Page 26 of Fever Dream
Julia
IDRAG MYSELF OUTof bed after a fitful night of sleep. Thoughts about Richard, Emmett, and Emmett’s true reasons for signing up for the show kept me up thinking—overthinking.
I don’t know what I expected from him yesterday, but it wasn’t the dread on his face, or the self-loathing that coated his every move on camera.
After over two years of avoiding thinking about Emmett Bush at all costs, I caved last night and let my brain run rampant with all my questions about him.
Why does he hate my brother? If he does, then why does he speak so highly of him to his family? Why did he bother staying with me that whole night on the cruise ship when he could have dumped me off at medical? And if he’s so full of himself, why didn’t he use that night to brag about being a hero?
But all my thoughts only led me to an entirely different question: WhoisEmmett Bush?
Because I’m starting to think I don’t know the answer to that at all.
Last night, I’d lain awake, replaying the moment that one contestant, Evelyn, approached him. The way she’d tugged on his tie and slipped her hand into his suit jacket as if she knew him, as if he’d invited it.
And then I’d tried to remember the look on his face. Part of me thinks he’d gone stock-still, frozen up in surprise, but maybe that was all in my head. Maybe I was just watching the interaction through the lens of someone who has avoided physical contact with the opposite sex for the past two-plus years.
I sit on the edge of my mattress, head dropped in my hands, as I search for some shreds of energy to get started on what is only day two of this show.
As I struggle to wake up, I continue to think about that moment, because something about it isn’t sitting right with me.
Clearly, I didn’t know about the financial troubles that his family or their farm had fallen into. And as I pad to the bathroom and stare back at my tired-looking face, I decide that I can’t make Emmett more comfortable than he is with what the show requires of him. But I can set the stage—seek comfortable locations—for great TV that will make completing the task a bit easier for him.
It’s a simple, neighborly sort of kindness.
My mom has often told me that we can only control whatonly wecan control. And this is exactly that.
A fresh lens on the experience makes me feel better about my role in this seedy mess. With a steadier focus, I twist my unruly curls up into a bun on my way to the kitchen. The rich scent of coffee fills the air after I press the start button on the pot I had the foresight to prep before bed—despite being dog-tired.
Once it’s ready, mug in hand, I pad out into my plant-infested living room and plunk down on my too-soft love seat. My laptop waits on the cushion beside me. I flick it open and type “Prickle Point” into the search bar, wondering where it is and why, even though I grew up in the same valley, I’ve never heard of it.
After one full cup of coffee, my search is still fruitless, and the first stubborn knots of frustration tighten in my shoulders. Not because I can’t find it. Because, like it or not, Iamgoing to have to ask Emmett for help after all.
A quick search through my inbox pulls up his phone number from the staff directory the studio sent me. I swore I’d never use it to contact him directly. But today, I cave.
I frown as my fingers tap across the screen of my phone.
Julia
Hi. It’s Julia. I don’t know if you’re awake yet, but when you have a moment, could you clarify the location of Prickle Point?
I toss my phone down and pad back to the kitchen to refill my coffee, irritated that I had to resort to asking him for help. When I get back to my seat, he’s already responded.
Emmett
Which Julia?
My eyes roll. What a douche.
Julia
The one who agreed not to tell her brother about your offseason shenanigans but who still could, at any moment, if the inclination strikes her.
Emmett
Blackmail. Nice. How very un-Silva of you.
I bristle at that. I am very Silva. I am kind. I’m just not… peppy the same way as my mom and brother.
