Page 101 of Summertime Friends

“I know I should.”

“Do you like Natalie?” Cal asks me.

“Yeah, I did. I thought we were on the same page. I communicated my intentions going into last summer, but lately, something has changed in her.”

“Then you need to tell Natalie. If you don’t, you’re dragging this on, and it will only get worse.”

“You’re right.”

“Pause. We must remember this. August 3rd, you, Liam Hayes, told me I am right.” “

“I tell you you're right more than I should.”

"Tell Natalie." With that, he changes the subject back to our upcoming opening and final hotel details we needed to work through, including the remaining positions we need to hire for. Listing out the priority of what positions to fill.

By lunchtime, we have everything laid out. He lets me know that he’s going to grab lunch with some girl he met over the weekend. Since Cal is leaving for lunch, I also leave, knowing exactly where I need to go.

41

LIAM

Three Summers Ago

Can grown men get butterflies?

When we returned to my flat, Emerson pulled the key I gave her out of her purse. Watching her unlock my door caused a kaleidoscope of butterflies to flutter in my stomach. I need to ask George. I bet he does. I can see it on his face when Beatrix is around.

“Need any help?” Emerson asks me from the barstool she’s seated in.

“No,” I call over my shoulder.

She’s humming along to the softly playing music in the background. After a few songs, I hear her scoot back in the chair, her light footsteps crossing the wood floor to me.

“Are you making us breakfast for dinner?” She puts her arms around my waist.

In the pan, mushrooms are sautéing in a combination of spices. Using a wooden spoon, I push around the mushrooms to ensure none are burning or sticking to the bottom of the pan. Adding a pinch more of the spices, I place the spatula on the counter.

“A couple of days after we met, on the train back to Lisbon, I asked you what meal you could eat forever. You said breakfast.”

“You remember that?” She sounds confused, but delighted that I remember such a small, trivial fact about her.

I turn into her, wrapping my arms around her. With both arms crossed on her back, I push against her back to bring her closer to me. The front of her body becomes one with mine. I love having Emerson in my arms, so much that I’d do anything to never let go.

“Growing up, Sunday mornings were my favorite. Mum would make breakfast. A proper, full breakfast. Never missed a week. She worked two jobs to be able to afford anything I needed. She wasn’t home a lot, especially in the mornings. I was used to getting myself up, fed, and to school, but on Sundays, she was off. I’d wake up every week to the same smells as right now. Cartoons playing on the telly. We’d eat on the couch, and as I got older, she always let me have the bacon on her plate. ‘Growing boy’, she’d taunt me. We’d spend the rest of the day just the two of us, even entering university before the cancer took her. Most weeks, I still make this on Sunday and eat it on the couch.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” She isn’t pitying me about my childhood or losing my mom as most people do. Her expression is warm and understanding. There is a kindness behind her eyes, thanking me for telling her but also letting me know she’s there for me in my grief. “We should have done this on Sunday. You could have said that,” she continues. Emerson tightens her hug.

“It’s okay. I asked you what you wanted to do because I wanted to spend that day making you happy.” Which is true. I want to spend every day putting a smile on her face and making sure she knows how incredible she is. “I’ve wanted to share this with you. I knew at some point this week, I’d make it for you. Breakfast might not be my favorite meal, but this is one of my favorite memories, and it’s your favorite meal.” I kiss the top of her head. Her classic smell is faint compared to the aromas filling my flat. “She would have loved you, Emerson. I know it.” I place another kiss on her head, letting my lips linger. “Maybe, in a way, this is me introducing her to you,” I say directly on her head.

“Thank you,” she says to me, and I know she means it.

Her head tilts up toward me. She kisses me faintly.

When her gaze locks with mine, I’m pricked with curiosity. Does Emerson love me like I love her?

It’s been days since we stood in that museum, and I told her I’m in love with her. I’ve said it every chance I’ve gotten. Seizing theopportunity because it’s out there and I’m proud of it. I’m proud that I get to love her.

But Emerson hasn’t said it back. She’ll kiss me. She’ll smile at me. But she doesn’t say it back.

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