to spend more time with me? Me? Do that to you? No, never."

I shake my head at her. "You're very subtle, Mags."