Page 79 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

DOING IT AGAIN

Emerson

It seems wrong to indulge in such grilled cheese decadence today.

As I bite into the gooey, oozy Gouda, its deliciousness is a slap in the face.

How can anything taste good after I’ve been dumped?

The crowd gathers around our table. We’ve got quite an audience for this episode. I chew seductively, then lick the corner of my lips.

Someone calls out, “Give it that killer groan.”

I do as they ask, with a long purr of praise. “So good.”

Nolan grins at me, flirt in his eyes, a clever tilt to his lips. He seems barely affected by our split this morning.

But then, I doubt the break-up rule book has a proviso for this twisted situation— act turned on by the food you sample with the man who dumped you .

Evidently, I’m a damn good actor because, as I ham it up, giving the fans the full foodgasm, no one seems to have a clue that, a little while ago, the man across from me scooped out my heart with a serrated melon ball spoon.

“So, Em. What’s the verdict?” Nolan asks, setting me up with my catchphrase. “Would you do it again ?”

His question pounds through my head. Would I do it again?

Kiss him again in Vegas? Sleep with him that night? Do it again in New York, then wander through the city with him, sharing my hopes and dreams?

Earlier memories fight their way to the front of my mind too. The night in college when we rearranged our friends’ dorm. The day he agreed to be my new banana. The night at Jason’s place before we left San Francisco.

Would I do it again?

Take the parrot flight? Race around Vegas grabbing grub to bring to the gingham-clad friends who embraced us with open arms? Slug him when he dodged the Just Juice and the turmeric? Protect him when Evelyn asked him about Inés Delacroix? Let him see my sloppy, naked, anxious heart?

Maybe I would. Because every time my anxiety about the show spun higher, Nolan settled me.

I don’t know.

But at least I could fake certainty for the cameras. “Yes, I totally would,” I answer, in a smoky tone.

I fake it for the crowd too, as we stay after the recording, pose for pictures, and act like everything is what it’s always been. But it’s not.

We feel irretrievably broken, and I hate that.

When the last woman in a line of fans glances from Nolan to me and back, then starts to speak, asking, “Are you guys?—”

I cut her off at the knees. “Nope. We’re not.”

“Cool,” she says, then wheels around and leaves.

She doesn’t even ask him out. I turn to him, shrug. “Sorry. I thought she was going to ask you on a date. You probably wanted her to.”

Nolan stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I didn’t.”

He leaves the joint first, waiting for me on the street as I zip up my backpack. Maybe he needs space from me. When I reach the sidewalk, he gestures to it but says nothing as we walk to the hotel together.

We rarely walk in silence. But tonight, neither of us seems to have a word to say. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

When we reach the hotel, we find Max lounging in the lobby, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections . Because of course he reads Franzen. Rolling my eyes, I huff, ready to mutter to Nolan, Franzen. Fucking Franzen .

But I suck back the words. Can I still joke with him? Should I?

Nolan tips his head toward the sleek hotel bar where Marcos lifts a glass of red wine in an invitation. “I’m going to...”

“Go for it,” I say, then I give a big yawn, selling my tiredness.

Nolan heads to the lobby bar, fist-bumping Marcos, and I start toward the elevator banks.

I steal a final glance at Max as I go by and see him smirking above his book. I don’t know when or how he’ll use his ammo about us. I’m not sure it matters—he kind of already pulled the trigger since the damage has been done.

As I reach my room, an email from Hayes flashes on my phone. With dread coiling in my gut, I click it open.

Hey, hey! Ilene emailed to say we should expect a decision in two more days. Chin up!

Weariness cloaks me as I wash off my makeup and get in bed. I text Katie to say hello, and we chat for a bit, catching up on everything, including my heartbreak. I spill the details, then ask?—

Emerson: What do I do now?

Katie: You keep going.

Emerson: Like you did when it happened to you.

Katie: Yep. I’ll always be here for you. I love you, friend. Know that.

Emerson: Love you too.

I run a finger over the screen. It’s not nothing, having friends like this.

Hell, it’s . . . everything.

Katie will still be around on the other side of two more days. So will Jo. So will my parents.

I hope Nolan will too.

The next morning, Nolan and I hit up a trendy vegan café for breakfast, then edit the hell out of the footage quickly for our YouTube channel.

I show him the final, and he says, “Looks good,” then checks the time on his phone. “I’m going to meet the guys to work out.”

“Cool. Hope you. .. lift lots of weights,” I say, slapping on a stupid grin.

He laughs for a fraction of a second, but he doesn’t get up, just drums his fingers on the table. “Have you thought about what you want to do when we’ve finished shooting?”

He says it so easily, like there’s nothing we’re waiting for—no verdict, no judgment.

I wish I had some of his calm. “Nope.”

“Yeah. Me neither,” he says. He stands to go but stops, curls a hand around my shoulder, then squeezes it hard.

Once he’s gone, I let out a breath of relief.

Being with him hurts. Friendship-land doesn’t feel so friendly at all. It’s strained and awkward—a genie trying to stuff herself back into the damned lamp.

I exit the café too, drop my backpack at the hotel, then head to Central Park. Wandering over Gapstow Bridge, I stop to stare at the pond below, then I walk along the mall, drinking in the sights, the trees, the dogs, the kids, the people.

Briefly, I slip back in time to my road trip with Callie, our Route 66 tour that took us through Texas, around the Grand Canyon, into Nevada.

We crossed the expansive United States, stopped at roadside diners and Cadillacs parked like popsicles on the side of the road.

I flick through those pictures in my mind like a photo album, reliving the times we had.

I remember, too, the way she said, thanks, babes, when we cruised back into San Francisco, spent, exhausted, butts sore, but hearts full.

“You’re welcome, babes,” I said back.

Callie was never a New York fan. Part of me wishes she could see it through my eyes—the colors, the people, the bikers, the trails.

All the New Yorkness of it.

But that’s okay. We wanted different things.

Like . . .

“Cutie pie!”

My gaze jerks to the warm, grandmotherly voice of Dot.

She wheels over to me on hot pink rollerblades, decked out in pink shorts, a gray sweatshirt, knee and elbow pads, and a matching helmet. Bette is by her side, dressed in red.

I glance around, then cup my mouth. “Where’s your pit bull?”

Dot laughs and shushes me, holding a finger to her lips. “We escaped. Don’t tell her.”

“Evelyn doesn’t want you to rollerblade?” I ask.

“She just wants us to be safe,” Bette says.

“But sometimes we like to play.” Dot shrugs. “We’ve always wanted to rollerblade. So, we’re doing it.”

“Just for fun,” Bette adds.

That’s the best reason ever. “Good for you.”

Bette looks me up and down. “Why doesn’t your smile reach your eyes, sweetie?”

I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

Dot chimes in, “You look a little bit broken.”

Called it. “Maybe I am.”

“You ought to fix that, then. Maybe try rollerblading with us,” Dot suggests.

That sounds like a brilliant idea, so I find the rental kiosk, change out of my shoes and into blades, then spend the afternoon chasing Dot and Bette around the park.

Afterward, they invite me to dinner, and over our meal of penne pasta at an Italian restaurant on Seventy-Second and Amsterdam, we don’t talk about men, or work, or jobs.

In fact, I don’t talk much at all.

Instead, I ask questions, listening to stories of their friendship, how they’ve known each other since kindergarten, how they depend on each other. How lucky they are to have this life.

I run my thumb over my ladybug charm.

I want that .

Not their life. But certainty in how to live my life.

I might not have the best friend I imagined I’d have for all my days, but I do know where I want to be. I do know what I want to do. Seeing these two women living their best life confirms what I’ve suspected for a while.

After I say goodnight to Dot and Bette, I call Jo and make plans to meet before she leaves tomorrow.

Then I make a harder call, this time to my mother. I have a question for her, and though I think I know the answer, I need hers.

So, I ask, and then I listen.

“Yes,” she says after a thoughtful pause. “I do think that’s what you’ve done.” Her voice is a warm blanket wrapping around me as she speaks. “But maybe it’s time to let that go?”

The thought panics me slightly. But yet, letting go is exactly what I need to do. What I started to realize that day in the park when Nolan and I talked about my terrible taste in men.

I may not have picked the best guys, but that isn’t what’s held me back. Something else has, and it’s finally time to say goodbye to the one last reason I haven’t let myself love.