Chapter 11: The Roof

At six on Wednesday evening Emmett texted me one line.

EMMETT: I'm on the roof. I'll stay up here until you tell me to go.

The sky over Fulton Street was black, and the first fat drops were hitting the cars.

I climbed the fire stairs in my work clogs, with flour on my sleeves, and came out into the wind.

The roof was flat and gray and empty except for a freight-machinery shed with its door propped open.

Emmett stood at the parapet in a plain shirt, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the city.

He turned when he heard me.

"You came up," he said.

"You said you'd stay."

"I meant it."

I crossed to him and stopped an arm's length away.

"I was angry at the wrong person on Friday," I said.

"Not all the way wrong. But I've been furious at everyone for two weeks, and you were the only one I wanted to be right."

He took that in without moving.

"I should have said something in July," he said. "I'll say it every day if you want. I won't ask you to forgive it."

"I forgive it."

"That was fast."

"I thought about it for five days. That was fast for me." I stepped closer. "Say the thing you've been not saying."

He took his hands out of his pockets.

"I want you after," Emmett said.

"Not instead of him. Not while this is happening."

He kept his eyes on mine. "After, when the whole thing is behind you and you still want to."

"I'll take tonight if you give it to me. But I'm asking for after."

The rain came down all at once.

It hit the roof in a roar and soaked my hair, my shirt, my sleeves, and I stood in it and laughed.

"You have terrible timing," I said.

"I know."

"Take me inside."

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