Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 148

Love letters?

Emma had no idea Carlisle had ever written her a love letter.

She glanced back over her shoulder, but before she could say a word, Theodore swept her up in his arms and swiftly carried her out of the private room.

The rest of their classmates sat frozen, exchanging bewildered looks. Wait, what? Carlisle liked Emma?

Meanwhile, Carlisle struggled against the grip of several guys, shouting, “Let go of me! I’m going to beat the hell out of that jerk Theodore! That hypocrite!”

“Carlisle, you’re drunk. Calm down,” one of the guys said, refusing to release him, afraid he’d actually chase after Theodore and start a fight.

“Why was Theodore even here? Who invited him?” someone asked.

“I did.” One of the guys raised his hand sheepishly, sounding miserable. “He said he was coming to pick Emma up. If I’d known, I never would have told him where we were.”

“Why not tell him?” Carlisle roared. “He should be here! I want to settle things with him!”

“Carlisle!”

“Don’t stop me! Do you have any idea how much Emma loves to dance? She dances before class, after school, even during breaks. Sometimes she’ll just do a cartwheel out of nowhere, just because she loves it so much. Now her leg’s injured. Can you imagine how heartbreaking that must be for her? And that bastard Theodore keeps lying, saying Emma just doesn’t like to go out. If there’s nothing fishy going on, I’m not Carlisle!” he bellowed. “Where is he? Where’s Theodore? Get that jerk back here–I want to hear it from him!”

But Theodore was already gone, carrying Emma out the door.

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He’d parked his car right outside. Carrying Emma in one arm, he managed to open the passenger side door, gently set her down, then slid into the driver’s seat. When he noticed Emma fumbling at the handle,

trying to get out, he immediately locked the doors.

“Open the door. I want to get out,” Emma demanded. Her head felt heavier by the second–the alcohol finally catching up to her.

“You’re drunk, Emma,” Theodore said coolly.

“I’m not drunk.” She could still distinctly hear all the voices, could even recall Theodore calling her “honey” just now.

How odd he never called her that. He always used her full name, or, at most, “Mrs. Whitman.” And usually, when he said “Mrs. Whitman,” it was right before he launched into some sarcastic remark.

She could sense Theodore’s mood, too. He seemed annoyed–though honestly, he was annoyed so often she’d stopped caring.

“Theodore, it’s hot. Let me out,” she mumbled, reaching for the door

again.

The air conditioning had just kicked on and the car was still stuffy, so Theodore rolled down the window. A cool night breeze swept in.

“What did you mean back there?” His voice sounded even colder in the wind.

“What… did I mean?” She’d said so much tonight, she couldn’t keep track.

“You said you weren’t going to share your festival pastry anymore. What did you mean?” His hand rested on the steering wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead, his gaze sharp as a knife.

“Mm… Not giving… not giving Theodore any,” she murmured, eyelids drooping.

“Why?”

A memory surfaced–crystal clear, even through the haze of alcohol: That year at the Harvest Festival, he’d given her a festival pastry, but it was all

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just part of his game to win her over.

She smiled a little, her eyes stinging with sudden tears. “Because… I don’t want to chase him anymore. I gave my festival pastry to the wrong

person…”

“Is that so? The wrong person?” Theodore leaned closer, his tone almost interrogative. “And who do you want to give it to?”

“To…” Her mind was muddled–hadn’t she said it was just for herself?

“To Carlisle?” he pressed, suddenly harsh and insistent.

And then Emma remembered: earlier, Carlisle had even claimed he’d

written her a love letter.

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