“Holy shit,” she curses. “Thinking about what I look like shirtless, Hartwell?” I joke. “I’m flattered.” A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world. I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town. I think she’d actually strangle me if I did that, but it makes me want to do it even more.
