Page 29 of Summertime Friends

Her confidence is impeccable. And she is hot, but it’s the hotness that you sort of expect when someone is an influencer or model and life is out there for others to judge.

But who Natalie is asking about? That girl is the most beautiful in the world and is in this city somewhere. It isn’t even her physical beauty that I was attracted to all those years ago. She has the most beautiful heart and soul. She doesn’t reveal it often, but I found myself as one of the lucky ones to see the beauty inside. She’s absolutely, properly devastating in the best way possible.

When I saw her the other day, it was like that morning in the café. My heart skipped a beat, and a blast of yearning and attraction blazed through me.Emerson is still the most beautiful girl in the world.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see Natalie’s reaction, while I say, “Yeah, she is.”

I open my eyes, and Natalie looks at me skeptically. She’s picking up on the present tense of how I described Emerson. Without a word, Natalie climbs off my lap and heads back to the kitchen. She opens a bottle of wine, pours herself a glass, downs it, and pours another.

I guess that’s the end of that conversation.

I should feel guilty about not asking her to be my girlfriend. We have fun together, but giving it a label, actually committing to her, feels like I’m cheating on Emerson. Obviously, it’s not. And she’s engaged now. The general idea of being committed to someone else feels like final closure from her. I’m not ready to feel as if I’ve entirely lost her or the idea that someday we’d return to each other.

After seeing Emerson happy with someone else last week, you would think that it would have been the sign that I could let go, cutting all of my ties to her for good. A part of me desperately wants to. A part of me still wants her and can’t fathom letting her go—ever.

My post-heartbreak system has worked for years. I’ll see other people. A few chats or nights and then move on to the next. Expectations clearly set beforehand that this can’t go anywhere.

It’s worked between Natalie and me for the past year—at least, I thought it was.

An hour later, her friends arrive.

Her friend Chloe is the last to arrive. “Em’s going to be late. She had to pick up her bike from the shop.”

“Rosen-awful couldn’t do it for her?” Natalie rolls her eyes.

“I know.”

We crowd into Natalie’s small living room. It is as if a rainbow had thrown up in it. Color and artwork are everywhere. The number of items in the space makes it appear even smaller than it is. She has a two-seater sofa and two chairs—enough space for four. There are seven of us here. I sit in front of her, between her legs on the floor.

We’re into a second episode of Love Island when someone knocks at the door.

“Kam, can you get that?” Natalie asks her friend, who is sitting in the white chair closest to the door.

She gets up and opens the door. I hear the sound of a bag dropping on the counter. Kam returns to the chair, and the brown-haired female who just arrived is behind her.

I tense in between Natalie’s legs. Quickly removing my head from where it’s resting against her bare knee.

“Emme, you made it!” Natalie claps gleefully.

Emerson stares between Natalie and me, between where I’m sitting and back to me. Her face is emotionless, but I know by the small furrowing of her brow that her mind is racing.

Emerson licks her lips. Her cheeks turn bright red. I watch her shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath she takes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She mouths to herself, gaze dropping to the grainy hardwood.

She turns and rushes down the hallway.

“Em—” Chloe calls out for her.

“You know Emerson?” I turn my head to ask Natalie.

From the oversized white chair opposite Kam’s, Chloe watches us like hawks, observing every moment, every word, and every emotion.

“Yeah? She’s my best friend.”

Natalie looks at me like I’m stupid—and I am. She’s mentioned her before but always refers to her as Emme or Em. In my head, I assumed that her best friend’s full name was Emily,notEmerson. When I met Emerson six years ago, she was never anything but Emerson or States to me. How was I supposed to put the two together?

Wait.

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