emeryhawthorne - Tumblr blog

[emeryhawthorne]

john bernstein.

Being an introvert at events like these wasn’t easy. John would know but right now, he was actually starting to enjoy himself. While he loved being around others and loved starting conversations with both, people he knew and those he didn’t know just yet, he also found himself taking breaks from it whenever he could get away with it. Since he didn’t have a date, he enjoyed the luxury of being able to roam around the gala freely and on his own terms. A drink in one hand and a snack in the other as he leaned against the counter of the bar casually, sipping on his vodka soda while taking it all in. 

He definitely saw the appeal of it all, the glamour and the good cause that came with it and after all, anyone who knew him was aware that Jonathan Bernstein would never pass up the opportunity to dress up and mingle once in a blue moon. Popping his hors d'oeuvre into his mouth just as he made eye contact with a fellow attendee, John stilled as if he’d been caught. His lips curved into a slightly embarrassed smile and he was quick to give a small shrug. “What can I say - as picturesque as that view must’ve been for you just now, I won’t deny that one of the main reasons I got a ticket was that there’d be food and an open bar. Is that a bad thing to say?”

Emery stared down at the hors d'oeuvre in her palm. At first glance, she thought the pastries had been some sort of spinach and egg cup. But it was only after she’d plucked one from the server’s tray and popped it in her mouth that he’d told her it was some sort of kale and quail egg concoction, and by that point it was too late for her to put the fancy little snack back. So there she stood, holding the miniature pastry in her mouth, trying to figure out what the fuck to do with it ⏤ until a potted plant caught her eye. The perfect hiding spot.

Crossing to the planter, which was adorned in a beautiful pink silk sash, Emery bent over and spit the offending hors d’oeuvre in amongst the soil, before turning to check that the coast was clear. As she scanned the people milling about nearby, she accidentally locked eyes with one guest as he shoved a full mini appetizer in his mouth, which made for an awkward moment. Thankfully, he recovered gracefully, making mention of the food and drink that came along with the hefty ticket price tag. 

“The open bar is the only reason to come to these dog and pony shows,” Emery conceded, stepping away from the plant she’d desecrated with her half-chewed ostrich egg bite. “The food this year isn’t as good as past years. Like... quail egg? Who are we trying to impress? It’s like they’re trying to make Redwood Bay out to be a viable option for Meghan and Harry.” In a bid to wash the taste out of her mouth, Emery drained the flute of champagne in her hand and swapped it out for a fresh one as another server passed by, nabbing a second glass for the other guest. “I’m not sure what you just ate, but it might taste better with some of this,” she said, holding out a glass for him.

[emeryhawthorne]

EMERY HAWTHORNE attends the 2020 VALENTINE'S DAY GALA at the MEADOWLARK HOTEL on Friday, February 14, 2020.

[emeryhawthorne]

[emeryhawthorne]

leslie bowman‌.

Leslie hummed at the question. A cool person would brush it off and pretend like nothing was really the matter, nothing specific anyway. She wished she could be that person, but she wasn’t. There was no air of mystery to her. Leslie wore her heart on her sleeve and she wanted people to see the blood and the gore, she wanted people to feel her rage. She was so used to people caring that she never thought better of it.

“His name is Michail Bykov,” she replied. She somehow made his name sound like a curse, even in her thick, fake Russian accent. “He’s this piece of shit from Moscow who thinks he’s better than everyone, but really the only thing he has going for him is his calf muscles and long eyelashes. Which is stupid, because you can’t even see eyelashes from the stage. We’re dancers in the New York City Ballet.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “Dude thinks because he’s from Moscow and has mother nature’s mascara that he doesn’t have to come to every rehearsal. It’ll be fine, Leslie. We are amazing, Leslie. You work too much, Leslie.” Her lips curled up in a snarl through the accent. She paused, leaned forward again, and shrugged. “Anyway, he dropped me in front of three-thousand people during the easiest catch in the world and now I’m back here because I lost my job and my mom won’t stop crying on the phone.” She paused. “And before you give me a look like I’m crazy, please remember that you said your vibe was indestructible, and you asked.”

Emery listened with rapt attention as Leslie launched into a story that explained ⏤ in what she could only imagine was an extremely abridged version ⏤ the source of her ire. The expression “don't judge a book by its cover” had never been so fitting. Leslie was not the person that would have come to mind, had Emery been asked to conjure the image of a ballerina, but cruel and unusual events had a way of changing someone. (Her family knew a little something about that.) Michail Bykov, whoever the fuck he was, sounded like a grade-A asshole that needed to be taught a lesson or two. Or ten. 

Swallowing a gulp of beer, Emery shook her head at the suggestion that she might think her company to be crazy. “I don’t think that. Your anger is justified. Not that you needed confirmation from anyone, myself included.” She liberated a few nuts from one of the bowls posted along the bar-top. Most folks knew better than the eat communal bar nuts. Emery was most folks. “I do have one question, though: Why not get revenge? The guy destroyed your career. I would have clubbed his knee Harding-style.”

[emeryhawthorne]

elle casillas‌.

Giselle watched as the girl rambled on, finally turning to get a good look. Emery. Well, there goes any good mood she had this morning. Things had always been rocky with Emery. They got along for a short time, but their relationship collapsed in on itself rather rapidly. They hadn’t talked to each other in a while, but Giselle occasionally kept tabs on her, just like she did with most of the other founding families. Emery–she’d had a rough time. Even if Giselle was partly responsible for some of the trouble she got into when she was younger, she’d never outwardly confess it was her fault. Emery had always been reckless, not worrying about how it affected the people around her.

“What the hell?” Giselle asks, shocked by the size of the tortoise. It was a behemoth of an animal and Giselle was unprepared for dealing with anything this size while her boss wasn’t around. “Actually yeah, he might be in distress by how insane you’re acting right now.” The turtle rested the head that was peeking out of his shell against the surface it was laying against. It almost looked…bored. Giselle laughed–if there was any distress going on, it had to be annoyance.

The pair locked eyes, and that was when Emery knew that her emergency visit to the animal clinic was going to be far more complicated than necessary. Growing up, when things with Giselle Casillas had been good, they’d been great. But after every rowdy night of fun, culminating in a run-in with local police, the Casillas had been able to escort their daughter out of the station while Emery remained in custody. After a while, the girls stopped hanging out as often. 

Emery tried to leave the past where it belonged as she clutched the box housing the turtle she has assumed guardianship over. “I’d say I’m acting perfectly reasonable, all things considered,” she said defensively, her voice pitched two octaves higher than usual. She was dumbfounded when Giselle laughed. Was there something she’d seen? Glancing into the box, all she could see was a turtle who deserved better than the card he’d been dealt. “Someone brought him to the motel, dumped him in their bathtub, checked out, and left. Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “God, I am so not in a position to become a mother. What can we do with him? Do you have any turtle food around here? Spinach or something?”

[emeryhawthorne]

nash price‌.

“If you’re really trying to get outdrank, then let’s do it. Don’t get pissed when I drink you under the table though,” he challenged, more so for the reaction he’d get out of it.

As much as he wanted to argue her statement, he knew for a fact that she wasn’t wrong. His girlfriend barely ventured out of Sunstone Beach, but when she did, it was usually a trip out of the country. Her family had as much money, or perhaps even more than the Price name even held. He hadn’t really been bothered to question their worth, but his parents had mentioned it more than a few times. They believed she was perfect, maybe even wife material, but Nash didn’t quite see it. Then again, he felt obligated to try. She was good, flawed at best, but mostly good. She had her issues, some of which she’d actually opened up to him about and some that she refused to mention. When it came to her issues with Emery, being vocal hadn’t been an issue.

“I’d like to think that most people on this side of town would react that way. Not everyone is cool as your boy,” he pointed out while reaching for his Crown. He wasn’t most people though, seeing as his best friend came from the opposite end of the financial spectrum. He didn’t give a shit about their powerless label, nor did he care what people thought. “Give her a little credit. She didn’t completely lose it that one time we came by the motel to see you. She just sorta mostly lost it,” he grinned, a bit guilty that he sometimes played into the joke. It was hard not to when every word spoken was of great truth. his girlfriend wasn’t cut out for anything below her raising, so unless he was putting his savings into a house, there was a huge chance she wasn’t going to follow him. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t ready for that step.

“I just,” he paused, focusing on his steady pour before he looked back at her. “I don’t want people to think I’m just another privileged jackass riding on his parents bank account. Maybe I shouldn’t give a shit,” he trailed off. His girlfriend had been the one to push the insecurity into his mind. She’d made a comment, or a few, about how he needed to grow up and get his own place if he wanted everything to work. Sometimes he did and sometimes he couldn’t have cared less. Nodding, Nash grabbed his glass of rye and headed toward the couch, falling easily into the space he’d claimed as his own. 

“That’s bullshit.” He hated hearing about her work situation, regardless of how easily he’d asked. All he wanted was better for her, because in his opinion, she could’ve done anything she wanted. “You sure you wanna stay there? I mean, I could probably get you a hookup at the office or something. It’d pay better and it’d be a hell of a lot safer.” The least he could do was offer, but knowing Emery, she wasn’t going to accept.

Eyes rolled as she poked playfully at his day. She wasn’t wrong; compared to her shit show, he had it made. “It’s a hard life out there in the developer world. Easy to fall behind and get stomped all over. And for the record, lunches are only catered for pitch days and big events. Any other day, you’re on your own. Can’t break the Price fortune on overpriced catering.”

With a roll of her eyes, Emery threw herself onto the couch. Nash’s girlfriend was a touchy subject. It wasn’t that she disliked the other woman ⏤ it was the notion that she was being judged and condescended to every time the pair crossed paths. “I guess I can give her the minimum amount of credit available for her not absolutely losing her shit at my place of work.” There was an edge to her voice when she spoke and she hated it. She hated that she struggled to conceal her disdain for someone she wanted so badly to like, or even love, as an extension of her relationship with Nash. What was better than one best friend? Two. But that didn’t seem to be in the cards for her, all because her parents no longer departed the courthouse in luxury vehicles and instead punched a clock in Mahonia Harbor.

It was easy to wash such bitterness down with a gulp of her drink. “People are going to think that they want to think. Maybe you shouldn’t give a shit,” she said, repeating his suggested sentiment. “Works for me.” For the most part. It was impossible not to feel a twinge of anger at every assessing look, every backhanded comment. Those thoughts all but dissipated as Nash settled on the couch cushion next to her, even though he was quick to make the transition from worrying about the optics of his family’s status to offering his help. Sometimes she wondered if his heart was too damn big for his own good.

“It’s what I’ve got, Nash. There’s no way your parents would let you or anyone else hire me on, nevermind set foot near their offices. The C in C-Suite doesn’t stand for convict.” Emery’s fingers drummed an inconsistent beat against the side of the near-empty can. A distraction. “As for you, you have my sympathies, bud. I can’t imagine the finger strain from all of that typing.” Her tattooed fingers pantomimed typing at a rate that she was certain Nash could match, if not exceed. Truthfully, she didn’t know the ins and outs of his job. They seldom spoke of the minutiae of their respective jobs; it was simply too boring to hash out the details. She knew nothing of operating systems and he knew nothing of fitted sheets, and they both seemed to prefer it that way. “Oh, I’m sure the Price heir apparent dines on microwaved ramen,” she said teasingly, citing her own lunch. It was then that she remembered the pizza on the way, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

[emeryhawthorne]

allison pellisier‌.

{Open Starter Location: Brews Brothers} She hoped to God she wasn’t late. So incredibly late that the client Allison had been planning to meet had fled before she could have had the chance to tell them that they had a chance. She slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and took a deep breath before bracing her hand on the cool handle of the shop. Multiple people were in the shop, more were walking in either direction away and towards the shop. 

“You’re safe Alli, you’re safe.” She whispered to herself before pushing through the door. 

Allison strode over to the counter and took a look at the extensive menu. Would it be rude for her to order first? A yawn left her lips and she fluttered away the thought, she’d need the caffeine to proceed. Settling on a cold brew with extra sweet foam, she thanked the barista before heading for a small corner table. Setting her bag down, she pulled out manila files and grazed her hands against the lettering. Feeling a vibration from her pocket, she pulled out her phone and saw it was an message from her office letting her know that thankfully she hadn’t been late at all, but they were unsure about this mystery client’s ETA. She sighed before tapping lightly against the screen before she slightly tensed. She could sense someone was there but she wasn’t sure just who exactly they were. 

“Hi, are you my 2′o’clock? Even if you’re not, I’d be happy to help if I can.” 

Emery stood on the sidewalk across the street from Brews Brothers, willing herself to move. For every chance she got, every gap in traffic, she found a reason not to take the first step off the curb in the direction of the café. In the direction of her sister. 

Through the plate glass storefront window she could see Allison standing at the counter, perusing the menu of specialty coffees and teas. She looked different ⏤ it was the first thought that came to Emery’s mind, followed closely by how much she missed Alli. It had been too long since she’d last seen her; now here she was, back in Redwood Bay, working under a new name: Pellisier. Emery hadn’t initially connected the dots when she’d found the newly-added name on list of legal professionals available for hire in town, but after several hours of Googling, she’d formed a hunch that the woman might be her sister. With it, she’d called the Ms. Pellisier’s office the next day and made an appointment to meet with the paralegal to discuss a fake scenario, crafted from her own experiences with the legal system. Worst case scenario, she’d waste an hour of someone’s time. But the best case scenario ⏤ which was confirmed now, before her eyes, as she watched her sister collect a drink from the barista ⏤ was that she was right, and Allison had come home unannounced, with a new last name.

The sudden honk of a truck ripped Emery from her thoughts. Gathering herself, she forced herself to take the dreaded step. One turned to two, and the next thing she knew, she was pushing the door open to the chime of an overhead bell and crossing the coffee shop’s seating area. She came to a standstill before the table Alli was stationed at, waiting for the blonde to sense her presence and look at up.

“Hi, are you my 2′o’clock? Even if you’re not, I’d be happy to help if I can.“ 

Emery's mouth went dry. Still, she put on a brave face, trying her best to adopt a joking tone. “Well, that depends. How steep are your rates? Ideally, I’d like to avoid jail time, but if you’re charging anything close to the lawyers around here, I think I can manage a few months in the clink.”

[emeryhawthorne]

TIMELINE: November 2019

LOCATION: Redwood Bay Town Hall, Downtown.

STATUS: Closed / @graysoneldridge​.

In what felt like a sweeping pre-Christmas blitz, the town’s Parking Enforcement officers had been writing tickets left, right and center for anything and everything, even the most minimal traffic infractions. Emery had collected two tickets in less than a week; the first for parking in a fire route (by a half-foot or so, she begrudgingly acknowledged ⏤ but only a little bit) and the other for an expired meter. Normally, she would have called in her payment, but a few lucky rounds of pool at Fear Knot had left her with a handful of cash. In a rare instance of forethought that she would celebrate in the weeks to come, she’d gone to Town Hall to pay the violations off in person before she forgot about them. 

It was on her way out of the building that she ran into trouble ⏤ more specifically, newly-minted McLoughlin Park Councilor Grayson Eldridge, in a scene straight out of the kind of trashy rom-com she would watch with her brother Paris. 

Quickly turning the corner, eyes glued to the text messages that had accumulated on her phone while she was speaking to the clerk, Emery walked straight into Grayson. And in a matter of seconds, everything went to hell. The force of their collision propelled her forward and sent him reeling back, the pair falling together on the freshly-waxed floors in the main hall. Her surprised wail echoed down the corridor, catching the attention of nearby staffers, as they landed in a heap on the floor, surrounded by the paperwork that was previously in his hands.

Hands braced on his chest, propping herself up, Emery stared down at Grayson and tried to catch the breath that had been stolen from her lungs. Her phone was no where to be seen. Wherever it had landed, she was certain that the screen would be shattered. “Hello, Councilor,” she said casually, as if initiating small talk on an elevator. She could barely hear her voice over the rush of blood in her ears. “I guess now is a bad time to congratulate you on the election, huh?”

[emeryhawthorne]

leslie bowman‌.

Leslie laughed at the girl’s reaction, and then she laughed for a moment more when a list a mile long immediately popped into her head. She wasn’t dense enough to share that list with a complete stranger – she was in the mood for company, not chasing people off – but she openly enjoyed the bitter amusement without considering how it made her look. Redwood was an albatross of defeat. But the other woman was right – she definitely needed a shot.

“I won’t argue with that,” Leslie snorted. She wrinkled her nose at the tequila the bartender put in front of her. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to need a lime. I’m not trying to impress anybody.” She smiled as the bartender handed her a slice of lime before she slid her mostly empty glass back to him. “I’d like another,” she told him before she threw her head back with the tequila. Before she could taste it, she bit the lime and chased the liquor down to keep her from making a face.

“Ugh,” she coughed once at the burning in her throat. She laughed slightly as she pushed away the shot glass. “Tonight was so not a tequila night, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Thanks for that.” She picked up her new glass and turned towards the woman with a smile. “I’m Leslie. Next one’s on me.” She paused. “And I will try with all my power not to be a bitter bitch and kill your vibe. But I can’t make any promises.”

Emery grinned. The stranger’s laughter was a sign that the night was off to a good start. If she could make someone this disapproving of On the Rocks crack a smile, who knows what else she could accomplish. World domination? It was probably best not to speculate. With their glasses raised in toast, a wedge of lime secured for the other woman, they took their shots. The tequila ⏤ by no means the bar’s top-shelf or even mid-shelf offering, because Emery was a gal on a budget ⏤ tasted like gasoline smelled and warmed her stomach. It was familiar. Needed. (It was also a harbinger of doom, a factor in nearly every rowdy night she’d had for as long as she could remember.)

“Not a problem. I’m a firm believer that every night is a tequila night if you believe in yourself.”  Emery turned away only as long as was necessary to order a beer. She’d have time for regrets later. Right now, all she wanted to do was relax and shoot the shit. “I’m Emery. As for my vibe, don’t you worry, it’s practically immortal. But I really wasn’t joking when I asked about your cornflakes.” Taking a beat, she winked at the bartender as her drink was set before her before turning back to Leslie: “So tell me: who’s responsible for your bitterness? I know how to cut brake lines.” 

[emeryhawthorne]

[emeryhawthorne]

TIMELINE: January 2020

LOCATION: Emery’s Apartment, Downtown.

STATUS: Closed / @parisxhawthorne​.

"If you don’t stop cleaning every time it goes to commercial break,” Emery bellowed from the couch, her mouth full of pizza, “I’m going to break all of your fingers so you can’t hold a sponge anymore!” 

It was tradition. For years, the siblings had made time to get together ⏤ once a week, schedules permitting ⏤ to watch trashy television, talk trash, and eat trash. Tonight, it was pepperoni pizza from By The Slice and ice cream over The Bachelor. As soon as the show went to commercial, Paris got up from the couch and Emery went into the box for another slice. It was only when she heard the tell-tale sound of Windex being dispensed in the bathroom that she knew what was happening: her brother was cleaning. Again.

Her apartment was not a complete disaster. Certainly, there was some work to be done around the place: general tidying, repair of broken appliances, maybe some new throw cushions or a coat of fresh paint to really liven things up. But overall, Emery didn’t think it was that bad ⏤ until Paris showed up and inevitably started cleaning. What had started off as good-natured organization had turned into clandestine cleaning sessions, where he’d pretend to go to the bathroom and she’d find him scrubbing the bathtub. 

“I’m serious, Paris! I know what you’re doing!” Emery shouted. A piece of pepperoni dangled precariously from the slice in her hand. “If I have to get up from this couch, you’re going to be in for a world of pain. And then we’ll both miss the rose ceremony.”

[emeryhawthorne]

For the Love of God, Someone Please Get Emery off Twitter (1/???)

[emeryhawthorne]

elle casillas‌.

Giselle always opened up the office, bright and early. She could fake being a morning person, but the truth is–she was. It was annoying to most, how positive she was most of the time. She refused to let people bring her down or rain on her parade. Absolutely not. She flips on the lights, checks on the few animals that stayed around overnight. They kept them in a separate room, big enough cages to keep the comfortable and move around freely. She makes sure to flip their sign to open, as she’s forgotten on more than one occasion. 

Giselle is only halfway through her morning routine when the bells above the entrance door ring–though, she doesn’t stop what she’s doing. She continues to stock up the front area with supplies and pamphlets, only turning her head slightly in greeting. “Appointments can sign in on the check-in list, otherwise I’ll be with you in a moment.”

(@emeryhawthorne)

Today was, decidedly, not Emery’s day. Even before she had opened her eyes, things had been set into motion to fuck her day up ⏤ or at least that was what she’d decided as she drove to the only animal hospital in town. Between the dead phone battery that caused her to oversleep and her trip and fall down several steps on the way out of her building, she had already written the morning off. But this ⏤ this was on another level. One of the guests at the motel, who had checked out early that morning, left behind a little surprise in their bathtub: a fifty-pound turtle. Emery’s shriek had been loud enough to draw the attention of the motel groundskeeper, who helped her find a box big enough for the animal and transfer him into the thing before depositing it in the passenger seat of her car.

And now she was here, parking haphazardly and running around the side of the vehicle to retrieve her new friend, like she was escorting someone to the emergency room. (Which was kind of what she was doing, wasn’t it? But for an animal.) Thankfully, the sign in the window was on, declaring that the office was open.

Shuffling through the door with the box clutched in her arms, the fifty-pound elder turtle staring up at her as she strained, Emery declared to the receptionist: “Ma’am, respectfully ⏤ I don’t have time for making an appointment or signing in. This is an emergency! A turtle emergency!” Setting the box dramatically on the reception desk, Emery continued, rambling on: “I found him at the motel and I don’t know how to care for a cat, nevermind a unit like this guy! Is he in distress? Do turtles get distressed? Is he even a turtle? Tortoise? Fuck, I need a Xanax.”

[emeryhawthorne]

leslie bowman‌.

OPEN STARTER

location: On the Rocks

Leslie wrinkled her nose at the soft music playing over the speakers in the bar. She missed the bars in Brooklyn where rock music blared and she had to scream for people to listen to her. She was definitely going closer to the Harbor tomorrow – she wasn’t in a lounge kind of mood.

“It’s good to be home,” she said to no one in particular. Her voice was at a normal volume and she was sure the entire weak excuse for a bar could hear her. Ridiculous. “I really did miss the lackluster pretentious atmosphere, overpriced rail vodka, and the squeaky clean toilets I’m going to puke it up in later.” She turned to the person next to her and raised her double vodka Red Bull with a tight smile. “Cheers!”

Tonight was a night that Emery was left to her own devices ⏤ which meant that tonight was about to get messy. After clocking out at the motel, she changed out of her work uniform in her car and made her way over to On the Rocks to do one of the few things she was good at: drink.

The place was still in the early stages of the night, which was to say that it wasn’t particularly busy. At the outset of the night, it wasn’t a bad thing. She liked being able to get a good seat at the bar, to size up everyone coming through the doors and be able to pinpoint various principal actors in her evening: the one who would buy her drinks, the one she could convince to get into some trouble, the one she could take home. The woman sat at the bar when Emery arrived and seated herself was a touch more difficult to read than the usual suspects, based solely on her body language and the vaguely dismissive assessment of the place. By no means did Emery have a stake in the bar (which she barely preferred to Fear Knot, if only because it was within walking distance of her apartment), but she couldn’t help but feel marginally offended.

The bartender placed a shot of tequila in front of the blonde without being prompted ⏤ the perk of being a regular ⏤ and she obliged. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Emery turned to her seat-mate. "Damn, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning? That’s an attitude in need of a shot. Barkeep!” Raising her hand, she summoned one of the bartenders. “I’ll have another, and my new... acquaintance could use one, too.”

[emeryhawthorne]

nash price‌.

There was no one in the world he would’ve rather spent the afternoon with, maybe even his girlfriend included, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. Things were easy with Emery, always had been. While everyone else help such high expectations for him, she expected nothing. There was no attempt to impress or to appease; just the desire for her company in the first place. Which, had grown to be somewhat of an issue with his girlfriend. Sometimes she didn’t say it, but he knew that things bothered her and if hadn’t of known any better, he would’ve understood why. 

“I’d say give it a shot, but I don’t have enough crown in this place for that. Plus, I have an early pitch tomorrow, so I’m not trying to get blackout, y'know, as tempting as it sounds.” He had everything he needed there, but he felt the pressure to appease his parents and nothing less. If they asked him to jump, he’d immediately ask how high out of obligation and guilt. “I just feel like I can’t do anything that they wouldn’t approve of. Makes me feel like a teenager all over again, except I’m not under the same roof as them anymore.” They weren’t controlling by any means, but the unspoken expectation was enough to drive him insane. 

Brows furrowed as she mentioned moving in with his girlfriend, only to be followed by a sarcastic scoff. “You think she’d move downtown? I haven’t told her yet. She’s been doing her own thing lately. Besides, I’m not ready for that.” Moving in with her meant cutting back his time spent with Emery. Less time with her, more time with the girlfriend… it just seemed like more than he wanted.  

“I was talking to one of the guys at work the other day. He kept talking about how cool it must be to be a Price and have all the shit that I do. It’s cool, but I don’t want people to think I’m just coasting because my parents have money.” Except that was exactly what he was doing; coasting by while everyone else worked their ass off to get by. “I guess I just wanna do something for myself.”

That, and maybe his girlfriend had mentioned getting his own place at some point or another. “You want something to drink?” It was a rhetorical question; he already knew the answer. Without even giving her time to reply, Nash plucked a White Claw from the fridge, his glass of rye already chilled on the island between them. “How was work? Got any horror stories this time around?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emery said, dismissing his reasons for not engaging her drinking challenge with a grin and the waive of her hand. “All I hear are excuses, Price.”

It was difficult to look her best friend in the eyes and tell him that there wasn’t even a little bit of relief that came with being liberated from one’s parents, because Emery knew that there was. (In her case, the relief had been overwhelming. She felt like she could breathe again without having to ask for permission.) Being kicked out of the house at eighteen opened her world up in a way that would never have been possible under her parents’ roof. There was a great deal of struggle along the way, but Nash wasn’t a teenager with, admittedly, an attitude problem; on the contrary, he had the world at his feet. Backed by the Price name and fortune, and with a plum job at his father’s software company, he was set for life. But he wasn’t an idiot for staying in the tricked-out guest house his parents had built and decorated for him. And he wasn’t really an idiot for wanting to go, she realized. He was stuck in a difficult spot, battling the desire to be a good son and the need to gain independence beyond his family’s property lines. 

Emery wished she hadn’t brought his girlfriend into the equation. She regretted making mention of the woman as soon as she had. Nash had enough factoring into this decision. “Honestly, I don’t think she’s seen half the town. Imagine her walking around The Docks! She’d be gripping her Chanel handbag so tight, her nails would pop off. I’d pay to see that.” It was a cheap shot, but she found some joy poking fun at his girlfriend, especially because she was certain the other woman made remarks at the expense of her boyfriend’s tag-along best friend, too. As far as Emery was concerned, she was fair game. Though, she did put in considerable effort not to be too snide or outwardly hateful toward the woman. Nash obviously saw something in her that was worthy of his time, and maybe even his love, and she had to respect that ⏤ to a point.

“To deny that you don’t benefit from your parents in any way is a lie, Nash,” Emery said plainly. “That said, if you want to create some distance to prove to people, and to yourself, that you’re capable, then do it. Find a way to make that distinction. Maybe it’s a new project at work, or maybe it’s moving out and doing your own thing. I’ll help you. Whatever it takes. Except maybe building IKEA furniture ⏤ I wound up with five extra screws after building my couch, and I’m pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen.” 

She laughed then, as Nash fetched her a drink without waiting for her response. From the fridge came a can of White Claw, which he set before her ceremoniously. Her nose wrinkled. Oh, how she’d come a long way since her Four Loko days, when the worst of her worries was blacking out. Now, it was the threat of being plagued by seltzer burps for hours on end that kept her on her toes. “God, you know I always have horror stories from work to share. Grab your drink and let’s move this party to the couch. My feet are fucking killing me.” Three years of work at the town’s only low-budget accommodation meant Emery had a treasure-trove worth of anecdotes to share at any given notice ⏤ some entertaining, some downright horrific. "Today was pretty tame, though the standard’s pretty fucking low. If I can go a day without having to clean up shit, literal shit, it’s a good shift. How was your day at the office? Awful, I bet, with your Nespresso machines and catered lunches. I don’t know how you do it.”

[emeryhawthorne]

BASICS

Name: Emery Grey Hawthorne.

Gender/Pronouns: Cis female, she/her.

Date of Birth: December 19, 1995.

Age: 24.

Hometown: Redwood Bay, Oregon.

Length of time in Redwood Bay: 24 years.

Neighborhood: Downtown.

Occupation: Motel Housekeeper.

Faceclaim: Florence Pugh.

BIOGRAPHY (trigger warnings: mention of drug and alcohol use)

Emery Grey Hawthorne, the last of Christopher and Rachel’s four children, was born in the middle of an ice storm. As the Pacific Northwest was paralyzed by snow and sleet, battling downed power lines and road closures, one of Redwood Bay’s found families welcomed a new member into their legacy ⏤ a fitting entrance into the world, they would come to learn.

As a child, Emery learned quickly that she would never be able to live up to her namesake or the expectations her parents held for her; the bar had been set long before she’d been born and would be used as a metric for gauging her successes, or lack thereof, for her entire life. She was named after her paternal great-grandfather, Emory Hawthorne, who had bolstered the family name as the longest-serving judge in the district, with a celebrated career that spanned decades. And along with the name came the hopes that she would grow up to study law and restore the Hawthorne name to the glory it had once held, seemingly the only goal her parents had for her and her older siblings. In addition to carrying the weight of her ancestor’s name, Emery was also painfully aware of her rank within the family ⏤ fourth in line, and therefore the very last of her parents’ worries, as they had three older children to work through before setting their sights on her ⏤ and the degree to which her parents were frequently distracted in their struggle to climb out of financial ruin.

If there were any remaining dregs of respect for the Hawthornes in Redwood Bay, Emery’s conduct growing up damn near torched them all. Her disruptive behavior and academic failings were routinely the subject of lengthy parent-teacher interventions, and when she wasn’t terrorizing her bullies at school, she was seeking out trouble elsewhere ⏤ drinking underage, getting high in the botanical gardens, and fooling around with the wrong people. The pressures of going to college were insurmountable, despite the absence of money to fund her education; she had neither the grades nor the inclination to take on the challenge and debt that college presented. So while her peers were making plans to get out of town, collecting fancy awards and scholarships for their academic achievements, and creating a future for themselves, Emery was busy going no where.

Between run-ins with the police and dodging parental lectures, she cycled through a number jobs around Redwood Bay ⏤ cashier at the hardware store, dock attendant at the boat rental, merchandiser at the health food store ⏤ but nothing ever stuck. Every time she found work, whether it was serving slices of pizza or sweeping up hair trimmings, anything to bring a paycheck home, she was kicked to the curb. Some fired her for her attitude; others, her tardiness. Some never got the pleasure of escorting her off their property because she never showed up for another shift.

By the age of eighteen, Emery had a juvenile record colored with charges that ranged from truancy to criminal trespassing. Her father offered her one last chance to clean up her act, which took the form of assisting her in filing an application with the courts to have her juvenile records expunged. With the slate wiped clean, they hoped their youngest daughter would see a new path before her. But she was never one to follow rules or appease their expectations, and she wasn’t about to start.

Not three months after her birthday, she was arrested once again, this time for possession of alcohol. That charge eventually became company to others: disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, assault. History repeating itself. Eventually, Emery’s parents tired of her antics and took the “tough love” approach to parenting by kicking her out of the family home in Mahonia Harbor. For a while, she slept on couches and in the beds of friends and strangers alike until she found a place downtown with someone willing to take her in as a roommate. Finding work with her record and reputation proved difficult. It was a chance meeting with the new owner of the motel in town that set everything in motion ⏤ they were in need of help and willing to overlook what the town (and law) had to say about her, and she was desperate for the work.

Emery has been working as a housekeeper at Riverside Motel for three years now. The two-star establishment (whose clientele is almost exclusively comprised of truck drivers, traveling salespeople, and cheating spouses) isn’t by any means her dream job, but it’s something that pays the bills and keeps her entertained in the process. Her relationship with her parents is tenuous at best; their want to restore their image in Redwood Bay and for her to become their ideal daughter, and her refusal to play a part in it or atone for her transgressions, has left them in a contentious place. As far as Emery is concerned, the sooner they accept the way things are, the better.

PERSONALITY

+ Bold, friendly, spontaneous

- Blunt, impulsive, mercurial

[emeryhawthorne]

alice fitzroy‌.

location: Keysmash Retro Arcade

Alice spent most of her time working at Keysmash doing practically nothing. The arcade was never really busy except for on the weekends later in the day. But seeing how it was 10 AM on a Friday, Alice didn’t expect much foot traffic. During her down time (which was a lot), she decided to work on some college homework. It was a lot challenging than she thought and she was doing her best just to keep up.

She sat behind the desk, her books and papers spread out, fully not expecting anyone to come into the arcade. Which is why she didn’t hear the person come in at all, and certainly didn’t notice as they seemed to walk around without a care in the world. That is, until they started to mess with one of the machines.

“Hey!” She yelped at the sudden noise as a machine went off “I mean, uh, welcome to Keysmash. Did you need help with anything, just let me know.”

Working on a semi-rotating schedule meant that Emery sometimes had days off outside of the usual two. This week, it meant Friday was all hers, and after a decent sleep-in she made her way down to The Docks to waste an hour or two at Keysmash. The arcade would be vacant this time of day ⏤ the little shits who hogged the machines were in school, and most people were at work ⏤ allowing her the freedom to jump between games without having to wait or deal with bratty twelve-year-olds.

After cashing in a crisp twenty at the token machine, she made her way through the maze of games, stopping by the Jurassic Park pinball machine. A classic. It was only when she tossed two tokens into the coin slot and the game roared to life that the college-aged staffer stationed at the desk bolted upright in her seat, acknowledging Emery for the first time since she’d wandered into the place. “Uh, I’m good,” Emery replied, eyebrow quirked. Something told her that the arcade employee might not be able to say the same. “You good? I didn’t mean to scare you; I thought you heard me come in.” The machine released a ball, starting the game, but she was no novice when it came to multi-tasking. “What are you reading? Must be good to have you that zoned out.”