Page 64 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

DON’T YOU DARE CRY

Emerson

When my father crosses the finish line on his bike on Saturday morning, my mom cheers, her arms high in the air. “Woohoo, William!”

“Such a fangirl,” I tease.

“Of course I am,” she says.

Dad blows her a kiss, then stops, unclips his shoes, and gets off his road bike. Wheeling it beside him, he closes the distance and hugs her. He’s sweaty and clearly tired from the race through Marin County to Sausalito, but still pumped.

“Raised five thousand dollars,” he says, emotion in his voice.

“I’m proud of you, Dad,” I say, smiling from deep within my soul.

He tugs at his shirt, emblazoned with the primary charity behind the bike race—a hospital where Callie was treated for her heart condition.

They took good care of her, especially at the end.

They took care of me too, when they tested me for it.

But Callie was the unlucky twin—the one with a congenital heart defect that ended her life at twenty-eight years.

I was fit as a fiddle, able to ride roller coasters, run, swim, hike, and play.

Live.

“Be right back, sweetheart,” he says to my mom, then heads to the race organizer’s table to finish up paperwork.

We stand by Richardson Bay, the wind cutting across the dark blue water. “I talked to her the other night,” my mom says offhand as she swipes some breeze-blown strands off her cheek.

My mom believes in angels, believes Callie is one. It’s a nice idea, that someone is always around. Though I don’t buy it, I don’t dispel it either. “What did she say?”

“She had that twinkle in her eyes. A devilish grin. And she said, ‘ Are you impressed with what Emerson pulled off? Because I sure am.’”

My whole heart climbs up my throat. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper around the noose of emotions.

“Good job, honey. Your show is so cute. We’re proud of you.”

But would they be proud of me if they knew what I did before Callie died? How I spent the money?

Sometimes I think I make good decisions. And sometimes I make really dumb ones. Look at my track record with men. I’ve picked some serious duds.

Good thing I haven’t quit my day job.

That afternoon, it’s off to work I go. I add a few extra eyeshadow shades to my makeup bag and sling it on my shoulder.

As I head for the door, my gaze drifts to my road trip photos.

There’s a shot of Callie and me in front of Rod’s Steak house in Arizona, then a silly selfie of us leaving ten minutes later, laughing.

“Why did we come here? It’s all meat,” she’d said.

“I told you. I googled the menu,” I said to her.

“It seems like there should be a veggie option.”

“Yeah, this classic roadside diner screams black bean burger,” I’d teased.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as memories of that trip flicker past me. “I’m glad you talk to Mom,” I say to my empty apartment, then I leave for a wedding that should help me pay down the loan a little bit more.

An hour later, at a luxury hotel overlooking the ocean, I swipe the last slick of mascara on the bride, step back, and then spin her around to regard her face in the scalloped mirror. “Gorgeous, don’t you agree?”

The pretty redhead nibbles on the corner of her lip and tries to suck in a tear.

Her maid of honor thrusts a tissue at her face. “Don’t you dare cry, Angela,” she says.

I smile at the two of them. “You don’t want to ruin your wedding makeup,” I say to Angela. “But don’t worry. I’ll stick around and touch you up for the photos after.”

“Thanks. You did an amazing job,” the bride says.

I’m grateful for that. Just in case the good run How to Eat a Banana is having turns out to be a sprint.

I wait in the hotel hallway during the ceremony, listening to a podcast, then a text pops up from my friend Jo in New York.

Jo: Stop me. I don’t know if I can resist half-price tickets to the Tommy revival in three weeks.

Emerson: Don’t resist. Get them. Get them now.

Jo: Enabler. Can you come? Please?

Emerson: I wish, but I don’t know that I can get away.

Jo: Makeup gigs keeping you busy? Or food gigs?

Emerson: All of the above. I want to do New York again soon. And to see you. It’s been too long.

Jo: I demand you come here sooner rather than later. But I get that you’re busy. How is work, though? Things with Nolan seemed... less festive in that Wine Country diner episode. Not that I’m studying every single detail, but you two have just seemed... not quite as close lately? A bit tense.

Oh. Shit.

Emerson: Really?

Jo : Yeah. The last one was better with the salad, but still, I wanted to ask if you’re doing okay?

That’s a damn good question, but I flash back to yesterday at the coffee shop and the way we worked through the tension and finally talked it over. Yet if the friction was obvious on camera, that’s confirmation that we can never get naked together again. I can’t let the show be affected at all.

Emerson: We’re all good. Just busy.

I close the text thread and turn off my phone. It’s photo time for the newlyweds, and I need to focus on the job, not on the fact that I’m terrible at hiding my emotions. Stupid fucking emotions.

When the gig ends, I leave the hotel and turn my phone back on. A text blinks up at me.

Nolan: Where the hell are you? Our agent is calling in thirty minutes. Says it’s big news. I’m at Jason’s.

I race over like the wind.